First Mistake

It seemed as though the couple months I had left in the 10th grade came and went, after my running away. My mother drove down from Washington, D.C. to get me and I literally left behind the good, the bad, and the ugly that I had grown to know in Clemson, S.C. I remember hugging…

Things Get Better, Just Not Quite Yet

Just a year after my 8-year-old self was (I loathe using the word) molested, I was relocated to South Carolina to live with my grandmother and great-grandmother. I was 9 years old when I realized my mom couldn’t take care of me anymore. I was torn between “can’t” and “didn’t want to”. It was a…