Today’s writing prompt: When was the first time that you realized that your home was not like other people’s homes?
Okay, NaBloPoMo writing prompters–I’m ready for you to quit asking questions about trauma!!!! Seriously!
The first time I realised that my home was not like other people’s was when I was in 5th or 6th grade, and this really tough girl named Angela all of a sudden started liking me. I finally invited her to come home with me after school, and she did, and we just sort of hung out.
The next day when I got to school, everyone in my class was making fun of me because Angela told them all about my home life. See, when you grow up in an abusive environment, you think it’s normal. And you don’t know any better. But as everyone was mocking me and laughing at me, I started to realize that it wasn’t normal. And that was the beginning of my rebellion.
It also was the beginning of my long-standing refusal to trust people. I genuinely thought she liked me, and was excited to finally have a friend. See, that was the same year that the boys who lived a couple of blocks closer to the school than I did rushed home so that by the time I passed their corner they were there with rocks that they threw at me.
With the sole exception of having the incomparable Izzybella for my sister, my childhood sucked big time.
And I don’t want to write about it anymore.