a piece of my story...
I want to tell you about a girl that I once knew.
This girl grew up thinking that she was nobody. Nothing. Worthless. Dirt. She had names for herself, but none of them were kind.
She was different to other people. Because of the secrets - but also just because she was. Where other kids were kids, she was a pastor's kid. Not her own person - just a part of her father's identity. She was always on public display, always being watched.
All through primary school, she thought that a B was a fail. She remembered crying one time, because she only got 8 out of 10 on a spelling test. Excellent was not good enough, not for her, not for her parents, not for anyone.
Sometimes she felt so far away from herself that she hardly knew that she was with others.
She didn't dare to believe in herself. Not in her soul, or in her intelligence, or in her future, or even in her existence. It was all too fragile.
She knew that to fit in, she would have to change. But she didn't know how to change from being broken to being fixed. The word she hated most in all the world was "different". That was what she was.
She got her period when she was ten. Another dirty secret. Her mother tried to explain, but she knew already that what happened down there was dirty. None of the other girls had it yet, and she did. That made her more different, more bad.
She couldn't get the badness out. Sometimes she could forget, but it never went away.
At a birthday party in grade 7, they started playing truth or dare. She was so afraid - they used words she didn't understand, and touched one another the way she never ever wanted to be touched, and showed one another their bodies.
She was ashamed of herself.
She always knew the right answer. She had read so many books, so she knew something about most things. She was terrified of not knowing, of giving the wrong answer, of being wrong.
Her clothes were old. They were wrong too. She didn't know anyone in the world as bad as her.
She would cry sometimes, but only when no one was looking. If her parents saw her crying, they would know that it was all her fault.
Somebody asked her what her ambitions were. She didn't like to talk about them. People like her didn't deserve dreams. And especially not when she dreamed about a normal life, marriage, children - what right had she to dream such things?
When she wore make up, he told her it was too thick. When she wore skirts, they were always too short, or see through. Her shirts were too revealing, or else unflattering. Her jeans made her look fat. He looked at her and saw right through the secrets, through to the worthless being that she was.
She mostly dated strangers. Men she met out on the street. One date, one kiss, one moment of blinding terror, and away she went. Touch terrified her.
Every morning she woke, wishing that there were no more days left in her life to face. And every night she fell asleep, praying that she would die before she woke again.
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