The Process of Healing

Photo illustration by Willamae Boling | VOX Staff

By Name Withheld | VOX Girls Group

Growing up, I never really had a solid relationship with my father. I knew who he was, but not what he was about. I never knew how not having him in my life would really hurt me. When I was a little girl,

I was sexually abused and learned not to trust the men who walked into my life. Little did

I know back then that the abuse would lead me into a time of being abused and prostituted as a young teen.

The Pain Begins
When I was 7 years old, my mama found a secret lover. They fell in love and then had my little brother, who was born prematurely. My mama was always at the hospital with him, and I used stay at home with my ex-step daddy. Every time my mama left he would make me have sex with him. This abuse made me feel less of myself. And his abuse made it harder for me to trust every man who walked into my life.

One day while my mama went to the hospital to sit with my brother, I was at home playing outside. When I went inside the house to get in the bath tub, my step daddy came in the bathroom and got in the tub with me. After we got out of the tub he made me have sex with him again. I didn’t tell my mama what her boyfriend was doing because I was afraid of what she was going to say and that she was not going to believe me. She probably would have told me to get out of her face.

One day me, my mama and my grandma went to the store, and when we arrived back at my house we were walking up the hill, about to enter my house, and I was walking kinda of funny. My legs were farther apart than usual, and I had a slight limp. My grandma said, “Why you walking like that?”

“Because my feet hurt,” I lied.

“You don’t have to walk like that,” she said.

I felt sad, disappointed. I was walking with my legs apart because my vagina was hurting. It had been hurting for days, but I didn’t know why.

The Storm is Over ... For Now
So one day the man who abused me and my mama got into an argument. They were arguing in my room until my mama yelled at him: “Get your s*** and get out my house!” I was lying on my bed, watching and listening, thinking, He ain’t goin’ nowhere. But then she threw his stuff out. He walked to the door and she locked it behind him.

I was very happy. My mama didn’t know what he’d done to me, but I was thinking, Good, I won’t have to go through him abusing me anymore. What I didn’t realize then is that the abuse affected how I think about men and what has happened to me since.

A New Day
When I turned 13, my mama started going to church, and one night I met a boy there. His name was Dre*, and he was 16 years old. I lied and told him that I was 16 about to turn 17. He wouldn’t have dated me because I was so young, but he was so beautiful and I wanted to give him a try.

Dre and I exchanged phone numbers — well, I kind of gave him the wrong number because my mama didn’t let me talk to boys. But I was thinking of him, and one night when my mama was outside I called him, and we talked for a while. We’ve been together off and on since then. It took two years for me to tell him my real age — we were going to the same alternative school, and I wanted to tell him before he found out. At first he didn’t believe me, and now we just laugh about it. I have told him most everything, but I never told him about any of the abuse because I have been afraid he wouldn’t want to be with me.

Boys, Boys and More Boys
Not too long after Dre and I met, when I was 14, I started talking to older boys and getting on the chat line. I was tired of just talking to one person. And older men had the money and the cars. I met a boy, well he really wasn’t a boy. He was grown man. Junior* was 26 years old when we started talking. At first we would e-mail each other, then one day he just gave me his phone number out of the blue. So, of course, I called.

We were talking over the phone for a few months before I saw him. He was telling me about all these dreams: “We’re going to be together forever. ... I want you to move in with me. ...” He lured me with sweetness and made me feel loved. So when he said, “I want to see you,” I decided to run away to see him.

My mama didn’t want her children going out at night. But one night while mama was asleep, Junior picked me up from outside our home. I snuck back in the house at about 5 or 6 a.m. The next day I called him and he said, “You gon’ come and spend the night with me?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “if you come and get me.”

I was mad at my mom and didn’t want to be in my house. So Junior came and got me, and we went to his trap house. He was a big-time dope dealer — both he and his brother.

