Hand rubbed up my leg, in between my legs, into my pants.

He's lonely I tell myself.

Hand pushed my hair aside, pulled my shirt off my shoulders, played with my bra strap.

He's depressed I tell my self.

What did I do to make him do this to me?

Do I tell him to stop or tell myself it'll be over soon and it's better this way?

One day, about two years after we moved, I was having fun at a church function.

Laughing and joking with friends and family.

I was pulled aside.

"He died two hours ago,"

The tears didn't come at first.

So many times I had wished for him to die, and now that he had, I can't bring myself to say it was right.

I sat down and reflected,

then I cried.

And it didn't stop.

I couldn't figure out why I was crying.

Once I had stopped crying I went out to face everyone. As soon as someone said they heard what happened and that they were sorry I started tearing up again.

I didn't know what to think. It's not like I cared for him all that much, I guess I just couldn't stand it, and I don't even know why. None of them knew who he was or what he did, so no one thought anything of it. But I did.

I struggled with the fact that someone could do that to a little girl. How someone could sleep soundly at night when I was up tossing and turning. My mother even asked me if someone had hurt me because I kept wetting the bed. I hadn't done that since I was three. I didn't tell her the truth, mainly because I didn't think that was the issue, and at the time it wasn't. Not really. But I did have a dream I got raped. In the women's bathroom. I was ten. Ten year olds shouldn't be dreaming of that kind of stuff. But I did.

I struggled with the fact that someone looked at me that way. Did everyone? I thought.

I kept thinking whenever I went out someone was always looking at me in that way, and it terrified me.

How did I get over this?

Friends I guess. Distractions. Something to keep my mind off of it. Also I found some things are more important. Does that sound wrong? I'm not sure, but it's true.

Now it's just something that has formed and shaped me over the years, and I accepted it. It's part of my past and it's something I can live with. Something I do live with.

When I was a little over 15 years old, I came out to my grandmother as asexual. This being, she most likely was never going to get a great-grandchild from me. She wasn't exactly happy with this. See, my grandmother is a bible-thumping, homophobic, "picture-perfect" housewife, and when I came out...let's just say she didn't talk to me for a while.

It took my mother convincing her to "forgive me" for her to talk to me again, almost two /months/ later. But I'm not going to be sorry for being who I am. If I don't want kids, I don't want kids, and she's just going to have to deal with it.