Talking is something I do best. I can talk for hours on end, or ramble on about some subject that catches my interest. I can obsessively chat about some new idea or book that I’ve learned about or read. I can rant with ardent on things I am most heated about. I can get melodramatic at times with that which I am impassioned, but what I cannot do, is talk about myself.

Yes, people can easily point out what I like, and what my aspirations are. I’m not exactly quiet about those. But they remain completely unaware of my backstory. I’m making it all sound so traumatic, and some parts are, yet I know others have faced far worse, so who am I to complain? It’s not always bad to want to keep something to yourself. However, there must be a line drawn.

Let’s talk truth. I am an eighteen year old girl. In sixth grade, I was severely bullied. In high school, sophomore year, my best friend tried killing herself. Not once, not twice, but three consecutive times. When I began work last year (seventeen-years-old), a man began following me, and he hasn’t stopped. And finally, this past winter break, I was sexually molested by a man I’ve known since birth. The same man who taught me how to ride a bike without the training wheels. So there, I’ve talked about myself, and it’s such a terrifying thing to do. I’m shaking at the moment from writing these thoughts.

That’s not to say that I’m without faults though, and I am not that innocent. I’ve said things that I cannot take back and I can get so very, very angry at times. I’m mad at the world and yet I know I can’t blame it for the actions of the few. I want to say that every boy, every man are like the one that I placed my utmost trust in only to have it shatter in one second, but I know that is unfair. I want to scream as loud as the banshees in the myths are able to. I want to forgo all my morals and just punch a wall. Still, I need to keep my emotions in check.

Except, I have come to learn that it is not a bad thing to have emotions. I shouldn’t have to feel forced to bottle up all my feelings. I shouldn’t have to feel that I am nothing more than a burden to others, and that I do nothing but annoy all day long. I shouldn’t have to feel that locking myself in my room is the only viable option when I want to express myself. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t…

And before there are questions, the police are aware of my stalker and of the molestation. Investigations are going on. It’s hard to comprehend what happened and to understand. I keep asking myself why. I’m like Socrates. I want to know why. Sadly, I can only wager guesses.

Despite all this, I’ve reconciled with a friend. My grades have taken a complete one-eighty then they were last year. My grade point average has gone up dramatically. I’m starting to take interests in things now and I’m actually trying. Piano is starting to become fun again. I’m spending more time with my family, with friends. I’m still as passionate as ever, maybe even more so, and I’m an advocate. I refuse to let the negative outshine the good. I’m taking a fighting stance and I won’t bow down. Not this time. Not any time in the future.

It has taken me seven years so far to become myself again, and to feel completely, one hundred percent, comfortable in my body. And I’m not even close to wanting to put on that cute bikini my grandma bought for me. I have such a long trail ahead of me. Life is hard. Yet, if there are two lessons I have learned in my eighteen years on this Earth so far, is that there is always, always hope, and you are never, ever alone. Not even when the monsters under your bed come out to play or the nightmares at night start showing up in the daylight. You are never alone.