Stranger Danger

My mom loved me. I have no doubts about that but she was obsessively worried about the stupidest things. When my mom and I moved to Memphis, she never let me outside. She was always worried about someone snatching me. She wouldn't let me spend the night over my best friend's house either. She'd tell me, "We don't know those people. They could be Devil worshippers for all we know!"

No amount of persuasion would change her mind. The world was full of dangers. She just kept missing the real ones.

Nothing bothers me quite as much as people who accuse transgender individuals of being potential child abusers. These invisible boogie men distract away from the fact that the majority of abuses are done by people the children know and know well.

My mom was worried about stranger danger. All my dangers were intimate and real. Cousins. Family friends. A parent.

The trouble is that intimacy makes it really hard to turn that person in. Even though these people hurt you, you love them. You don't want them to get in trouble but you also want them to stop. Many times you assume that it's easier just to give them what they want. They'll get tired of it eventually, right? That's child logic anyway. So you put up with it because you don't want to see them go to jail and you certainly don't want to have to actually tell anyone everything that's happened to you. Even thinking about it puts me in a catatonic state. Plus, it made you feel better about yourself. Someone actually liked me. They didn't yell at me. They didn't slap me. They didn't make me feel like I was a failure. Someone touched me with tenderness when I was suffering everywhere else. I escaped into it. It was an awful thing to do. That I went willingly into sometimes also kept me silent. I was embarrassed and humiliated.

To me, talking about it was a zero sum game. Many times I just hoped someone would just find out. I wanted to be rescued because I didn't know how to save myself. I wanted someone to ask me what was happening at home. I wanted someone to ask me why I started crying in class. I wanted, I needed a savior. I never got one. I told my best friend one day. She was the first person I ever told. She didn't know what to do with the information. We were young. I was terrified.

So I suffered.

And I suffered long after the abuse stopped. It never ends really. The effects of it stay with you every day of your life. It affects your relationships, your decisions, your attitude. All of it. There's no moving past it. Simply, living with it and coping with the aftereffects