My friend got me into To Write Love On Her Arms Day, and I thought, great, we can talk! We can talk about the awful things that have happened to us, we don't have to feel dirty, we don't have to pretend to be happier than we are, we don't have to live with the shame of someone else's crimes.
It's a lie. No one wants to listen, because no one knows what to say. They'd rather pretend that the things that don't happen to us didn't exist. And you start to think, well, everyone else is quiet about it. Everyone is alright but me. More and more you think that you're the problem, that, without you, everything would be okay. More and more, you're on your own with your own twisted logic.
Here is the truth
My (screen) name is Viola. I am not a sad person. I love music, art, literature and drama. I cook and clean for my friends, I am their shoulder to cry on, I am their storyteller, and poet. I am usually very bright and bubbly, playful if a little childish. I love Villa Lobos, Ginastera, Berg, Jolivet, Lustig, Stravinsky, Berio, Piazzola and Bach. I'm 21. For the past 18 years I have been molested, for a year I was raped. Last year I secretly swallowed rat poison, slashed my arms and thrown myself in a lake. I was happy, I loved my friends, I loved uni, but I thought I had to die to protect the ones I loved from the evil in me that made people rape me. I don't know how I survived. If asked, I would say that I stopped trying to die because I'm stronger, but really it's because I am so bad at it.
I promise I'll be better tomorrow.