A Bad Memory.

A warning to all who read this. This is one of the darkest things I have ever written and it deals with rape and depression. Trigger warning for yall.

This is a personal experience and I finally feel comfortable talking about it. Do not worry, I am fine.

I was 8 years old when this had happened. 9 years ago. I was raped by my best friend who was around 12 or 14 at the time.

I didn’t really understand what was happening. Back then, I was naive. I mean, I was a child. I don't remember the details as to what led up to it but I do remember how it happened. Vividly.

The weird thing is that I had forgotten about this until last year. It was always at the back of my head but I didn't pay any attention to it. But last year, for some reason, that memory had resurfaced.

I want you to understand, dear reader, that I am fine. I am not depressed over this and I don't feel suicidal or anything. Don’t worry. This had happened a long time ago and I somehow managed to get over it. I am writing about it now because I think it's time that you all see a side of me that I never thought I would be able to express.

A vulnerable me. I normally am an open book but this event is only known by a few people. I am sure that my parents will find out when I publish this. I never told them. I don't know why. This had happened so long ago and it doesn't matter now. Well, I say that while I write about it.

Remembering that moment again taught me a few lessons. The first is that I try to not break anyone’s trust. Even for small things, I’ve become so paranoid over this that I try to not break people’s trust. The second is that I am wary of every single person I meet. I don’t mean that I won’t trust them. Eventually, I will but even then I still keep them at a distance. Every interaction I have with someone is an opportunity for me to understand what sort of a person they are.

Think whatever you want to. I don’t care. I never have. You have your opinions of me but they do not matter to me. Mostly.

I know that what had happened wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know exactly what was going on anyway. But I still do have thoughts like “Maybe I should have done something.”, “Told Mum and Dad about this.”, or like “This is your fault as you trusted him.” But I was a kid. Eight years old.

The fact that I finally feel better talking about this is so relieving. I have kept this within me for so long. A few people know but now whoever shall read this knows and I am happy that you have.