I wanted to go back. I wanted to touch the grass where everything started to go to shit. That night when the air was so thick with fog, I could feel the dampness of the air in my lungs. That night I left myself there on the sun bleached grass that pricked my skin like little needles. The night I got lost forever. 

I drove down Washington Blvd. towards downtown Culver City; the street and the city I grew up. These streets are all too familiar, as if nothing’s changed. But when I take a closer look at the shops and plants lining the streets, I realize there are so many things I haven’t noticed before. Has that bagel shop always been there? How have I never noticed that Vegan joint?  Maybe I’ve driven these streets so many times that I just assume nothing has changed.

I approach Helms street and take a right. There are beautiful trees lining the street.  Their branches covered in leaves hanging like vines, creating heaps of beautiful shade. There are children playing in their front yards and people walking their dogs. It’s all so, normal. The entrance to the park is located at the end of Helms street, it almost feels like a private entrance to my secret.

I park my car and take a deep breath and I grab my partners hand and we look into each other’s eyes and we begin. There is a concrete path that leads to the playground and baseball fields. We walk along the path and BAM!  The sensations and memories come rushing back into my body. I remember all the times I had come to this park as a kid and a teenager. All the angst and confusion take over my adult mind. All the trauma and hurt come barreling down on me. 

We approach the baseball field and I run my hands along the chain link fence. I want to feel this. I want to remember how it felt to be out of control. There’s now a tram to the right of the park with a huge concrete wall covered in a mural. The mural is so colorful and vibrant. It’s a stark contrast to my memory of this park. 

I remember like it was yesterday, drifting in and out of consciousness, my black Victoria's Secret bra being exposed and being pushed up against a fence. I remember having absolutely no control over what was happening. I remember being kissed and maybe kissing back.  I remember feeling pressure and then nothing. I remember him pulling up my pants and helping me put my shirt back on. I remember him walking me back to his house where all my and his friends were waiting for us. I remember feeling so confused. I remember feeling like, this is it? This is what I’ve been waiting for? 

Now when I look around this park, I see happy kids playing. I see dads and moms teaching their children about life; how to fall and get back up.  I see me. I see me sitting here on the bleachers staring at the people playing baseball. I see me feeling, but I also see me becoming numb. I see that scared 14 year old girl being pushed and shoved into doing things she wasn’t ready to do. I see now. I see where everything started. Here I am too, teaching myself about how to fall and get back up, that big little thing we like to call life.    

This place, this park, is it. It’s a dream, a memory I’ve placed inside a bubble. It’s like the Biosphere 2. I’ve locked myself is this dome for years, determined to survive on my own with no outside help. Well, I’m not actually alone in here. My self confidence, my trust, my safety, is all locked in here with me. It’s all being pressed up against the chain link fence, no chance to move or be set free, just here, in this tiny park trapped in a bubble of trauma and self preservation. 

As I sit on the bleachers telling my boyfriend what happened to me, I feel weighed down, like there are bricks in my shoes. Shouldn’t I be feeling lighter getting all of this off my chest? Shouldn’t I be fixed?  When I was telling my story, I almost felt like I was talking about someone else. I think I’m still pretty disconnected from the whole experience. There’s this wall standing in front of my chest refusing to let me feel the pain, the disgust, the anger. I’m having a hard time letting the hard work in; the recovery, the acknowledgment and forgiveness.

I used to think that forgiveness means forgiving the other people or things that hurt you. I was wrong. Forgiveness is for ME. When I forgive someone, it’s for myself, not for them. Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time forgiving. Because when it comes to me, I still have that wall I can’t get passed.  

The urge to run starts to tingle in my toes, then up my legs and into my chest.  I’m done here. It’s too uncomfortable sitting here. I don’t want my negativity to rub off on all these innocent people.

We walk back down the concrete path, back to my car. I can see my friends faces and his friends faces, like floating memory ghosts, they all look so confused; eyes and mouths wide open. Maybe I look confused.  I am confused. What’s even more puzzling is the fact that all of this was somehow my fault. It’s a classic story of victim blaming. The offender runs off and tells everyone a story about how I was such a slut.  All of the painful memories come rushing back as we walk down the concrete path, running my hands along the chain link fence, acting as a direct connection to my most painful memories.  

