It’s my 28th birthday. And I’m contemplating writing a memoir. To do this, I need to face some hard truths about my childhood. Thinking about how open and honest Jeanette Walls was in Glass Castles, I wrote down the hardest part. It turned into a sort of poem. This is not easy to write, or read, but I’m sharing it in hopes that others identify with my truth.

TW: Trigger Warning for mentions of molestation, rape, and abuse.

When people learn about my childhood abuse, they usually have one of two reactions: Shock or pity.

I understand the shock from people who were never abused, or are still naive. The can’t fathom how the man that everyone liked, who raised me as a second father from age four on, could have hurt me sexually. They really can’t understand how it went on for over four years while I was in 6-10th grade (11-15). Or how it happened to boys as well (“But he’s straight?!”).

There’s also the shock that I’m not a hooker, nor was I a pregnant teen, or ever on drugs. I get this reaction. It’s what they hear on the news, and drama TV shows, as what happens to girls like me. I nod and say, “Yep, I turned out alright,” before moving on to a more comfortable topic for them. Perhaps my multiple degrees, or happy family life.

I get the pity too, though I can’t stand it. Sure, feel sorry for me, whatever, shit happens. It is a sorry world that this bullshit occurs every day to too many children. But don’t tell me, “You’re a survivor!” Like it’s some big accomplishment for making it through my day.

I am not a survivor. A woman who was raped, assaulted, beaten, and/or molested against her will is a survivor. She survived that incident. Or multiple incidents. She fought her demons and came out ahead, living her life despite her attacker’s attempts to diminish her. She should be celebrated!

But I am not a survivor. I lived my life. I was groomed. My first introduction to my sexuality was from my molester. My step-father. This happened daily to weekly, sometimes with months in between. For years.

But I’m not a survivor. To say I’m a survivor is to put the power in my molester’s hands. I did not survive him, I lived my life. I was a strong, independent person before him, and I am a strong independent person after. I don’t need pity or celebration for my personality, I need friends who know sh*t happens, and don’t care.

I am not a survivor, but I’m also not unchanged. He is in prison for a minimum of 20 years, max 30. At 62 and in bad health, that is a life sentence. But I still have intrusive thoughts. I still can’t imagine being intimate with a bald or overly hairy man, let alone anyone who is old enough to be my father. The smell of cigarettes or old spice gives me hives. But I’m so thankful to have a loving and supportive husband who gets these things and helped make me whole.

I am not a survivor. I am a strong, independent woman, who doesn’t take any crap. Because I know how shitty life can be if you let it. Don’t pity me, don’t celebrate me, see me.