I imagine

 

I imagine a girl of 13 excited about Valentine's Day. She thinks of being important to someone, of someday receiving flowers and candy, and of, well, I don't know all the things that a normal 13-year-old girl would want. Because all the normal things in life were things that I never got to experience, I was on the exact opposite continuum of what a normal 13-year-old girl would like. I was scared and alone in the world. I was something other than.  I was different and didn't really fit anywhere. I always felt like I was on the outside looking in; I could never connect or understand the girls my age who were playing with make-up and fixing their hair. Girls my age were a bit loud, always talking about boys. I wanted nothing to do with being seen; I didn't want to bring attention to myself; I just wanted to be me. I just never had the chance to do normal girl things.  Sleepovers, friends, and parties were things for other girls. 

At this Christian Youth Weekend, I was shown attention, seen, and felt special. I had those butterflies that everyone talks about. A cute boy saw me, danced with me, and made me laugh. At Mass on Sunday, he smiled and winked at me as he walked the cross down the aisle behind the priest.  For a time, there was no one else in the sanctuary. I was so excited.  I never imagined that his intent was not innocent and kind. I had no idea that he was unkind.  He was cruel.  He saw that sign on my head, and I became his target. 

It was months later, around Valentine's Day when he came. It was the night of the school dance, and of course, that was something for the pretty girls, the popular girls. I was neither of those things and  was at home alone. I am sure that my brother was at a friend's house, as he always was.  My parents, well, I am not sure, probably something with the church.  Which left me. I think that the movie Great Balls of Fire was on TV. I was half watching, half not, probably playing with my pets, but I don't know where they went once he came. I was pretty used to being on my own. There was a knock at the door. It was dark, and I should have known, but I answered the door. It was Don.  For a second those butterflies were there like I had just seen him yesterday. They didn't last long. He was not the same guy that I had met that weekend months before. He had made his way into the house; I think I was stunned and in shock.  There are a lot of things that I don't remember.  I remember his roughness, I remember feeling this panic, I wasn't safe. He started kissing me so roughly, and within seconds, I knew he had come to do what had been done my entire life.  His hands were everywhere; the more I pushed him away, the rougher he got. He pushed me to the ground; I tried to fight for a time, but I knew he was bigger and stronger. I sit here writing and can see the pictures, the entryway.  He wasn't worried for a second and didn't ask if anyone was home. He knocked on that door with a plan.  Once he had me pinned to the floor, it was all over. The fight in me left, I can remember the tears rolling down my face; I didn't understand.  He raped me, and I was left feeling like I was at fault. I had kissed him right before, we left that weekend, somehow I had asked for this. So many feelings that I don't have words for when your body is being violated; you feel everything and nothing. I knew what he was doing and felt so disgusting. I hated being a girl and hated my body.

I looked away and focused on the pattern of the shelf in the hall, my hand palm up. I traced the pattern of the floor over and over until he was done. He left me there, and I did what I was taught to do.  I was always the clean-up specialist. Clean up and pretend that everything is fine. Pick your heart up off the floor and try to put it back in your chest, Afterall you asked for this, you were the one who danced with him.  Even kissing him before leaving saying that you would see each other again. I never imagined this when I said that.  There was never a thought to say a word, never a thought to ask for help.  Telling was not even an option that was ever considered. This is what happened the night of the Valentine's dance. A girl trying to collect herself in the aftermath of another brutal assault. This is what I was good for. 

So, for me, Valentine's Day is not about love and being cared for. It's about Violence and pain. Some years, this seems far away, but this year, it feels closer than ever. That sweet girl who just wanted to be seen. Even loved. I often imagine how different things would have been if we had never gone on that stupid weekend and I had never met Don. I wonder if I would be married, if I would be further in my career. I wonder how I wonder just how different things could have been for me. I am not that girl anymore.  I have learned to be kinder with my words and take that blame, but some days it is harder than others. I have tried to be kinder to that spunky girl who was just a 13-year-old girl doing what 13-year-old girls do. I wasn't a slut, and I didn't ask for it. I didn't want what happened to me, and it didn't matter if I opened the door or not. It never should have ever happened. I feel more now than I ever have, and someday soon, I will cry the tears I never cried and free her from all that isn't hers to carry. 

I heart your heart.