This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write. To some, this is a detailed account of a skeleton I provided, to others, a reaccounting, but to many...

This is a story I've never before told.

I was 12, in the 7th grade.

That was the year I discovered my sexuality, and I can't decide if it was my choice or if it was forced (that's what therapy is for), but I did.

The year started with a letter. I only include this because it'll provide context for what I'll later reveal. I wrote a letter. A sexually explicit letter. One that would rival Zane's best work. I honestly didn't know what I was writing--I was still a virgin. I mean, I had a basic understanding, but I didn't know. His mother found it, told my mother and soon the entire school knew.

and with that, I was dubbed the school "ho." An unearned title. That was what the students called me. The teachers? They began to look at me, this little girl who they watched grow up, turn into the bad girl. I was fast. I'd probably end up pregnant before I graduated high-school.

"Such a shame, that one."

"She had so much going for her."

So it should come as no surprise that I had it coming, right?

One afternoon, I was laughing with friends in after-school care. My school was Preschool-8th grade, and I attended from the time I was 3, so my friends were like family. In fact, so were my teachers...and so were they. 2 and 5 years older, so they were already in high-school, but like me, St. Monica's was family. Their mother was my teacher.

Anyway, we were all in the gym when I realized I left something in my classroom that I'd need to complete my homework. They had the key, so they escorted me.

Again...they were like my brothers.

Everything was fine until....until it wasn't. I don't remember how or what was said (if anything), but I remember being pinned down. I was on the floor, outside the boy's bathroom, right above the stairwell. The older brother pinned me down while the younger one began to explore. I tried to kick, but I couldn't do much. I wanted it to be over. I was terrified.

But I tried to be tough. I didn't scream, I didn't cry. I shut down.

The younger one put his hand down my blouse. What he was feeling, I don't know because I was flat-chested until 9th grade (maybe), but I felt him. His hands.

And then he started heading south...

And then the janitor's keys started jingling.

I was so embarrassed. I didn't want the janitor, who had known me since I was a toddler, to see me in this position. I guess they didn't either, because they let me up.

...and we went back to the gym like nothing happened.

Except it did.

Shortly afterward, my grandmother came to pick me up. She was someone I could trust, so I told her.

"Well, you didn't have any business being alone with boys in the first place."

"But granny, it's (names redacted)! I've known them my whole life, they're my friends!"

"It doesn't matter. You put yourself in that position."

It was my fault. I was 12, and they were 14 and 17. But I should've known better. That message was loud and clear.

The next person I told was my friend, (name redacted). She was one of the strongest people I knew, and I also knew she could keep a secret. Until she said,

"Monica, if you don't tell, I will."

So then I was forced to share my shame. I believed her. I knew she'd tell. So I started with my mom.

Who then talked to their mom.

Who talked to her sons (and likely the entire school).

Who denied it.

I was called a liar by most. This happened so much that I began to think that I made it all up. The others who did believe me, said that given my behavior earlier that year, I shouldn't be surprised that it would happen.

Again, it was my fault.

...and this was a Christian school.

What's worse? I still wanted them to be "my friends." I apologized for making trouble for them.

Soon, the school year ended, the summer passed and life continued as normal. The rumors died down and everyone moved on.

Except me.

I knew what happened.

I knew I was ignored, and they were believed.

Nothing happened.

I don't know if they ever abused someone again. I don't know if/how they were affected. I was talking to a friend recently about this and it was suggested that perhaps this incident was what urged me to take control of my sexuality and sex life...so that I'd never be a victim again.

It makes sense. But I don't know.

That's what therapy is for.