PTSDiaries: Entry One



I was raped when I was 14.

Every journey begins with a single step, it’s said. My journey began with forcible penetration.

I was raped when I was 14.

I’m 21 now. I thought this would get easier. I’m getting queasy just typing this. Maybe the more I say it, the better I’ll feel. People used to tell me to talk about it, but they don’t anymore. I think they got sick of hearing about it. I’m sick of feeling the aftermath.

I was raped when I was 14.


For legal reasons, I won’t tell you his name, though I doubt he or any of his shithead friends care enough to read my blog. I’ll just call him R.

R was my boyfriend. My first boyfriend. Everyone thought he was so supportive, since he stayed with me after I got diagnosed with depression. Because anyone who stays with a mentally ill person must be a fucking saint, because no one else would put up with basket case teenage girls. I loved him with the passion only a teenager can love with.

There’s got to be a special kind of hell for people who take advantage of that kind of love. Mostly populated by advertisers and rapists.

I have to wonder what percentage of my current PTSD predicament is made up of the actual abuse or the stages afterwards. There’s no manual for having to go to high school with your rapist, to sit in class with him as he insults you in German from the other side of the room.

Oh, I knew what you were saying, R. I’m not stupid.

Maybe these diaries will be the manual. Probably what not to do. Before I embraced writing as a healing art, I carved my body like soapstone. I’ve only recently started feeling much in my wrists. They were almost numb from the scar tissue.

What do people expect? I was raped when I was 14. I had barely developed breasts, how the hell did they expect me to develop coping mechanisms?


People who say “everything happens for a reason” are full of shit.

I was not raped and abused by someone who said they loved me for some grand cosmic reason. It was not meant to be. The only reason I was raped and abused was because I happened to date a monster. That’s it.

I’m trying to turn the experience into something more than a cancerous mark on my soul. That doesn’t mean it happened for a reason.


First step taken.

6 thoughts on “PTSDiaries: Entry One

  1. Pingback: Depression, Suicide and Sexual Abuse in Science Fiction: An Article | Harder Hues Fiction

  2. Pingback: Johnny. | Nothing Gold Poetry.

  3. Pingback: PTSDiaries: Entry Two | Kelsey J. Mills

  4. Very sorry for what has been done to you and I hope you get better! 😦 One of my friends had the same thing happen to her when she was just one year older, and she told me the worst thing was that no one believed her – because teenagers obviously “exaggerate everything” … this made me really angry, I mean just because someone is younger than you doesn’t mean s/he is worth less or has problems that are less important than an adult’s? Wtf!


    • Thank you for your kindness! I’m sorry your friend had a similar experience–not being believed is like being revictimized. Adults don’t seem to know how to handle teenage problems beyond the expected, stereotypical problems. It’s a real shame.


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