The Second Story

This is the second story I’m going to tell in order to try and help the people who go through sexual assault. One of the most common difficulties that we face is the way people treat us because of what happened. The point is, no matter what ANYONE Says, it was NOT your fault. If you’re someone who has a family member or friend who has been hurt in this way, I hope you learn something from this story about how to treat them. The people around us can make or break our healing. This is my sister’s story. It was really hard for her to tell it, but she has in hopes that it can help people who have been molested and abused like her.

“I think I was six when this happened to me; it was at a friend of my parents family’s house. There were all these adults, so my little brother and I decided to go play with the 10 year old son of the family, Elliot. First, while we were innocently playing with toys, he asked me to sit beside him on his bed. He asked me to go under the covers –I refused and went back to playing with my 5 year old brother. I didn’t know what he was doing. A few minutes later, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bathroom. He shut the door and locked it behind us. He took me into the shower and started kissing me, with his tongue in my mouth. I tried to push him away, I kept asking him to stop. He started touching me, everywhere, pushing my clothes out of the way. I was crying and asking him to stop, telling him ‘no’ but he kept saying “Just a little more, just a little more.” It went on for so long, or it seemed that way. I don’t remember how long exactly he kept me in the shower. My mind blocks out a lot of what happened I think. He finally let me go. I was crying and so scared I just went and sat outside the room a bit while he just kept playing toys with my brother. After a little while, I went downstairs and told my dad that Elliot had kissed me. He told Elliot’s mother what had happened, she tried to force her son to apologize but he laughed and ran away from her. My mom noticed something was wrong. I remember her pulling me into the car, and screaming at me about what had happened. She asked me what had happened, she asked if he had pulled down his pants, if he had pulled down my pants, if he had touched me, where he had kissed me. She was screaming questions at me, I was so scared because I was in trouble. I kept saying “I don’t know, I don’t know.” She became more and more angry. She screamed at me for being alone with him. My mom found out from other mothers in our neighborhood that similar things had happened to two other girls around my age. No one did anything to punish or stop him. After it happened I became curious about what he had done to me. I began to touch myself, not knowing what it meant or why it made me feel the way it did. When my mom caught me doing this, she pulled me into the bathroom and started screaming at me. She spanked me, and asked me repeatedly “Where did you learn to do that?” I just answered that I didn’t know, that I didn’t mean to. She began to make sure my hands were never around that area, when I sat down at the table my hands had to be above it. She made me sleep with my hands above the blankets and folded over my chest. I wasn’t allowed to sleep/cuddle with my brothers or sister or go to sleepovers because she was afraid that I would touch other people or teach them how to do it –that I would corrupt them. I got in trouble whenever she found me alone with anyone, I wasn’t allowed to touch anyone without asking her first. I got so afraid once when my cousin kissed me on the cheek, because I thought my mom would punish me. I had nightmares about him hurting me again, about the same thing happening to my family. I believed I was evil, for touching myself and for following him into the bathroom. For years I felt so guilty and alone, because I wasn’t allowed to talk about what happened or tell anyone. She threatened to punish me if I told my siblings or friends. When I was 12 I told my older sister what had happened. We cried together and hugged for a long time, and it made me feel really good. Before I felt completely alone because I couldn’t tell anyone. No one could help me because I couldn’t be helped. I never wanted to be kissed again, I hated and didn’t trust any guys. I was terrified of being alone with a boy again, I never wanted to be friends with them. Telling this story is really painful, but it’s important. When I began to tell people what happened I began to heal because I’m learning that I’m not evil, and trying to accept the fact that it wasn’t my fault. Sometimes I still feel so guilty. When I tell people, the most important things that they can say that help me are that God loves me anyway, that I didn’t do anything evil for him. He feels everything that I feel when I feel it. Sometimes people make fun of me when I tell them, and that really hurts. He hurt my life, but I want to heal from it. I want to help people who are hurt by their parents or others they tell. I want people to know they’re not alone, even if they feel completely isolated. They don’t have to go through it alone, it always helps to talk about it. It’s the only way to get better. Everyone always says that this sort of thing happens for a purpose, and I believe that’s true. One example is that, 7 years after what happened to me, my sister went through something similar. I could understand what she was going through, and she could understand what I went through. It helped me so much when we stood together on it. That’s why I want to tell my story here.”

If you would like additional help and support you can email us at phoenix_alias@hotmail.com or look at the websites that are listed at the end of “This is My Story”.

This is my story

I don’t know how people are going to take this blog, or whether they’ll think I’m only trying to get attention or anything of that sort. The thing is, I lied about why I created this blog… well, partly. This year something really bad happened to me, I was very innocent and naïve and it basically destroyed me for months and months. Now I want to talk about it, not only to help myself (being able to tell the story for some reason feels like this monumental step for me) but also hopefully to help anybody who went through something similar.

