8th Grade

The sentences were spewing out his mouth, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was like I completely lost any knowledge of the English language. All I could focus on were my soaked palms, and heart beating out of my chest. I could only force myself to say yes, even when I meant no. My interview with the policeman was a complete blur. “So explain every detail of what happened.”, the officer said. 8th-grade year, 14 years young. I remember each and every vile, degrading word that came out of those boys mouths who objectified me down to feel like I was nothing but a walking piece of meat. I couldn’t walk to class without somebody violating my young, innocent body. I couldn’t sit in math class without being fearful that my personal space would be intruded. I was too afraid to tell anyone, so I concealed my wounded soul and put on a happy face. My head was full of dark thoughts that if others knew, they would’ve put me in a psych ward. So I wrote about them in my diary. One particularly cloudy day in April, my parents rushed into my room with concerned looks on their faces. They had found my diary. My heart sank to my stomach when I saw the book full of all my dark and sacred secrets in my mother’s hand. While my father looked vengeful, my mother's tears dripped from her soft jaw, as I explained everything to them. ¨We’re talking to your principal first thing tomorrow morning. We’re getting you out of that shitty school.¨ My dad exclaimed with rage. As we walked into the principal’s office, I prayed no students would see me, and ask questions. My parents explained everything going on, as I sat there awkwardly. ¨I’m awfully disappointed that you wouldn’t talk to me about what was happening. We could’ve worked this out.” the school counselor said, in an upset tone. I couldn’t understand how she could possibly be disappointed in me. It was like no one understood how it felt being in that situation. Feeling like if I told someone, it would start too much drama, and no one would believe, or understand me. After our meeting, we drove to the Special Victims Unit, so they could interview me. My hands were shaking, and my anxiety was extremely high. I’ve always had trouble speaking up to authority because if I ever tried to talk to my parents about my opinions, they shut me down. When I walked in, I was directed to a small room, with an overweight, middle-aged man behind a desk. I sat in the chair across from him, and played with my fingers, as he asked me questions. I completely zoned out, and all I could say was yes. “So did you like the boys who were touching you? Did you let them do it? Did you say no?” He said, tauntingly. But the only thing that would come out, was yes. Those questions triggered something inside of me, that made me very emotional, and shut me down automatically. After the interview, his only advice for me was, “Don’t let guys touch you.” The boys only got a three-day suspension. On the car ride home, I felt stupid. Wishing I could go back, and say what I was really thinking. If only I could rewind time, and go up to those disgusting boys, and kick them in the balls, instead of keeping my mouth shut. I’d go back to the interview, and let that officer know, I never wanted any of this to happen to me. For the finishing months of 8th grade, my father put me into a private Christian school. There, I met some amazing people and got closer to God than ever. It was such an amazing environment where everyone respected me, which I was not used to. Every day, I was excited to go to school. My entire attitude changed, and I could finally see the positive in things. My mother put me into therapy, where I learned how to express myself, and positively cope, through art and writing. Everything worked out for me in the end, and I’m incredibly thankful, for everything that happened to me in 8th grade. If it never happened, I would not have the wisdom, and resilience that I have today. Now, I share my story. Not for pity, but because I strive to help anyone else who is, or has gone through, anything similar to what I’ve been through. I want them to know, that they are not alone, and they can speak up about it.