DUE TO MANY PEOPLE THINKING THIS IS REAL... THIS IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL AND BASED OFF A DAYDREAM I HAD SO.... LOL

I clicked onto the email from my friend, Jane.

"Would you be comfortable sharing your story with my group? It's entirely up to you, I understand talking about it could trigger you... Are you up to it?"

Jane had run a girls youth group for several years now. They would mostly play games and have light surface conversations. But recently some of the girls have been going through a tough time, so Jane would bring in some people who had experienced things that these girls could relate to. The idea was to show that their pain isn't the end. That you have the gift of life after what most times, feels like death. And recently, one of Jane's girls were raped.

And so she asked me to share my story. I knew it would be difficult... things like this tend to be all hush hush. Nobody needs to know and nobody should. But I honestly felt like we should be able to tell our story. And not be judged. But for some strange reason, people blame those who did nothing wrong.

So I was there. Standing... waiting. The girls would show up in roughly five minutes. Five. Short. Minutes. And then they'd be here. To hear my story. This shouldn't be a problem for me, I always wanted to speak up. So why can't I hardly pull in enough air to breathe right now?Jane walked over to me, holding the craft supplies in her left arm. "You good girl?" I nodded just as I always do. But Jane knows me the most out of everyone I've ever met. So I told her. I told her how stupidly terrified I was over sharing something that wasn't even my fault. How I was scared silly because of the very thing I wanted to do for 16 years. And she listened. She might not have fully understood, because... how can you? How can anyone possibly understand what is going on inside my mess of a brain? I don't even know what's going on. Yet she was there, reassuring me that it was entirely understandable to be scared. And that sometimes the bravest thing you can do, is acknowledge that it's okay to feel that way.

So when they showed up, I spoke. I told them how absolutely terrified I was, and that the only thing I could do was breathe. How I let my body do the thinking for me. How I broke free. How I still have no idea how I made it out. How much it affected me for years.

And I could see it in that one girl's face. She knew. She knew what it was like to feel helpless. She knew what it was like to be so fearful. You could see it in her eyes that she just knew.

But that wasn't all of the story. My story never truly ends. Not one story ever does.I spoke of how I recovered. How I learned other ways to defend myself, and how I am worth defending. How we all are. I told them the truth. That no one deserves it, and that everyone is worth saving.I looked back at them, after finally telling my story, and saw expressions of empathy, love, and a new hope in their eyes. They knew they were never going to be alone in this. That their own story can have a new beginning, and that their story should never end because of others. They learned that their lives have an author, and that the only author is the one living it.