****TRIGGER WARNING*** The writings discuss sexual abuse and might be difficult to read.****

Head down. Arms wrapped around my body. Ashamed.  Sick. Sad. How could I allow this to happen. This monster. The madness. I was 17 yrs old. He was a grown man, I was a teenager. He was my boss.

Anger erupts.

He violated my most personal boundaries. My body understood a new level of frightened. Frighten was a very well known emotion for me as a child, but this one felt different. As I sat at my desk working, he continued what he wanted, when he wanted. My body froze terrified but shattering inside. Each day the damage grew, the threat intensified, the actions more grotesque. How long can I take this? Maybe tomorrow he won’t be here, focus on tomorrow Tracy, tomorrow you’ll breathe.

I see my 17 year old and I simply say, I’m so sorry Tracy. I’m so sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you better. Then I stop myself, this was not my fault. This is not mine to hold against me. That took time to learn.

This man was not simply someone who spoke filth to me, he was my boss; as his hands moved, my spirit drowned. As he unzipped his pants, I died. To this day, I’m incredibly grateful he did not rape me, in all these daily horrific moments I feared what was next. Each day becoming more and more sick inside, afraid to move, afraid to eat my lunch. Each day I entered my job site, my light turned off and my world darkened around me. This afraid I felt created sickness inside my body, the ongoing abuse that I sat through for too long had to end. In every filthy moment I truly wanted to die. I suffocated as he continued to bring filth, spreading his arms and hands where they never belonged, my body.

Run away. Now! There is no other way. Now 18 years old, I saw a way out, I have the freedom to move far away, I’m an adult. My only solution was to run away. Something I still tend to do, until I catch myself to change the patterns known. But one day, I scraped up enough bravery to push back and speak up before I ran.

I remember the day I sat at my mother’s bed before heading out to work, terrified feeling so guilty as though I caused this madness myself. I spoke up trembling.

She was sleeping, she immediately sat up, “What’s wrong?” Showing intense concern as my voice quivered.

“Mom, I can’t do this. I can’t go to work.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to.”

“No, mom, it’s more than that, he’s abusing me. I can’t stop throwing up, I’m sick.”

That day. That story. Ugh.

To my mother, thank you for immediately believing me. Thank you for never doubting my story. Thank you for immediately taking action. Thank you for speaking up and teaching me to fight back. This is a part of my story and it hurts to write. The voices, “Don’t tell anyone, you should have never worn those shorts.” “You asked for it.” “You’re too friendly.” “I should have said something sooner.”

All the voices. All those voices are lies.

Today, I know now that I did nothing wrong. And neither did you! Hear that. You did nothing wrong. If you are a victim of abuse, I pray for your recovery and strength to speak up. You are not alone. You are not at fault. Again, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Again, YOU ARE NOT AT FAULT.