I Didn’t Believe My Friend Was Being Abused. This Is Why I Forgive Myself.
Even though it was happening to me too, I didn’t believe her.
“I’m Janie*. I live two doors down. That’s my house there.”
My heart danced. I was a shy, awkward, eleven year old. She was twelve and in the year above me at school. In fact, she was at Secondary School which made her cool. And she wanted to talk to me. Up until this point, I hated coming to my grandparents’ house. When the adults had reached their limit with all the kids running around inside, we were told to go play in the street. This was slightly more preferable to being stuck indoors with a family that made me wish I was anyone but me. But it was still lonely. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I mean, I would be going to Secondary School in September. I thought I was basically and adult. And the only people to play with were my younger sisters and other kids their age. I wasn’t cool, but I was definitely too cool for that.
But then there was Janie.
I liked Janie and, to my surprise, she liked me too. I can’t really remember what we would talk about, but it was probably cool because she was cool. Over the next three years I started to look forward to going to my grandparents’ house when I the weather was good so I could go outside and knock on…
