I touched on a some sensitive subjects in my life a few blogs ago. I felt such a release from that, I figured I would really get it all off my chest.

The man my family trusted to watch my older sister and I growing up took something from me that I can never get back.

My parents let him come over to our house to watch us while they ran errands. It was easier for them not to have to deal with two toddlers while they did their daily activities. They were completely oblivious, and he knew it. After all, why would they have any reason not to trust him? He had kids of his own, and he was an upstanding citizen. He was my dad's best friend. David. To this day, I still hate that name. Ironically, it is also my father's name.

One day when my mother returned home from grocery shopping, she decided to give my sister and I a bath. She was taken back when my sister said the following phrase.

"Mommy, I don't like David."

Why wouldn't she like David?

As she was bathing us, she noticed something different about us. My sister, then four, said something my mother would never forget.

"He touched me in a funny place, mommy."

My mother immediately told my father. I was only a year old at the time. And this had been going on since I was a few months old.

My mother made an appointment with our pediatrician. He said there were signs of abuse, and to let him know that they knew what was going on. He said if we felt it was necessary, they should report this to the police and he would support the evidence.

My father approached him that night. He took a shot gun to his house and said he knew what he had done, and that if it ever happened again, he would blow his head off.

This must have been one of many of my fathers' drunken nights.

The next night, after my father had convinced my mother not to call the police and she left for work, David was over that the house.

It was like nothing even happened.

This continued for years until finally David moved away.

My mother never knew he still came around.


At 5, my parents had me in counseling. They just couldn't figure out why I had such bad anxiety. I didn't want to leave my mommy. I didn't trust anyone. Apparently they had forgotten that the first few years of a child's life really make a big impression.

At 12, my father cheated on my mother. I had to be the one to tell her. She was devastated. They parted ways. My father left one day before I got home from school. I didn't hear from him again for a long time. I started drinking and smoking pot and experimenting with all sorts of other drugs. I had a boyfriend that was much too old for me, and I had sex for the first time at 13.

I flunked two courses my 8th grade year of school. I went to summer school, and passed. The funny thing was, they were my best subjects. I just didn't care.

By 15, I had gone so far downhill, I just wanted to die. I drank a fifth of vodka and popped some pills, and next I knew, I was awake in the hospital with the doctor standing over me. I didn't know what was going on. I was being signed over to the state mental rehabilitation center for teens.

I spent about three or so days there. I met with a counselor and talked my way out of staying. About three months later, I ended up at the same facility again, only with a different psychiatrist, and the same plan of escape. I spent a week there, and they changed my medications from Depakote to Lithium, Xanax, Zyprexa, Wellbutrin, and Clonadine. I was okay until I was 16. I ended up attempting suicide again by taking a couple blood thinners and slitting my wrists in the bathtub. If my mother hadn't walked in, I probably would have succeeded.

The state wanted to put me in a residential program, but my mother's insurance wouldn't cover it. I spent a month in there, and they put me on some stronger medications. I detoxed and went back to school.

I went to school whenever I felt like it, but most of my time was spent high and drunk h