Abandoned: trigger warning

“Abandonment!” He exclaimed in the middle of our safety planning. “That’s your trigger! Whenever you feel abandoned or alone, you start to panic, start to relive the trauma, start to become suicidal.”

Which makes sense when you know how the story ended.

They say that speaking your truth allows for healing, that giving words to the trauma reduces the power it holds over you. Well, If that’s true, a whole lot of power is about to be given back to me. We were friends the 5 of us. 3 of us since Elementary school; the other two since sixth grade. Well, as close of friends as guys and girls can be in middle school. And then, something changed. One of them started slamming my locker door shut every day. And the other 3 of them just let it happen, over and over and over again.

And then one of them asked me out, and I said no—didn’t want to ruin the friendship that we had. I thought we were good; He seemed to take it ok.

It was the Friday before it happened: we had just taken a class trip to the movies. What movie we watched I don’t remember, isn’t important. What’s important is that we were at McDonald’s after. And I heard them chatting about something, pointing and looking at me. And as I walked to the bathroom, their voices lowered. But I heard them say, “my brother said to ask her again, and if she still says ‘no,’ we should do this and this and this.”

I should have said something. I should have said something, and I didn’t.

I spent all weekend worrying about it, spent the whole weekend Bible Quizzing at one of my favorite places on earth, dreading the thought of going back to school.

I should have said something. I should have said something, and I didn’t.

The Monday that it happened, I was in the bathroom after school. They snuck up behind me, grabbed me, and pulled me down. Instead of 4 like I expected, there were 5. An older one—maybe a junior, the older brother of one of them. He started it all, showed them what to do, and when he had his turn, he passed me off to the next one, telling each one one by one what to do.

And what they made me do might be too triggering for some—so if that’s the case, skip ahead. I’ll let you know.


They got on top of me. Made me suck them. Went in and out. The older one choked me and hit me and bit me and whispered things in my ear about how much he wanted me dead—he didn’t even know me. But they all followed suit. They all followed to be like the ‘cool older brother,’ so experienced. They sat on me. He made me do things to him I’m certain I’ll never share. He made me do things to myself I wish I could take back. And they watched. And they laughed. And laughed and laughed.


This is where you can start reading again:

And when they were done, my friends wanted to help me up because they were ‘sorry,’ but the older one wouldn’t let them. “Leave her there. She doesn’t deserve to be helped.”

So they left me. Abandoned me. Broken and bleeding and bruised. Left me to pick myself up, clean myself off, and carry it with me.

That’s where they wanted the story to end.

But that’s not where it ended. I picked myself up. I found out I was pregnant. I had a miscarriage.

And now I’m here, almost eleven years later, working through all of it. It’s like a pause button was pressed at age 13 and pressed again at 24, and now I’m living the last eleven years of my life with a 24-year-old brain.

But here I am. And every day I make it is another day I prove them wrong. Some days I feel like that girl on the floor still. But I’m not her. I’ve blossomed. I’ve fought back. I’ve put myself back together over the years. I am bold. Strong. Determined.

And I have an army of people behind me, fighting with me, fighting for me. And I’ll never be abandoned again.

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