Seven.

My morning routine:

1. Wake up.
2. Jump in the shower.
3. Blow dry my hair.
4. Check email/other internet fuckery.
5. Apply eyeshadow, eyeliner, and finally mascara.
6. Run to the kitchen, prepare water for my five cups of green tea (excessive? Nah. That's just my standard breakfast green tea dosage).
7. Weigh myself.
8. Place green tea on the kitchen table to cool.
9. Prepare and eat my breakfast.
10. Run back to my bedroom, straighten hair.
11. Change out of PJs.
12. Brush teeth.
13. Head out to work.

This morning, my routine looked like this:

1. Woke up.
2. Jumped in the shower.
3. Blow dried my hair.
4. Checked email/other internet fuckery.
5. Cried my ass off.
6. Cried my ass off some more.
7. Crawled back into bed.
8. Slept until 10AM.

My real fuck up came the moment I decided to check my email.
Well, the problem wasn't in the email, the problem was when I went off into the other internet fuckery. Serves me right for trying to be "informed" and reading THE NEWS before starting off my day.
All I had to do was read this, and I was done.

One of AnoMALIE's deepest, darkest secrets up ahead.
Proceed with caution.

It happens a lot. A. Lot.
When I hear a new story, I don't usually cry. I get that pain in my gut, as if someone has kicked me out of the blue. I'll often feel disgust... but I don't usually cry... I mean, what will others think the moment they see me cry after I hear a story of another kid getting raped/molested? The frequency at which that shit happens is, sadly, quite high.

This whole Penn State drama hasn't helped. I haven't cried with any of the details... I've been left at a loss for words... I've felt rage... but I haven't cried.

This morning... I just couldn't take it.
The more I read about this poor girl, Ashley, the more my heart broke.
I looked through her photos... and cried.
She tried so, SO hard to appear happy... and did such a great job at it... it was breaking my heart.
Then I saw the following photo, and I collapsed:

The look in her eyes. Her smile. The body language...
I lost control and bawled.
That dude? Her dad. Her tormentor. The reason she killed herself.
First she had to deal with being sexually assaulted as a seven year old by her stepdad... and then as a teenager, the one person who was supposed to protect her went off and did the same thing... for years.

I have a similar photo:

No, it's not with my dad... my pops is a great human being.
No, the man for whom I'm putting my "brave" face on is none other than my mom's dad.

That photo was taken in the summer of 1995.
It was my first time in Hometown since 1992, the year my world came to a screeching halt. The year my delicate, innocent world shattered into pieces.
I was seven... just like poor little Ashley.
Upon my return in 1995, I was unsure how to act... all I knew was that I wanted to be nowhere near that man.
But I was stuck.
Mom: Honor thy father and thy mother.
10yearOldMe: Yeah, YOU guys. Nothing there about anyone else.
Mom: By default, you have to show the same respect for my parents.
10yearOldMe: But... let's say... that person... doesn't deserve it?
Mom: You're no one to judge. Just respect them and love them unconditionally.
10yearOldMe: But what if... the father... or mother... is a bad person? A horrible person? I still have to respect them?
Mom: In God's eyes, they are your father and your mother. YES.
10yearOldMe:... that's so stupid. So. So. SO. Stupid.

My chest would hurt from holding in my screams. I just felt I really, really had to scream. At the top of my lungs.
It was so fucking exasperating to have to... sit there... and let this man act as if I were crazy. As if I was the one who did something wrong. As if I was the bad person.
I WAS SEVEN! SEVEN! WHAT THE FUCK?!
I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that it wasn't my fault. That I didn't want to be there. That I didn't want to see him. That HE was a bad person... a HORRIBLE person. That I didn't want to touch him... hell, I didn't even want to smell him. That he needed to GET HIS FUCKING HANDS OFF ME.
But I'd be there. Every day. And I'd have to hug him hello and goodbye. I had to kiss him hello and goodbye. I had to ask for his benediction every night before heading home.
What kind of fucking blessing could I possibly receive from YOU??
I'd roll my eyes each time I'd bend over towards his hand to kiss it.
It felt as if I was suffocating. Each day. Each night.

That summer, 1995, everyone knew me as the "rebellious, disrespectful" AnoMALIE. The bitch.
Bro: Why are you such a crazy bitch? You're so fucking rude, you fucking freak.
Me:... fuck you.
All of this because of my aversion to good ol' grandpa. I was the mean freak... and I let everyone think that... because I had to honor my "mother" and "father"... and because I didn't want to break my mother's heart.

I finally had to speak up later that summer when Sis started to criticize me for my behavior.
I wasn't going to say anything... but the moment I noticed Grandpa getting close to my sister... when I began to notice how he'd try to get her alone... I had to speak up.
Me: Do you think I WANT to be this rude? This... weird? I DON'T!
D: Then why are you such a bitch? He's never done anything to you. You've always been his favorite, loca.
Me: I want you to stay away from him! Don't EVER be alone with him.
D: WHY?! He's OUR GRANDPA!

It was so frustrating to see how NO ONE seemed to notice shit. How no one bothered to use their fucking brain to think Hmmm... AnoMALIE has always been a sweet little girl who loves to smile... but... now she just... sits there and stares off into space... and she only wears baggy clothes now... then she gets rude with this ONE particular MAN. Hmmm... that's not weird AT ALL.
They all just preferred to think I had gone crazy.

I harbored resentment... hatred for my grandfather for years. I hated the man with all of my heart throughout my teen years.
It only took about two years for me to become accustomed to the fact that family and friends all thought I was a jerk who hated her grandfather for no apparent reason... only excuse being "he's an asshole."
I found escape in writing stories about him... about what went down.
I'd fantasize about getting my revenge.
I gave him slow, painful deaths in a few stories. In other stories, I'd speak my mind and destroy whatever "soul" he had...
... and then there was one where I actually held a pillow to his face and killed him.

I tried erasing the memory from my mind... but it's still alive and well, somewhere back there... constantly ruining my life in some way or another.
I think about it when it rains.
I think about it when I'm sitting inside of a truck.
I'll think about it when I step in mud.
I'll think about it when I hear the word "pretty."

It has fucked me up.
I have only verbally spoken about it with D and Mooney. I feel stupid when I SAY it... the words are just too hard to utter.
I've alluded to it with Mom... but she's in denial... and I let her be. It's ok. I'm a big girl now. And he's dead.
I don't resent him any more. I actually forgave him a year before he died... though I never really told him to his face.
I put myself in his shoes... and I know his childhood was fucked up as well... at least what he let us in on. He was robbed of his childhood the moment his dad died and he had to become the man of the house at the age of eleven. On my bad days I'll judge him for stealing MY innocence... but I just... have to take a deep breath and... forgive.

I take steps to try and bust through my walls:
If someone compliments me, instead of immediately thinking "Shut the fuck up!" or "BULLSHIT!" I'll smile.
When a random guy decides to sit close to me... possibly come into physical contact with me, I don't immediately scream "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"
It's a very slow process.

But still... reading about this young girl... seeing how it all ended... broke me.
No one deserves that shit. No one.
Godspeed, babygirl.