The Ghost in My Skin: surviving abuse

We were friends by default — our moms were close, so we were too. I met Brody and his sister when I was five. He was so cute with short brown hair — surprise butterflies, my first crush already. I followed him everywhere, even though he showed no interest.

Normally, I hated “girly” clothes like dresses and skirts, but I made an exception for him. I thought if I looked nice, maybe he’d notice me. Looking back, it’s heartbreaking — how young I was, already trying to mold myself into something I wasn’t, hoping that would make me lovable. That’s something a lot of girls internalize early: if I change, maybe I’ll be worth liking.

One afternoon, a few of us kids were playing truth or dare at Brody's house. Someone dared me to kiss Brody.

“Eww, hell no!” he blurted. “Girls have cooties!”

But I wasn’t about to back down from a dare. Laughing, I chased him around the room until I managed to plant one on his tightly sealed lips.

“Eww!” he yelled, scrubbing his mouth. “Girl cooties!”

Everyone burst out laughing — and at the time, it felt funny. I held on to this memory for years.

Now, I see it differently. He didn’t want that kiss. I didn’t understand consent the way I do now. I was just a kid, navigating new emotions and social pressures.

Eventually, Brody's family moved away — just like so many people over the years. I’ve lived in the same place since I was six months old, and now, at thirty-two, I’ve watched everyone else leave while my life stood still.

There’s a deep loneliness in staying behind — watching the world move while you remain in place. It’s suffocating. I grieve the things that didn’t happen, the places I didn’t go.

Maybe telling my story is a way to heal. Maybe it will help someone else feel less alone.

This is how the pattern started.