When I was younger I believed that I was happy.
I believed that when someone touched you in that way it was love.
I never had a family.
Yes I had a mother and yes I had a father but no it wasn’t a family.
There were only glass shatters and unavoidable screams that put me to sleep.
There was no lullabies or calm music.
There weren’t bedtime stories.
There were only arguments that created my childhood.
There was the unwanted touch of a person who was supposed to be there for me.
There were the relationships that were never to be developed.
There was trust screaming and threatening a 6-year-old girl.
When people ask what my childhood was like, I reply with one word.
Okay.
To me it was okay, it was normal for me at the time.
Now that I know it was wrong there was no way to make it right.
The untrust that I had for the world only increased.
I had no friends, I was bullied, I was a quiet girl.
And yet the world asks me if I’m okay.
Am I?
I think I am.
But am I?