She told me it was not my fault. She grabbed me and held me as we both cried. She held me like my mother should have, but didn’t.
I was 16 when I first sat in Kelly’s office. It was 2004, and I was in Camp Scott (a facility for girls in Saugus, California). Kelly was one of the many case workers. She would often ask me how I was doing, and I always told her that I was okay, though my face always told a different story. Her office was always well-lit, with many pictures of her cat and dog decorating the walls. It always smelled nice. There were two chairs: hers and the one I sat in. Along her desk were trinkets—things that always captured my attention. It was easier for me to focus on the trinkets than to answer a question. Kelly would often call me to her office to talk, but I never talked. I always listened. She would make small talk, and I would nod or give one-word answers. I would sit there in what I considered my chair, across from her, wondering what it was that this lady wanted from me. I did know for certain that her office was my safe zone. For a few days a week, I would go to her office for an hour to an hour and a half. Eventually, I started communicating with Kelly through a composition book she had given me. It was easier for me to communicate that way. One day while she was talking, she said something that triggered a flood of memories I had suppressed so far in the back of my mind that I had forgotten they even existed. I can’t quite remember what Kelly had said, but I remember asking for a pen and writing down everything that happened to me as a child. I told this woman everything. I told her about the woman and many men who molested me from the time I was two until I was sixteen. I told her how I had never told anyone, fearing no one would ever believe me, for the shame I felt from all those people touching me and doing things no child should ever have to endure. I told Kelly how hard it was for me to trust others and why I was so closed off. I sat in that office, unsure if Kelly would believe me, if she would judge me, or treat me differently. I sat there looking at Kelly, wondering what was going through her mind and how she would react. It felt like a thousand years had passed in those few seconds as I waited for her response. That office seemed to close in on me. I felt as though I was sitting in the fire of my own shame and embarrassment. Finally, Kelly responded. She told me it was not my fault. She grabbed me and held me as we both cried. She held me like my mother should have, but didn’t. That office was the first place I had ever felt safe. It was there that I formed my first bond, found my first confidant, and entrusted my first person with my story. I knew that every time I was afraid to fall, the safety net of that office would catch me. Now, at 36, I find myself envying the 16-year-old me. At times when I am afraid to fall, there is no office or safety net to catch me. There is only me and the tools I carry, to mentally go back to that office, back to sitting across from Kelly, back to when my chair became a chaise and Kelly became my therapist, back to when writing my feelings and thoughts on paper was safe, back to when I didn’t have to worry about a paper trail.
