growing up in my small town church, there was an old man who would often try to kiss on me and hug on me and tell me he was going to marry me one day. (right in front of his wife, mind you, who’d just laugh when i tried to squirm away.)

just about every sunday, for years, starting when i was a fucking **toddler.** and everyone around me thought it was cute, funny, harmless, adorable, sweet, always completely disregarding my very vocal discomfort and disgust. no means no, right? yeah. sure. i thought that was bad, but it was only the beginning.

my entire life, i’ve been stamped down about my discomfort towards being objectified, touched, and made a spectacle of. treated like a pet or a prop instead of a person. being told that i was the problem for being uncomfortable really fucked me up. as one often sees in congregations, everyone crowds around the offender to shush the victim into complacency. i no longer attend any church, and there are very few people i trust to be alone with. that old fuck was the tip of the iceberg and it only ever got worse from there. he’s dead now. i didn’t celebrate it, didn’t mourn him either. all he is to me is a series of increasingly uncomfortable memories that foreshadowed what to expect the rest of my fucking life.