Tell Before it’s too Late

Copyright, Rhondica

I may never remember when it all started but I will never forget it’s over. The crying and asking her to stay home and she didn’t. That was the night. The one of few I could remember well. I played sleep. I didn’t want to be awake. When I awoke there was something in my bed, something white, scary. So I took the sheets off. I slept in my brothers’ bed. And when she asked me about my sheets I lied. To this day I don’t understand why. There was the time I thought I liked it but why? Why was I scared, dirty, itchy but so quiet? Then when I was nine, she let me go to Georgia to visit my dad and grandparents. I cried at night I cried a lot maybe more then I smiled. I don’t remember ever laughing. But I do remember having a cousin closer to my age. Closer then the one back home, who’s 6 or 7 years older then I. Didn’t matter he touched me too. I played sleep. And if I played sleep before he went to bed he would start right in. But I got smart I would sleep in the bed with my grandparents. Whenever they tell me to go to bed, I would just sneak back in their room and sleep on the floor. Just as I did at moms’. Once I called her, and wanted to come home. I had two months left and summer was over. I never wanted to go back. But she made me. Why didn’t I have the words to tell her? I got smarter, I stayed out late I hung out with friends at 10 years old. I had a boyfriend and he would kiss me. One time he tried to do more, kind of like my cousins would do. But he wasn’t any smarter at it then I was. One day I called mom wanting birth control pills. Yep, at 11 years old. When I did start my period mom told me she was taking to the doctor, to find out if I was having sex. Well I felt sex before and I didn’t like it. But mom didn’t know. So I got the nerve to tell her. And she told me “I better not find out you are lying.” She didn’t believe me. The only person at the time who believed me was my brother. I guess he knew when he was forced to go to bed and I got to stay up late. But sometime I went to bed when my brother went. But it didn’t help! The only help was getting older. But that’s when I remembered things I lost as I grew up. I remembered writing a lot. I would write sad things. Sometimes I would write about dying. I would wish I could fall asleep and never wakeup, or to come home from school and my parents where white. I guess I thought bad things never happen to their kids and that they where rich. I remembered being at school and my favorite teacher would talk to me and I would listen. She would ask me questions. She wanted to know if I was okay. She would ask me that often. She seemed to be the only one who cared. I never forgot here name or the way she looked. But I never told her about my silent secret. But I’m almost sure that if she were my teacher for more then that year, I would have trusted her. I recall having poor grades but good reports. The reports are what saved me from punishment. But nothing saved me from the dreams I would have in class, nor the teacher saying my name, or telling me to pay attention. At least the few times I could recall. I remembered crawling out the window, hiding as if it was a game. Wondering how did I get caught. I would cover my whole body with my blanket so I couldn’t see him, I didn’t understand how he found me. Being in high school seemed hard all I remember is wearing short skirts and a lot of silver chains and rings, staying up late, drinking with friends, and cluttered nights writing on paper. I would only share my feelings with paper and blue pens. I remembered the first time I agreed to have sex. It was nothing like on TV, and I didn’t fall in love, but I cared. And he left me but so did many after him. As I grew I began to remember so much, I lost how to care. I would move on before the men began to care. I got a tattoo, piercing, voice box on the date line, cigarettes, and some alcohol. I was on top of things so it seemed. Then it haunted me, I began to realize I was only 13 years old the first time I cut myself.


Copyright, Rhondica

these scars on my arm are simply wounds
profoundly influenced threw doors of a past i fear to re-enter
by all means this is not a suicide attempt
i avoid re-entry,
although from time to time something will surpass
and bring the obvious to light.
i then desire to come up with a new element of pain,
true i hurt soul deep but this arm holds fresh wounds
blocking that doorpass.
going on i reflect back to what i had just accomplished
realizing the scars rest on one arm
with very little wonder i realize on a daily bases i perform many task
with the hand of the opposite arm
so i am able to perform this task with out the acceptance of awareness
i then focus on being proud of my self-inflected pain
for i am now in control of my own pain.
as an abuser of self pain i refuse to take claim to self destruction; understanding i wasn’t dumb but helpless of
the childhood sexual abuse
i am know able to deny seeing my behavior as self mutilation
but as an impulse to escape my inner pain.
entering the doors of becoming a survivor of childhood sexual abuse
as you could imagine was no delight.
true surviving the ultimate test was surviving my childhood;
now believing i can survive anything
i am left with negativity realizing i not only attract but hunt down men
with the capability to destroy my rebuilt self-esteem
the sexual activity i was too young to understand
have lead me to being promiscuous and willing to give more then a kiss
not so much as being a slut but being extremely generous.
i fantasize fortune, fame and popularity with fans
fantasizing sexual encounters;
many come to say it needs closure,
but to obtain closure means recalling the incidents
thinking back for me is basically digging up the childhood scoop,
and it itself can be complicated
when you are certain you where never a child;
many offer advise towards healing,
but to start you must become one with the inner pain of that childhood. although i had always held strength and structure
i reflect back to the impulse of my self pain
in order to escape my inner pain.


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