What seems like a million years ago now, something unpleasant and unwelcome happened to me. For a variety of reasons, I will never want to talk about that outside of therapy.
I believe this event shaped me. I suspect it's likely the reason I have bipolar disorder. It's likely the reason I have disassociation to that and other events.
In Junior High, I met someone who immediately recognized that we had something awkward in common. She and I became fast friends. We were a silly pair and it was at times hard to to tell what was real. She once confided that her father was sexually abusing her and then threated I not tell anyone. I had a hard time with this. I tried to tell an adult and they didn't believe me. After that, I accepted that it was her secret to tell.
On one occasion, while my friend and I were working on a project together, her father made something of a pass at me. He played it off as a joke, but there were so many feelings in that moment that I became petrified.
My friend, though smart as a whip, turned to drugs, dropped out of school, and ran away to escape that life. I only saw her one time after that during High School and she was, to me, unrecognizable.
Her story haunts me. My story haunts me.
I find it difficult to get through normal interactions. I've spent a lot of time on gaining courage to do the things I like doing. Sometimes, I think, the world is too difficult to manage and I'd be better off dead.
Try to remember how hard these stories are for people. We all should try to do better.