Even as I wrote the title of this post my eyes welled up and I slumped back in my seat and I just looked at it and my chest heaved and I quivered as I contemplated writing about it. i have been sexually abused.
Don’t ask me why I am still crying about it after 15 years have passed. Maybe I’m still embarrassed. Maybe I’m still that 11 year old boy that slowly made his way to the hall bathroom and stood there with his pants around his ankles, pulling piece after piece of toilet paper from the roll in order to stop the blood and semen from running down his legs. Maybe I’m crying for him now because I don’t remember crying then. Then, my main thought was, I hope no one finds out.