I was with two of my girlfriends and some friends of theirs I had only met the day before (male). My friends had the kind of jokey-relationship with the guys to where one of them, Sam, was their adoptive “father” (he was older than us). After I met them, they wanted to “adopt” me too. Later that day however, while we were hanging out and joking around, it changed. Sam hugged me and told me that he thought I should be the wife and not the daughter. We went on to kid about his arab descent and held hands pretending to be the mother/father of my friends.

This all seems so stupid now, but I feel like I need to tell the entire story.

Later, I needed to go and catch a taxi to leave. Brittany and Heather were going to walk me to the street corner, but Sam stood up and said he would walk his wife to the taxi. We all laughed and I went with him. Thus begins the long trail of my mistakes. Instead of walking me to the street corner, he walked me down this side street where there were a lot of cars parked. I don’t really know why I followed him, or what exactly I thought we were doing in the alley. He turned around and I said, “What are we doing? I have to go home.” “I just want to talk to you for a second.” He said, “So… what do you think? Do you want to be my girlfriend?” I was completely shocked because I thought that the whole thing had been a joke. I muttered something like “I… I like someone else… I was only joking, Sam, I’m sorry… I didn’t know you were serious.” He looked at me for a while in a way that made me feel really uncomfortable, but I didn’t try to get away and he was holding my hands and I didn’t let go.

“Kiss me.” he said, and I tried to keep it a joke. “Arab women don’t kiss their husbands in public.” I said, and he replied “No one can see us now.” I knew something was really wrong, when he said that, and I started to get really scared but still didn’t try to get away. He kept asking me to kiss him, I continued to refuse until finally he said “Just on the cheek, then.” I wanted to go home, so I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek and he grabbed my chin and made me kiss him full on the mouth. He kept kissing me (without me trying to fight back) so I started crying. He stopped kissing me and tried to calm me down.

“Sh… look, I’m not kissing you anymore. Shh.” Then he pulled me in between two of the cars. He was pressed up against me… I can still remember the door handle of one of them was right in the small of my back. I couldn’t get away anymore. He tried to shush me some more. “Please, Sam, I have to go home.” “Sh… it’s okay, I just want to talk to you for a bit. Now, why are you crying?” “Because, I like someone else. And I don’t want you to kiss me anymore.” “I’m not kissing you.” We were silent for a couple of minutes, and I kept crying a bit. “ So… you like someone else? Why aren’t you with him?” For some reason I answered in the worst possible way. “Because he doesn’t like me anymore. He broke up with me.” Sam looked pleased and said “In that case you’re free… and I think you should be with me. You’re really pretty.” I said “No, Sam. I’m not like that, okay? I don’t like you like that.”

He started to get a little angry and tried to kiss me again, I turned my head. “I’m not going to let you go home until you kiss me.” he said. I was truly frightened, so I turned my head and let him kiss me. “A REAL kiss.” He said, so I started kissing him back. Telling this still makes me feel so sick… I can hardly believe it was me kissing him back… doing what he said like that. The rest of the night was a little hazy, it was completely strange. On one side, I was there feeling all of this… kissing him –and on the other I could almost stand there and watch all of it happening from the side… as if I had left my body. It’s very hard to explain, I’m sorry if this all sounds stupid. After a while, I tried to turn my head again saying “that’s enough, let me go now.” Instead, he got really angry and bit me. I had a bruise on my lip for a couple of days after, but not many people noticed because it was on the upper inside part. He was so angry, he started to touch me and every time I tried to push his hands away he would throw my hands down and start again with more force. He touched me everywhere, and when I kept resisting he continued to hurt me. I didn’t try to hurt him or run.

He took my hand and made me touch him. I tried to pull it away so he pinched and bit me. He kept putting my hand where he wanted it until I complied. He gave me instructions, I obeyed. Afterwards, he leaned against me and stroked my hair. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?” “No, Sam.” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.” “And, you won’t be mad at me, will you? I don’t want you to be angry with me.” “No, Sam, I won’t be angry.” “Good girl.” This will always strike me as one of the most disgusting things of the whole event. The fact that I answered him like that –so quietly and meekly. It makes me feel as if I sold a part of my soul. Afterwards, he walked me to the street corner, and I got in a taxi and left.

He didn’t rape me, for which I am eternally grateful. But this… affected me so much. It still makes me cry to talk about it, even on an anonymous blog to people I will never meet. I think it’s necessary to tell the story, though. For my own health –and also for those that it could potentially help. I want to make a difference in the world, and I can use this experience to help people who are similar. That’s why I’m trying my hardest to move on, to get “better” –to not let this ruin my life like it ruined the past couple of months. Even some of my friendships have fallen apart as a result of this.

