Six. I’m up to six sexual assaults — or instances of serious harassment or exploitation — that I’ve only recalled in the past few years. Nope, seven.
I never told my parents. I was embarrassed. I blamed myself for unlocking the door. And if they believed me, they wouldn’t have let me stay at home alone after school anymore.
In the new life, the girl who was assaulted and abused is a memory. I'm not her. But she is me.
I guess I'm lucky. I don't remember the first assault. The one I know happened, but don’t remember exactly when, or who was involved.
Here’s the thing: I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t mentally ill.