In the beginning, everything was good. He wined and dined me, took me to the mall, bought me a Boost Mobile, a Metro cell phone, shoes and some other stuff. Then he took me to get my nails done. Then a month after I moved in with him things began to change.

One day Junior asked me how much I loved him.

“I love you a lot,” I told him.

“Do you love me the way you say you do?” he asked me.

“I do,” I said.

“Then will you help me get some money?” he asked me.

“How I’ma do that?” I asked back.

“You know all them crackers that come in and out buying crack from me? They are tricks,” he said, “and they looking for girls.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“They want sex,” he said, “and they going to pay for it.”

I was like, uh, uh. I never did that before. I was surprised he asked me to do that. I said “No”.

“If you love me the way you say you do, you will do it just this one time,” Junior begged. He tried to convince me — he loved me and would do whatever I wanted him to do.

“Just one time?” I asked.

“Yeah, one time. I promise,” he said.

Hell on Earth

So Junior took me to a hotel. It wasn’t close to his house, but I still knew where I was. He then dropped me off in my own room. Before he left he told to make sure I got the money before anything happened. He then gave me some weed to help ease my nerves, but even after that I was still extremely nervous. Later on that night he called me and told me a man was on his way. So I waited. Then a knock came at the door. I answered it.

Out of nowhere a man asked, “Are you Tweety?”

I replied, “Yes.”

The rest is history.

When I got done, I called Junior, and then he came and picked me up. When I got in the car, he didn’t say anything, I just gave him the money. There I was at the hotel giving my body away for money, and he didn’t have the courtesy to speak to me. For the next two weeks this same routine continued on.

So one day while I was with Junior, I got caught by the police. They gave me the usual speech, “You have the right ...”, and then I was taken to jail for a runaway warrant. While I was in Metro Regional Youth Detention Center, I did a lot of thinking about my life and the path it had taken. I started to link things together. I saw how the abuse I endured as a little girl affected how I saw men: I couldn’t trust any of them. So when I finally got out of Metro a week or two later, I never called Junior again. Till this day I have never seen or heard from him, and I never plan to, either. In all honesty, if he turned up dead, I really wouldn’t care.

Over, and Over Again
After being released, I never prostituted again, but I wasn’t exactly a saint either. I was still having problems at home with my mom. I was around 15 and I was really into going out with my friends, but she wasn’t having it. She was too strict. So, I was again rebellious. I started talking on chat lines, lying more and stealing. One of my new male “friends” was Mark*. He was 21 years old. He was real cool. I remember when me and my friend Brittany* asked to borrow her befriend’s car to go see Mark.

She asked him for the car, and he was quick to respond, “Hell no, you ain’t got no driver’s license.”

Brittany snapped in return, “I’m not going to drive; my sister is going to drive.”

After a pause he asked, “Well, OK, but where are y’all going?”

We had to make up a quick lie, so I jumped in and said, “We are going to the club.”

He shook his head and handed us the keys, but not before he told us to have the car back by 5 a.m.

When he called us around 5:30, we lied and said that we were on our way back to the house, but in reality we were at Mark’s house. Brittany’s boyfriend continued to call, but we ignored all of his calls. A couple of days later we were pulled over because he had reported the car stolen to the police. So here I was again, going to jail, all for a boy, I mean a man.

The Future Looks Bright
A couple weeks after the car incident I was locked up on a runaway charge again, and I was sent to Angela’s House. At first I was not excited at all to leave my normal surroundings to go and live with a group of strangers. I wasn’t really into the whole idea of sharing what I had been going through with people who barley knew me.

Yet, within the past three months or so, things have changed. Angela’s House has helped me in a few ways. I have learned how to express my feelings and emotions better, and I have also learned how to communicate with others (especially my mom). Right now I am not necessarily a “new” me, but I am working on it. I know I will do better, but I also know things take time.

The author, 16, loves herself, and is not falling for any more tricks from men.

* Names were changed to protect privacy.