Something Was Wrong

Eleven years old, and moving to Orlando from Virginia was probably too much for me to handle. Leaving behind a huge backyard, a lush forest, and of course those D.C. Museums, I felt extremely lost in Florida. Once my family relocated to the 'Sunshine State', the minuscule amount of friends I did have began to dwindle; after a while, we would speak so infrequently that we could almost be considered strangers to each other.
Florida was exciting - at first. It grew old quickly when all the neighborhood kids were going to school and my brother and I weren't. They made their 'best friends'; I had 'play dates' with obnoxious homeschool girls that rifled through my belongings, wanted to play games that I had played when I was six, and were so clingy you would think they were cat hair.
My dreaded period came, I was twelve, and my mother was so excited she took the whole family out for dinner, to celebrate my entry into 'womanhood'. Soon after, when I couldn't for the life of me get the horrid tampon in (yes, it was a petite one), my mother had me lie on my bed, spread my legs, and hold that position as she attempted to insert the tampon. This situation occurred multiple times over the course of a few months to maybe a year. I try not to think about it.
Nothing prepared me however for the socialization drought I wound up going through over the next few years.
I grew very focused on my high school correspondence program; well, as focused as I could be with my mother handing me answers on a silver platter and breathing down my neck.
I babysat for a family with three young children, but when I wanted to become a vegetarian my mother threatened me with not being allowed to babysit for that family anymore because they were 'influencing' me. I made the decision to keep babysitting. That family, those kids...they were my only friends, besides a few older adults at a church food pantry I volunteered at, but I didn't like it there. It scared me.
I was thirteen or fourteen, and the men there were always hitting on me. I felt very uncomfortable. On occasion I liked it, but in general it made me very nervous. One young guy talked about very sexual things, and I didn't know what to do but just stand there and listen. Another older man kissed me. I never felt safe, but I never felt like I could talk to my parents about it.
I was just their over dramatic child. Their wild child. If something happened, I wanted it to happen.
And if they wouldn't believe me about this, how would they believe me if I told them how I felt about myself? Honestly?

I didn't even know what to think about myself. I just knew something was wrong. But who was there to listen to me?