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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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seven years later, i'm sitting in the counselors office, fiddling with my fingers and sitting lowly
in my chair. the counselor lowers her glasses at me and turns the page around, pointing at the term at the bottom of the page. history of sexual abuse/rape. it was checked yes. i checked it off. what was i thinking? "is this true?" i shrugged. she asked again. my eyes drifted to my converse, tapping against the floor rapidly, matching the pace of my heartbeat. my mind raced for an answer. i shrugged again, forcing words out of my suddenly dried mouth. "it was a while ago. it was mild." "it was big enough for you to check off." that's not fair. memories flashed across my mind as she pushed questions into my full hands; my hands were full with regret, with denial, with the acceptance of the trauma, slipping further as she pushed to know more. this isn't fair. i shrugged and avoided her questions, wishing i had never brought it up in the first place. i wanted it out of my head, out of my mouth, the sour taste of the memory burning in my throat. i should've checked no. i should've, i could've, maybe if i had lied i wouldn't be sitting here feeling barely alive, your questions burning holes in my healed heart, maybe i would've checked no. but saying no didn't work when he touched me; why would it work now? it took seven years for his touch to dissolve off my skin. i won't wait any more for this story to be out of your mouth. maybe i should've checked no. Comments are closed.
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November 2023
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