When I was thirteen years old I asked my parents if I could go on birth control. The answer was no, of course. I told them I was already having sex and didn’t want to get pregnant. I guess they figured the lack of birth control would deter me from being promiscuous but it didn’t.
There was a second reason, however. My older brother was molesting me and I didn’t know if he would eventually escalate to raping me. At that time I was afraid to tell my parents what was happening so I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t say anything about it until I was fourteen and away at private school where my brother couldn’t touch me.
I told my brother that I told on him and his exact words were, “It’s not like I raped you. If I get any heat off of this, you’ll never see me again.”
I’ll never forget the callousness in his voice and in his words. He didn’t care about the damage he caused, he still doesn’t because he is still lying. My parents didn’t believe me anyway. But I’m getting side tracked…
The point to my post is that though I am tempted to call up my parents and rant about the second reason I wanted birth control at thirteen in an effort to convince them I’m not lying or making things up, I don’t because it wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t be helpful. They are steadfast in their belief that I’m a liar. It would be like picking off a crusty old scab off of a wound that is trying to heal, and I would be the only one feeling the sting.
A few months ago I wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge, I’d obsess over it until I made the call. A few months ago I was still harassing my older brother trying to make him tell the truth. He never did and never will. I can accept that now just as I can accept that my parents won’t ever believe me. To protect myself I rarely speak to my folks, just on occasions like birthdays and such. I don’t speak to my brother at all, I even deleted his phone number from my contacts. I call that progress.
My Phoenix Rising 