I felt so guilty afterwards, and I still do partly. I read a lot about survivors of sexual assault, however, and one of the most common emotional reactions was a feeling of guilt and shame. I’m trying to combat it, although I still wish so hard that I had done things differently –that I had not been so naïve and trusting. That I had fought back instead of participating. I don’t think it will be easy to get through this, but one of the most important things for me was that I’m not alone. So many women go through this –and much, much worse –daily (including my sister, years and years before). I found some websites that have really helped me, not only deal with the fear and the nightmares, but also with the loneliness. Some of them are what convinced me to tell this story, to create this blog in the first place. If something like this has happened to you, I really hope you visit some of those sites (listed below) because they really help. One of the most important things I think, to heal, is to not absorb what happened and never let it out. Trust me, it will consume you. If anybody would like to talk about it, my email is phoenix_alias@hotmail.com, and I’d love to listen or talk or whatever anyone would need. I hope this helps someone.

http://www.survivingtothriving.org/mainpage

http://www.dancinginthedarkness.com/

http://www.healthyplace.com/abuse/escaping-hades/rape-and-sexual-assault-sexual-abuse-survivors/menu-id-806/

http://geshem.bi.org/

Christening Poem: PLEASE COMMENT!

This poem I wrote to describe the events that led me to make my decision to keep "rising" from the ashes of the crap that happens in life. It's pretty long, but I hope you all enjoy it. If anyone would like more explanation as to what it means, or if you don't understand any image or part I'll be happy to explain it more. Thanks for reading =]

Indecision

Spattering her horizon with smears of internal malachite

she bleeds herself in spurts through a netherworld of emotion.

She’s nearing the edge of a rationality

that continues to sink under her weight. She

wavers, undulating like the web of mist that encompasses her.

She can’t decide yet whether she is relieved or

utterly ravaged

by the comprehension that this descent has

at last become truly inevitable.

Was escape ever really an option?

She rubs her eyes to rid them of the green film

that continues to revise her vision, giving an ominous quality

to the shadows that congeal and imbibe the potency of what

she thought were her most secret apprehensions –

we always tend to find ourselves out -

bedecked in every layer of recreancy and hue of rancid passion -

in the raw luminosity of the moment of truth when we least want to be revealed;

-when all we really desire is obscurity.

as she passes them, her corners collect every

misconstrued malignancy

her hazed perception is full to bursting.

She may be drowning -she can’t feel her own breathing.

She’s wrapped so very tightly in her own flesh, in the betrothal

of the earth and the unwieldy cloak of sky that smothers

her every attempt to touch the stars, in the hoard of humanity –

tidal asperity that continually crushes her, fracturing her very sanity

and re-fragmenting the residual splinters of her essence.

She breaks into a run, drawing skin with patchwork seams

around the chapped and brittle heart it contains.

-blood trickles down her fingers, staining livid runes

onto the parchment tinged with rust where

the treacherous streams of red

evaded her attempts to confine disintegration –

It’s here –the boundary –

she gapes into the ceaseless transcendence

of cobalt flame that confronts her,

caressing her haunted eyes with flare upon flare of

somber electricity.

The unknown –the potentially fatal –draws her relentlessly,

she takes another step, reflection unnecessary

before the merciless enticement of her

doom.

–or rebirth–

Her lips drip a pungent taste of salt through her senses

as she contemplates and rejects the impulse to turn

for a last glance over the shoulder of her antecedental existence.

If she looks away, she will forfeit her own redemption.

So she screams to the capacity of desperation

and surges into the fire, limbs posed for flight.

This is her definition of finality:

this is her predestined sepulcher;

or else the incineration that paves the way to renewal –

where she will rise like a phoenix from the embers of her soul,

scarlet plumage accentuated by the sapphire blaze

of her second womb.

The Name: Why Phoenix

I know it's kind of weird to have an alias and stuff... but I really want to be anonymous here so I'll be changing everyone's names. I chose Phoenix because I'm basically obsessed with the creatures... I mean, they die: incinerate! Then rise in a ball of flame from their own ashes. I think this is the best description of life you can find: humans rise from the ashes of what they were... that's the only way we can survive.

I have a tendency to wallow when something has upset me... maybe even become a little bit depressed which is actually quite selfish to those around me. I've made a decision recently to be strong. I know that sounds immature... but I really and truly mean it. It's important to me to be a person worthy of respect, and I think that refraining from wallowing... learning to move on and "rise" through the changes in my life will make me the kind of person I want to be remembered as. That's another reason I'm creating this blog. I think that writing the events in my life down as my story and encouraging (possibly helping) others to be strong as well will help me achieve my dreams. So thanks to all of you who read this (if anyone does). =] I appreciate any support.

Hey: Introductions

Hey, my name is Phoenix Alias [but not really] and this is kind of an experiment. I want to be a writer, but I don't really know how far that's going to go... so here's what I'm doing. I'm creating this blog where I'll talk about myself a lot [like a diary..?] and practice writing while also just creating a basic description of the life of a teenage girl. I dunno... maybe it will be helpful to someone. I may post poetry, prose, lyrics and stuff as well to see what people think of them. I'd love positive and negative feedback on anything I post here, hope everyone enjoys it.

A little about me: I'm a 16 year old girl going into my senior year of high school. I'm American by birth. I love coffee, roller coasters, writing (of course), debate, rain (ESPECIALLY rain), chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and sticking my head out of the car while it's moving... (even though my mom always says it's going to get lopped off one day). Hope people actually read and get something from this. =]