When I was in second year high school, a friend of mine shared that her older brother had sexually molested her. She told me, and eventually, others at school. But instead of support, she was met with silence and rejection. People avoided her, acted like she was lying, or didn’t want to be involved.
I used to visit her at home. She didn’t have her room; she slept in the living room. Her parents were strict and deeply religious. They told her to stay quiet about what happened, as if speaking the truth was a greater sin than the abuse itself.
What I remember most is how no one took her seriously. She was isolated for telling the story.
I had to create imaginary people and stories just to keep my friend company, to give her something to hold onto when the real world had let her down. She had been hurt deeply, and no one believed her. So I built stories to help her escape and feel understood, even if only for a while.
But what I did was misunderstood. Instead of seeing it as a child’s way of showing care, creativity, or emotional support, others labeled it as a sign of mental illness. They didn’t see the intention, only the unfamiliar shape of it.
I was a nobody. I was alone. No one explained the world to me, and no one came to protect me either. I only knew that someone was hurting, and I didn’t want her to feel as invisible and helpless as I did.
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