I try to be body positive, but sometimes, I'm disgusted with myself.
Not because I don't like my weight - but sometimes, I don't.
Not because I don't like my stretchmarks - because I'm usually proud of my stretchmarks.
Not because of my scars - I don't feel shameful of my scars.
But because of my internal wounds.
The wounds inflicted on me when I was young.

I try not to think about it anymore.
It's been years; I should have let it go by now.
But sometimes, in the dark nights, I think about what happened.
I think about how he hurt me.
How he forced me....

It's painful just to write this.
I try to block the memories out of my mind.
I'm usually so good at doing just that.

I don't blame myself anymore.
When I was young, I did.
I thought, maybe if I didn't wear those clothes.
If I hadn't gone with him that day.
Maybe I led him on in some way.
But it wasn't my fault.
I'm old enough to realize that now.

It doesn't matter if I had worn the clothes I wanted to wear or if I had gone for sweats.
It doesn't matter if I had gone with him or not.
It doesn't matter if I had led him on in any way.
My "no" should have been enough.

He was seventeen; I was thirteen.
He was almost an adult.
I was still playing with Barbie Dolls.
He should have been the more responsible one.
He should have known to say no.

It wasn't my fault.

But sometimes, I'm disgusted with myself.
When I slip, I look in the mirror and ask all the questions I asked when I was young.
Why did you go with him?
Why did you wear that?
Why did you lead him on?

I don't want him to know that he still has control over my life in the slightest way.
And I try to move on, for my family's sake.
But sometimes, I can't help it.