I pretend it never happened, but it shaped everything about me

When I was younger, something happened to me that I never talk about. Not to my friends, not to my family. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it just to cope with how badly it still hurts.

I was abused. Not for long, and not in ways that leave bruises people can see. But it was real. It was someone who should’ve protected me. Someone who made me feel like their sickness was my fault. I was too young to understand it, and too scared to tell anyone.

So I became quiet. I became good. I became whatever I thought people needed me to be so they wouldn’t look too close.

And now, I’m an adult who doesn’t trust anyone, who dissociates during intimacy, who panics at things that shouldn’t matter. I’m successful on the outside. Funny. Functional. But inside, I’m still that terrified kid wondering if anyone will believe me, if I even deserve to be believed.

I’ve never told anyone the full story. I don’t even know if I can. Saying it out loud makes it feel real, and if it’s real, then I have to accept that the people who should’ve protected me failed. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

I just want to be okay. I want to forgive myself for surviving the only way I knew how — by pretending it didn’t happen.

I’m not looking for pity. I just needed to finally say it, even if no one knows who I am.