Sometimes I want to tell my mother, just so she knows how bad she failed me.
I'd ask her, do you know what Chicken is? Red Light, Green Light? Do you know the games kids play where they touch each other and wait for the other to flinch first?
Do you know what it means to be fourteen and have the boy sat next to you slide his hand up your thigh, waiting for you to react? Do you know what it means to know you'll be the one kicked out of class if you kick up a fuss? How about the one time you did, and the teacher told you that it was normal for teenagers to want to be frisky, but you needed to be responsible and keep it outside school?
Do you know what it means, mother, to have pictures taken of you without your consent? In changing rooms, and under bathroom stalls? To know people were spreading these pictures, and that too many people knew now what your twelve year old boobs looked like in a bra, and what you looked like with your underwear down? Do you know what it means to freak out whenever anyone aims a phone in your direction, to feel yourself becoming feral and attacking?
Do you know how it feels to drag yourself with your bare hands across a filthy bathroom floor, desperate to reach a locked door, and know you will not make it? To taste salt and grit on your tongue and want to vomit whenever you remember? To remember that your nails broke from your scrabbling, and there were marks on your wrists afterwards, and that you bled so much you were convinced this was your first period? That you didn't realise until months after that no, it wasn't? That you watched yourself walk out of that bathroom and know that you actually died there and your body has been rotting there ever since?
Do you know what it means for people to only want your pain, your suffering, your humiliation? That that is the only part of you they find sexy? Do you know what that does to a person? Do you know what it does to know that people sold pictures and videos of the worst moments of your life, and the buyers will know more about those moments than you ever will?
Do you know how sometimes I'd think about telling you, about you saving me, about me never having to return to that place again? Do you know that I'd cry myself to sleep sometimes begging anyone to protect me and knowing nobody would? Do you know I changed my mind because of the way you sighed when I brought up problems? Because of how stressed you were? Because I'd seen what happens when the tension snapped in you, and I never wanted to risk hearing the cruel things you could say about me being raped?
Oh, it would destroy you. I don't want to do that to you. But god. I wish I could tell you something. I wish I could let you know. I wish I could tell you how bad you failed me, so you could make it up to me now.
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