So I tried to tell her.

Trigger warnings: Child abuse, molestation, self harm and suicidal ideology.

I went to her house, mostly searching for answers—wanting to put a name to the face. A name to the man who molested me.

I said, "We need to talk," already in tears. My friend Alex was there for support.  

I told her, "So, I was molested as a kid—when I was five. And I think it was a friend of yours." —Still in tears.

She dismissed it immediately, saying, "You were never alone with anyone at five."  

I described him: bright red hair, a matching mustache.  

Again, she was quick to respond. "I don’t know anyone like that."  

I kept going, though I don’t remember everything I said; Something like red haired under a brim of a hat. I think is what I said. Then she said—"That sounds like Kevin."  

Finally, a name. But just as quickly, she insisted my memories were misplaced, that I was wrong.  

"So, I’m lying then?" I asked.  

She simply said, "Yes."  

I shattered. Alex and I left.  

I’m heartbroken. Mad. Frustrated. Devastated. Lost. Confused.  

How could a mother disregard her child after hearing something so awful? After that, she is officially dead to me.  

You see, this is how I grew up—I was always 'never telling the truth.'—Refer to first blog for more details on this. After this last exchange, I found myself questioning my own reality.  

Did a man not come into our living room while others were outside, drinking and eating that fateful night?  

Did he not cover my mouth and put his fingers inside me—five-year-old me, wearing my Strawberry Shortcake nightgown?  

Did I imagine the pain, the tears, the weight of being held down? The smell of him as his mustache touched my nose?

Because if you ask her about that day, it's all misplaced memories and a lie.  

The same would have happened if I had gone to her when I was a teenager to tell her I had been assaulted. She would have told me I must have done something to anger him or confuse him—that I had to fix it.Or she would have said I was lying. Those were her go-to responses.

I just wanted a name, and I got one—Kevin.  

Do I know for certain that he is the pedophile? No, not 100%. I was five, and now I’m nearing forty. My repressed memory is still hazy in some areas.  

The memories want to surface, but I’m not ready.  

I still see his bright red hair, his mustache, his baseball camo hat—maybe even a hunter green T-shirt. But his facial features remain blurry. My brain and heart still seem to be protecting me.  

She told me he’s dead now. If he really did do it, at least that saves me a search.  

I’m heartbroken and still in a daze. Why would my so-called 'mother' say I was lying?". My passive suicidal thoughts are prevalent right now more than ever. I’m self-harming again like never before. Things never seem to look up for someone like me.  

I wouldn’t call what I’m doing surviving, but I guess that’s what we call it.  

If this resonates with you in any way, you are not alone. Much love and light to you all.🪷