I Should Have Known Better

This is a trigger warning, I do apologize

At the age of 16, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror with the lights on.

To preface this story, I suppose I should take a quick detour back to the beginning. At the age of 2 and a half, I was adopted by my biological aunt and her second husband to save me from my meth addicted parents. My aunt and uncle took me in and chose to raise me, and I learned to call them Mom and Dad. And that's what they truly became.

Fast forward a few years to the year I turned 5. Their divorce had finalized and my dad got into an apartment 5 minutes down the street from my mom's house. Until the age of 16, I went back and forth between the houses every other week. During this time, my dad became increasingly depressed and angry at everything around him while my mom flourished with her new husband. He drank every night, going out to bars until 3 am trying to numb the pain I suppose. I would wait up for him, scared that he might never come home. And after a few years, I stopped caring.

His verbal abuse began to progress the more he drank and the older I became. As he would drink during the night, he would go through phases. During the first phase, he would cry about how much he missed my mom and how awful of a person she was for all the things she did to him during their marriage. He would try and turn me against my mom and step-dad, telling me that they were never meant to be parents and that all three of them wished I would disappear. Then he would get to a point I could only describe as the "I love you" man phase. During this time, anyone around him would get showered in love and false praise. He would tell them just how much it meant to him to have us all in his life. After this phase began the dancing and singing, and the final phase was an uncontrollable bladder. He wouldn't make it to the bathroom in time and just piss his pants. Gross, I know.

If someone upset him at any point during these phases, I would get the brunt of a series of screaming tantrums and verbal abuse. I grew up with these phases and knew them well. I knew how to speak and act during each phase to keep him happy and calm, and knew just when to retire to my room during the night. And as long as I stuck to my rules, life was good. Until it wasn't.

Growing up with ADHD, my body was slow to develop and change, so by the time I hit puberty, I was 15. This is very important due to the fact that it changed how people looked at me. That being said, the growth of my body took months after I received my first period and when it finally happened, my breast size tripled in less than two weeks, causing severe chest pain and the outgrowth of all of my bras and shirts. After this period of time I started to actually notice the people who were looking at me differently. It was a scary time in my life. I was only 5 ft 1 with men twice my size staring at me constantly. My childhood best friend would sneak into the spare bedroom at night and try to touch and kiss me, traumatizing me to the point that I started dressing like a boy to avoid the stares. My grades started slipping as I fell into a deep depression over the shape of my body and all of my insecurities as woman.

This is when my father began to change. Instead of the verbal insults I was used to, he would make comments about my body and how I need to make sure no little boys were touching my "boobies". He would stare at my chest and act like he wasn't. I was slowly becoming less and less of a daughter in his eyes, and I was so terrified I locked my door at night.

That horrible night came after I turned 16. He went to the bar with some work colleagues on a Friday evening and did not return until it was close to 3 am. I was sitting on the couch working on a cute art project for a Spanish class I was taking when he walked through the door. He was singing loudly and off-key when he walked in, his shorts soaked in his own pee. He walked over and practically sat on my lap, calling me his princess and throwing his arm around me. I knew something was wrong but couldn't quite place it, my skin crawling wherever he touched. I ignored the warning bells and tried to show him what I was working on. He laughed and said good job and stuck a finger in the waistband of my shorts, circling along my hip. I froze. I should have ran away and hid, but I couldn't move. I stayed in that spot for what seemed like an hour before he asked me if I was going to stay up with him all night. This question unfroze me and I told him he should change his shorts and go to bed. He didn't like this new option I had presented to him. He looked at me like he was a child and said "No I'm not going!". Then he crossed his arms and pouted saying "I'll only go in if you go with me!" I should have known better than to agree, but the only thing I was thinking at that time was my dad is drunk again and is acting like a child, I need to put him to bed. And so I helped him into his room and left while he changed and came back in to tuck him in. He then asked me to lay down until he fell asleep. Everything in my body was screaming no, yet I did as he asked and he immediately grabbed me. I laid stiff as he pulled himself against me and began to slowly grind on my backside. He moved his hand down my arm and side until it was over an area he should not be touching. At this point I snatched his hand away and held it around my middle as he continued to slowly move against me. After a moment I hoped out of the bed and mumbled something about it being too hot, and ran as fast as I could to my room. I locked the door and hid in my closet for the rest of the night.

The next morning, he bought me coffee and acted like it never happened. He continued to look at my chest and make me feel shame about my body until I moved in with my mom permanently a week later.

Like I said at the beginning of this story, there was a long period of time where I couldn't look at myself in the mirror with the lights on. I had to learn how to re-love myself through the hatred of my skin and through shitty relationships with boys exactly like him. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel. And while this incident isn't the first time something awful has happened to me, it's the time that hurt me the most. I am a firm believer in what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and that being said, I sit here today writing this story as evidence that someday things will get better. It may take a long time, but Life has a way of showing you the beauty in the darkness. I surrounded myself with love and good people and they helped me love myself again in ways I never knew were possible.

I'm 24 years old, and I can finally look at myself in the mirror with the lights on.