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started to think of all the reasons I shouldn’t say no and should continue my MO and keep quiet, not rocking the boat. What if I say no and he gets mad? What if me saying no makes him get violent? What if I say no and he rejects me and never talks to me again? But my biggest fear was, What if it just doesn’t work?
    In the end, my desperation to put an end to the abuse overrode my anxiety. I knew I had to do it. I knew I had to say no. The PSA gave me just enough courage to try.
    One day it happened. My original molester cornered me and initiated the familiar routine of peeling off my clothes and taking turns touching. Before he could do anything further, though, I mustered up all the courage I could find and meekly said, “No. I don’t want this to happen anymore.” My voice was barely above a whisper, as loud as I was able to speak, but make no mistake, it was clear.
    Then I said it again, this time a tiny notch louder.
    “No.”
    What happened next amazes me to this day. He nodded, said “Okay,” and walked out of the room. He never touched me again.
    I found myself in the same situation again a few weeks later, with the other longtime offender. When that young man started his own ritual with me, I whispered my conviction in that same subdued voice. “No,” I told him, just as I had the other guy. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” And with that, he never again laid a hand on me.
    Finally, I had found my voice. And I found bits and pieces of just enough strength to use it.
    What I didn’t do, however, was tell anyone about it. I didn’t understand why I had to tell someone I trusted. None of my abusers had ever explicitly told me not to tell anyone. I just didn’t. Why would I want to, anyway? There was no need for someone else to know about my unbearable shame.
    During the few seconds it took to say no, I was a part of the present. I wasn’t distant. I didn’t unplug. I didn’t close my eyes and pretend time had stopped and bad things weren’t happening. I acknowledged that things weren’t right. That what was happening to me had to stop.
    While the word no was my permission slip to speak up and defend myself, I quickly learned the word wasn’t magic. It worked to stop the abuse from occurring, but it didn’t release me from my emotional turmoil. Emotions that I kept at bay. Emotions that multiplied and mutated as time passed.
    When I’d feel sad, my instinct to cry was overpowering, but an even stronger part told me to zip it. When I’d feel afraid, I’d want to reach out for help, but I’d remind myself it was better to ignore it. It took a long while for me to reconcile my voice and my heart.

CHAPTER
Four
    I spent most of my early teen years in my bedroom, zoned out from the rest of the world and from my dark memories. I buried my head in my journals, where I would furiously write about how life sucked and how miserable I was. It was the genesis of my depression, bouts of which lasted well into my adulthood. I didn’t know how to deal with my pain, so I wrote poem after poem, every one of them telling the story of a girl with a broken heart. My words painted the picture of a teenage identity crisis, my obvious depression, and hints of confusion about my sexual trauma.
    I try so hard
    To be what others want me to be.
    I am forever being someone else,
    And for this, I know not who I am . . .
    It hurts to pretend.
    I feel as if I don’t fit in anywhere . . .
    I am responsible for things I do and decisions I make,
    But wrong choices are made and disaster occurs.
    When things are built up inside,
    Whether it be frustration, anger, or confusion,
    The thought of suicide is possible to occur . . .
    No one knew the kinds of destructive things that festered in my heart. Outside of seeing me act out in rebellion, in small spurts at first, my family probably didn’t even have a clue something was wrong. You want the ones who are supposed to love you the most, even unconditionally, to