I Am Not a Victim, I Am a Survivor

In preschool, my parents began to notice my generalized anxiety.
My mother had to come with me to school every day for a week because I was terrified of
being alone.
Over the years I began to crave independence, but fear genuinely being by myself.
Towards the end of elementary school until seventh grade, I played by myself, ate by myself, and was home alone more often than I wasn't.

I was raped in winter of eighth grade.
He was my only trusted friend.
I began to self destruct.
I could never be alone.
My 20 mg Prozac evolved into a clinically diagnosis of  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I noticed miniscule motions.
Everyone around me watched my every move.
I had a boyfriends constantly.
I don’t believe I was single for more than three months at a time.
I needed a man to protect me, because after the trauma I knew I was too weak to protect myself.

Three years ago, December 23rd, I told myself if it would ever happen again I would
kill myself.
Today,
I grow increasingly tired of feeling like I have a bullseye superglued to my zipper.
I no longer want to clutch my car keys in between my fingers as if I was holding onto my last dying breath.
I want to vomit every time I saw the word “whore” written across my forehead as if I was in the Scarlet Letter.
I am not myself.

Today,
I am no longer a victim of touch, but
A survivor of power.