One memory in particular stands out above the rest.  I returned to school the following week and there were a couple guys I knew walking behind me (I had a crush on one of them) and they were talking really loudly so I could hear.  The one I had a crush on said, I’ll never forget, “She has a nice ass and I hear she likes it in the ass.” I felt my face turn bright red. I could feel my heart start to pump super fast and I could hear it thumping in my ears.  I didn’t want them to see me cry or hear my heart breaking, so I ran to the nearest bathroom and locked myself in one of the stalls.  

Why is this happening to me?  What did he tell everyone? Was it my fault?  Did I want to lose my virginity to someone I don’t know?  Was I drugged? Why don’t I remember much? Why would he say that?

I look around the bathroom stall.  There are bloody strings of tampons peeking out of the tiny garbage on the wall.  There is piss splatter all over the toilet seat and shit stains inside the toilet.  I feel sick. I turn around away from the toilet and look at the door in front of me.  There are many names and pictures drawn on the door. I start to read the writing trying to distract myself from what I had just heard.  Little did I know I had just ran into a trap. A smelly, stinky, bloody trap. Ashley is a slut.  Rebecca is a backstabbing hoe.  Trisha is a bitch! It’s as if ancient hieroglyphics were mocking me.  My ancestors before me knew this was coming. They knew I would end up right here, alone, covered in tears, surrounded by piss and shit and names I would later wear as armor; slut, whore, bitch.   

You know, I think the aftermath was more traumatizing than the actual rape itself.  The being blamed and laughed at for being raped was far more destructive. The rumors I heard about myself were the worst.  I heard that I had sucked ten guys dicks at once, that I loved to take it in the ass and I would sleep with anyone. I heard it all.  Is it even possible to suck ten guys dicks at once? I guess in porn anything is possible. Looking back, it’s obvious that teenagers were just being teenagers, but at the time, this was all so.. life shattering.    

I eventually couldn't take the bullying anymore.  I dropped out of school. I started using heavy drugs and drinking almost daily.  I wanted so badly to be liked and to have a lot of friends. So I just gave in and became what I thought everyone wanted me to be.  I did this for a long time. 

As I write this, my body temperature rises.  I feel hot and sweaty. That feeling of shame and not being good enough washes over me.  I’m a kid again. It’s crazy how fast I can jump back and forth, from then to now. Our bodies never forget do they?  We just learn how to deal with the pain. We either stuff it down with things like drugs, alcohol, sex, money, exercise, work, whatever; or we STOP. 

 I’ve finally stopped dead in my tracks.  I’ve stopped running and numbing and dumbing.  This shit isn’t going anywhere! Believe me I’ve tried so hard to run from it all and it’s still fucking there riding my coattails, like a little shit eating demon digging his heals into the ground making it hard for me to move past it all.  

Each time I sit down and write, I gain a little more insight into who I am and what I need to heal.  Little by little, I start to see the person I’ve always been. That sensitive, animal loving, shy, human.  Everytime I get a glimpse of her, I love her. I try to shower her with love for those milliseconds she appears.  This is healing. Exposing the old and letting the real break through, even for only seconds at a time.

Hi you, Molly.  I see you girl. I see those scars, I see how mad you are at yourself and the world. You’re okay. You can be mad. I see how close you hold these experiences because you are afraid to let them go.  You’ve worn this mask for so many years, it’s hard to remember who’s underneath. 

It’s okay to drive down these streets again and again, assuming nothing has changed.  But take a closer look and it’s not all the same, because if everything were the same, I’d still be stuck inside that bubble, feet being pricked by the sun bleached grass and chained to the chained link fence with my fellow classmates pointing their fingers at my half naked body laughing and blaming me for being such a slut.  I’d be locked in a dirty bathroom stall surrounded by hateful words, piss splatter everywhere and shit stained toilets.    

It’s not the same.  I’m not there anymore, sometimes I’m there, but not always.  It’s okay to visit those god awful places from time to time, because as much as I hate to admit it, my mind, body and soul have been shaped by the relentless bullying and drug fueled benders.  It’s okay to feel beautiful surrounded by such shit.

We all love the colorful mural painted over the night that changes us forever. Because in that dark, lonely night, there was a light guiding me back down the concrete path, back to myself, to my real life.  The life that, at times, has made me question what the point of living is. The life I’ve felt such shame and embarrassment. The life that I refuse to let go of.

This is my beautiful life.  I hate it sometimes, but it’s mine and I’m going to keep it.