When I was 12 I was almost raped. I guess that would be called molested. I am baffled and disgusted that the boy, who was 17, wanted to touch a girl that didn't even have breasts yet.
I remember the way that he used to look at me while I was playing with his niece and nephew. I remember my heart racing, my breath catching, and my mind wishing me invisible. He made me unbearably nervous. When he would make wrongful comments, or ask me sick questions, I'd say nothing back. I would try to stay away from him, make excuses to take the kids to the neighbors or for walks. When he would find a way to touch me, even slightly, I cringed and felt myself jump. I was afraid to tell my Mom and his Aunt Jill that I didn't like it when he came to the house. It was my first baby sitting job. I didn't want to seem unable to handle it.
I don't think that the whole event affects me much today. Although, I tend to have a memory of him when men give me flattering comments. I get that same uncomfortable feeling and I have a hard time finding a response. I think, you want to touch me too? Is that it? Of course, I'd never say that, instead I say Thank you, change the subject, and drop the memory of fuck face back into my black hole.
It is so odd how our minds hold on to certain memories, even if we want to let them go. I have decided the bad memories must have something to convey if they keep sticking around. Perhaps if we wrap our mind around them enough, we can squeeze out something good to take away.
Is there a such thing as a bad experience? If we can learn something from it, be stronger and deeper because of it, then the bad isn't all bad. Is it?
