"I think she'll love it."

My cousin Traci is a transgender girl who has been ostracized by many of her immediate family members. 

One day, my 95-year-old great grandma and I were shopping at the pharmacy. We were in the card aisle and she said, "I forgot to get Traci a card for her birthday!" 

She walked right over to the "female cards" and picked out the pinkest, frilliest card possible. She handed it to me and said, "Well that's perfect! I think she'll love it." 

My great grandma is so much more understanding than Traci's parents are, and this interaction made me tear up a bit.

I love my great grandma.

"No big deal."

I've been sexually assaulted multiple times in my life, but I've only come forward one time. The first time. When I was 13.

I was sexually assaulted at a party by a neighbor's friend. I was so afraid to tell anyone, and kept quiet for two months, until I finally wrote to a close friend about it. My friend accidentally dropped the note it in the hallway and it was discovered by the school social worker. 

The social worker called me into her office, confronted me, and called my mom. My mom told my dad, who told my stepmom.

My mother told me that she'd "been through worse" and that it was "no big deal" and that I "could've ruined his life." 

My stepmother told me "it's all right because we all think he's gay" and "he didn't mean anything by it." 

And what did my father say? Absolutely nothing. 

Because of this, I've stopped coming forward. 

I haven't been able to get my parents' words out of my head, and it's been almost a year and a half.

"Ugh, too much makeup!"

When I was 16, I started experimenting with makeup. There was some family party I had to go to, and I spent a lot of time getting myself all dolled up for it. When I came downstairs to leave, my twin brother looked at me, made a disgusted face, and said, "Ugh, too much makeup!" Like I was personally offending him and hurting his eyes. 

I still went to the party looking as I did, but I felt really self conscious the whole time. 

And now, more than 20 years later, the entitlement and disgust he expressed in his reaction to my face still sticks with me.

"You lead older men on."

When I was 15, I was stalked, molested, and sexually assaulted by a 46 year old man who my parents were good friends with.

I tried to keep everything hush hush because it was humiliating, but my parents found out and confronted me about it. My father was sobbing and trying to understand what happened. My mother was furious and drilled me with questions. 

The whole scene ended with my dad and me sobbing together while my mom yelled, "I never thought my 15 year old daughter would be a whore. You lead older men on. On purpose!" 

To this day, I struggle to have a relationship with her. It is swept under the rug. We don't speak of it. 

I will always feel betrayed.

"Maybe this is why your father left you."

I was sexually harassed once by a guy I had been hanging out with. He began asking and forcing me to do these terrible things. When I refused, he said, "Maybe this is why your father left you.

The guy is a well-known musician. 

"You are not smart or pretty enough."

Growing up, my teachers were the root of my low self-esteem. I was dyslexic, and they would actually make fun of me in front of other students. 

I wanted to try out for a public speaking organization, but as soon as I stood up, one of my teachers told me, "You are not smart or pretty enough to compete in public speaking. You need to go back to your seat and sit quietly while the students who actually have a shot at winning try out. Try losing 10 pounds, learn how to do your makeup and get rid of that lisp then we can talk." 

Everyone laughed including the 2 other teachers in the room, while I was forced to sit in the back of class and wait until tryouts were over. 

When my mom asked how it went, I lied and told here it went well and that I might actually make it. I didn't want her to be sad. I was 11 years old.

"Your case isn't even that bad."

When I was about 14, my mom made me see a therapist, even though I never told her that I was depressed and haven't told her to this day. 

Based on the way my mom and step dad treated me, I learned from a young age not to trust adults. So I only gave the therapist limited information.

One day the therapist said to me, "Don't worry, your case isn't even that bad. I've seen so many kids who have way worse cases." 

In reality, I had a verbally and emotionally abusive home. I had depression from the huge expectations my parents had for no one but me, and I have a crippling fear of failure from the punishment I got for my best simply not being good enough. 

But yeah, my case "isn't even that bad." You're right. What was I thinking?

"It's all your fault!"

When I was six, my mom and I were planning to visit my extended family in another state, and I couldn't wait. I was particularly excited to see my great grandmother, who I was especially close to and who I was named after. 

When the day finally came, my mom and I got on a plane, and when we arrived, we were told to go right to the hospital.

The day before we were scheduled to arrive, my great grandma was so excited for our visit, and she tried to go to the store to buy ingredients to cook all my favorite dishes. She ended up having a stroke in the car, and she hit a tree. 

I sat there in the ICU, looking at my great grandma, covered in tubes and completely brain dead. What was supposed to be a happy reunion turned into a traumatic moment to say goodbye.

As I exited the room, her daughter (my grandmother) shouted in front of the entire family, "It's all your fault!"

It's been 29 years, and when this memory sneaks in, I'm still reduced to heartbreaking sobs. I know it wasn't my fault, but it was so horrible and cruel, and it's what stuck with me. 

"He's going to hell. Get over it."

My father was absent basically my whole life, but at the beginning of 2015, we started going to counseling, in an attempt to work on our relationship. 

On May 28th of that year, my 15-year-old brother and best friend was accidentally struck and killed by a train. 

My mother called my father to tell him that I wouldn't be able to go to counseling the next day, since I hadn't slept all night while I waited for the coroner to confirm that the body was in fact my brother's.

After my mom yelled at my father for fifteen minutes, she handed me the phone. The only words that slipped out of his mouth were, "He committed suicide. It's his fault. He's going to hell, so just get over it."

That was the last time I really talked to my father. 

It'll be two years in May, and those words have always been and always will be echoing in the back of my brain. I know that my brother didn't die by suicide. But I can still hear those words. "He's going to hell. Get over it." 
 

"I just want my kids to have a tree."

It was tradition in our house to get our tree two weeks before Christmas, and spend an evening decorating it together as a family, sipping hot cocoa and singing carols. 

But when I was five, it was Christmas Eve, and we still didn't have a tree yet. This was when I first discovered my family was poor. 

That Christmas Eve, my mom begged my proud father to ask his friend for a tree, any tree. The friend sold them in our small town, and surely would let my dad have one with a promise to repay him once business picked up again. 

Faced with disappointing his wife and children, my dad went to do something he had never in his life done before, ask for a handout. 

I tagged along, being a Daddy's girl. He firmly told me to stay in the truck, and I watched for a minute as my dad made small talk. I rolled the window down a crack, then an inch. 

"Please, just for my kids. The ugliest, smallest tree you have, I just want my kids to have a tree." My dad couldn't look his childhood friend in the eyes. 

The friend came over to the truck and opened my door. I was afraid I'd been caught eavesdropping. "Go pick a tree honey, any tree you want!" 

Being five, I picked the largest one there. 

We left, got home and put the tree up. As we started our traditional decorating, there was a knock on the door. 

A neighbor dropping off an extra ham they had in their freezer and said Merry Christmas. Another knock, this time it was handmade hats and mittens. Another knock, another neighbor. This continued well after us kids had gone to bed. 

Christmas morning, I was the first to get up, so I snuck downstairs to see if Santa had come. I found my father sitting at the foot of our Christmas tree, crying. The room was full of gifts, some wrapped, some not, each one labelled. 

I sat in my dad's lap, unable to understand how he could possibly be crying. 

"I asked God for a miracle, instead He gave us great neighbors, and a great town."

Thirty years later, my husband still can't understand why I cannot pass a Toys for Tots bin without donating.