Like It’s 1987

Last night, I drove into the desert with my father. It was 1987 and my telescope traveled folded in the back. It was dark and where I hoped to see Orion hunting, I found fear instead.

When writing my story, I have to take water breaks. I stop after a harsh word or phrase is chosen and I have to look away from the page. I take a deep breath, curse, grab a glass of wine or ask God for protection again.

It’s a gauntlet. It’s a bear trap I pry open with a stick. It’s a net dropped.

You must think I am a masochist of the worst kind, to walk up to that jeep and climb in. I must be crazy to lean into my seatbelt to try and discern the new path taken and why. I promise you, I am not.

I hate my story. If I could erase three years of my childhood, I absolutely would. I would abandon all of you who read this and understand all to well how promising the idea of canceling out a few years would be. I would unwrap that golden ticket and race to claim it.

Many survivors try to in their own way. I know I have.

The truth of the matter is that although it is difficult for me to rise under this weight, I am not alone. As you read this, children all over the world are being abused. Someone is ruining a piece of their life story. Someone is choosing to tear them apart and leaving them to pick up the pieces.


I will not take a golden ticket.

I will climb into every room, car or memory left. I will examine and question. I will ache and bear.

The world needs to know. We cannot allow this to continue. We cannot choose to destroy our children any longer.

It is enough. It has been enough since 1987.




3 thoughts on “Like It’s 1987

  1. Dear Tashmica, I believe you maybe 1 of 2 that will understand my sarcasum. It saddens me that your valnerable truths in life are ever challenged. Your intent is always to help yourself and others, to give courage to move forward. If your intent was anything else, why would you put yourself out there for others to do as they wish, judge, ridicule or try to brake you down?
    Just as you did with your letter to Penn State supporters and your blog showing support for your bullied niece.
    You write to speak of the silence, to help others, to encourage and empower! You write because you can…. For that, thank you!
    I love you, and I love the way you write! This is anything but ridiculous! ;)

  2. I don’t think it matters how old a person gets, a smell, a sound or even watching a program can trigger our minds to go back to events that during our guarded moments are safely locked away. People who have been abused share many things and it’s not a club people are dying to join. Like you I would not relive many aspects of my childhood but I would say that making it through to the other side has made all who have survived the abuse stronger people. We all need to remember that for when the unguarded moments occur.

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