Seriously.

For years and years and years, I remember being raped.

I was friends with this boy across the street, Steven. I remember being a little kid and having a tea party on the porch and having him come up and join me.

I remember going out to the desert with him in the afternoon to look for tadpoles in the creek that ran through it.

I remember going into the desert one evening with him and his brother. We didn’t walk too far out, and I remember his brother telling me that there were Sailor Moon dolls buried there. He pinned me down. Steven ran away as it was getting darker, saying that he had to go get his jacket. I remember crying, begging him to take me back, that I was cold and wanted my jacket, too.

I remember not being able to go.

And that’s it.

I was no younger than six or seven.

I held onto this for years. When I was a junior in high school, something reminded me of it, and I couldn’t let it go. It kept eating at me, swallowing me whole.

Recently, I started re-watching the Sailor Moon series. That made things worse. I remembered the dolls and the jacket. But I’d been starting to wonder if it was real, if it actually happened, or if it was a dream.

I asked my mom tonight. I have never mentioned it to her, not once. I’d always wondered how I’d gotten home, or how they could just let him go, or anything like that. I’d never want to say anything because I was sure that if I did, everything would change—I’d just be known as the rape victim and my brother would do something stupid, like attack the guy.

Something in me just gave way tonight. So I asked her.

And she told me that it didn’t happen.

She said that they always knew where I was, always. I rarely went to the desert, and I do remember that. I’d only been once or twice. But I had never gone very late, since I always had to be in before sunset. Remember, as far as I was concerned, this happened when I was really young.

Just imagine that, holding onto the idea of being raped for most of your life, and being told that it never happened.

This has shaped me. It has affected me so strongly. I’m more than a little afraid of men, especially older men. I’ve generally hated the family across the street for years. I’ve held onto this since I was a child.

My mom is absolutely positive that it was a dream. While I’m not a hundred percent certain, I’d so much rather believe that it never happened.

I don’t think anything’s going to change with this. I don’t think I’ll magically be rid of my fears or anything like that. But, dear gods, it feels like a three-ton boulder has been lifted off of my chest. I feel a little unhinged, really, since so much of my reality has been based on the shaky footing of a dream, but it just feels so good to know that it wasn’t real. I don’t know how it happened, or how it got into my mind in the first place, but I’d so much rather it be a figment of my elementary-school imagination than a real piece of who I am.

I mean, holy fuck.