content warning: sexual abuse stories about my dad.
I’m putting this out there because I think it’s important. I think when we tell our stories, it helps other people understand their own stories. Maybe feel less cr*zy or alone. If even one person feels less alone…
Note: everything I say here is based in white, euro-american english language and culture. Much of what I am saying does not apply to the way gender has developed meaning in other cultures. If the constructs of gender in other cultures are problematic, it is up to the people harmed by it within those cultures…
I was fourteen. I’d had a long day. Too long. It was getting late. I was tired. Children were fighting and someone was scolding me.
I tuned them out and silently listed off the things that I needed to do. Sweep the kitchen. Wash the dishes. Calm the kids. Check on their homework…
Exactly six months ago I sent a letter saying goodbye to my biological family.
Writing and sending that letter is the single most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
There is no part of me that wanted to say goodbye.
driving down the road earlier, passed some cyclists. “Does that cyclist have a kid on their back?” “No I think that’s just a backpack. I don’t think having a kid on a motercycle is legal … I know there’s seats for kids to ride regular bikes, though.” “Yeah, Idk” Perfectly normal…