Progress isn’t linear.

ANONYMOUS, 18 YEARS OLD

DEFINING SELF-CARE

I would define self care as something one does to better themselves and help take care of their mental and/or physical health.

My Mental Health Story

A lot of your life as a woman seems to be focused on control; controlling my body and how I express it by what I chose to wear and what I chose to do. I would often get catcalled and followed by creepy men, the first time I was only 11. This continued throughout life and only got worse as I got older. As I got older the question of “what were you wearing” started to pop up a lot more. The blame was getting put on a 15 year old girl in sweatpants and a hoodie rather than the 22 year old guy who followed me because there was a possibility of me wearing something too showy. It was then set in my mind that the blame would always be put on the women.

Moving on from there I was sexually assaulted at age 15. At first I didn’t know what happened to me, I was confused and disgusted with myself, but I didn’t know why. That night I took a burning hot shower and burned my skin trying to scrub off his touch. I told close friends and some of his friends who chose to actually still talk to him, which hurt even more. People actually excused what he had done to me and still talked to him; this drove me crazy. I would often have random nightmares and random panic attacks about this. At first I had no clue how to deal with them.

After some time I started to go to therapy. Once speaking to my therapist, he had told me I had ptsd. At first I was in denial because I was only 15, but he explained that’s what all my random panic attacks and nightmares were.

My therapist began letting me share my story with him. He was the first adult who I even spoke to about it. My parents still don’t know about it to this day. But I’ve got to the point where I was eventually rarely having nightmares.

Then one day I saw him. I saw him at the fair while I was with my friend. He began to point and laugh at me with his friends whispering God knows what about me. After I saw him he followed me around the fair until I left.

This haunted me. I went home bawling my eyes out in my room, asking myself why? Why would he taunt me? Why would he do any of this? Sometimes I would actually tell myself it was my fault. It was not my fault though, it had nothing to do with me or what I was wearing or anything. I said no and I pushed and shoved but it didn’t stop him.

I later found out that he had spread rumors about me that I used him for sex and for drugs. I hated going to school after this. My grades dropped lower and lower and I had lost all motivation. I mean, I had never even had sex, nor had I done drugs. I went from a straight A student to some of my classes are good, and some I’m completely failing, but I didn’t care.

In 11th grade, I began a poetry unit in a creative writing art class where I learned that writing moved me. We had journaling every Friday where we could write about anything we wanted and he would never read them.

Now I rarely have nightmares and panic attacks. I have a dog and she even helps as well. She sleeps with me at night and makes me feel calm and warm, so I can finally sleep in the dark again.

Advice For Young Adults

Talk to someone at least. It doesn’t have to be a trusted adult right away. It can be a friend or a cousin or a significant other, but please talk to someone. If you can’t tell anyone tell a book; write down word for word how you feel. You don’t owe your story to anyone, but please talk to someone. If you can’t ask your parents for therapy, there is online therapy for free.

The Never Forgotten—Never Forgiven Touch

You approached me with seemingly soft eyes. You approached me with seemingly kind words. You approached me with seemingly interesting thoughts; wanting to learn more of me.

I didn’t notice at first but all you were interested in was the touch of my skin.

I should have known you didn’t plan on sticking around— stupid naive me. We were laying down on my bed when your lips invaded mine— I pushed away. I thought I was strong— I thought my push and STOP would work— they didn’t.

My body froze from fear - you took that as an invitation.

You poked and prodded at me freely, like I was roadkill; As much as I prompted my body to move, it ignored my pleas. Then, before I knew it, you were gone.

I took a shower that same hour.

So dirty— I tried so hard to scrub off your touch. The water burned my skin and peeled some off; I hated my skin, now poisoned by your touch.

I hate how you left me with nightmares and scars, still engraved in my head.

I hate how when I saw you after that, you taunted me, knowing what you did. For that I refuse to forgive you.

The question is: can I forgive myself for not speaking up?

I hid. I hid it from everyone.

The everlasting thought - was there another victim… after me? Is it my fault if there was?

Yes, I know it’s not my fault, Yet sometimes I blame myself for not saying a word.

I hate you for what you did and some days I hate myself too.