I'm cuddled up on my plush bed as I grab my writing journal and its fancy matching pen that was lodged in my cherry wood nightstand. I sigh to myself as I try and prepare myself to become mentally ready for a very serious writing. It seems my boss; Donald Cragan is worried about my well being, and has mandated departmental counseling as a priority. The only issue I have with this is that it seems that I'm the only one obligated to do this. My first session was not that insulting, but now I have homework. The desire to laugh is overwhelming as a small chuckle escapes my lips, and for the life of me I'm confused on where to begin. The topic of my assignment is a bit personal, and I could spend hours writing why I chose to become a sex crimes detective. Pulling my hair into a low pony tail, I begin my long journey into what made me into a solid person.
It was easy to let people assume that the reason why sexual crimes hit me so hard was because I was in fact a product of a rape. I was the dirty child conceived from something dark and sinister; the unwanted bundle of joy or a joy that never came for my mother. I was a constant reminder of the bad in the world. This of course is all true, but that alone is not the only reason why I decided to become a Special Victims Unit detective.
My life is an untold mystery of many undoing that started when I was barely a child myself. Truth be told, I'm lucky that I am a Benson, and not some other forced last name that was given to me in this torturous world. It's ironic that I even call that lucky considering that I should have never been in this world to begin with.
My good friends, the few that I actually have might conclude that my problems began with a mother that never loved me or wanted me. The problem with that conclusion is that as an adult I realized that quite possibly I never understood the meaning of love to begin with. My mother loved me but was afraid to show me. I guess in a sense she might have thought that loving me would mean that she accepted the simple realization that she was a victim of rape.
The crime committed against her so many years ago seemed to blur with my very existence. No matter how much I showered the feeling of dirtiness never left me. My mother never kissed me goodnight. Nor did she tuck me in bed, and check for monsters that could possibly be hiding in my imagination. I slowly became the untouchable child that yearned for a loving touch from the one person that wished I had not ruined her life as she once knew it.
I vaguely remember the day when I entered kindergarten, and I came home crying because I was the only one whose father did not show up for father-daughter day. I cried with a lack of understanding that I was not born with a loving father. I was too young to understand the meaning of a forced encounter and for a long time I believed my father had died in war.
My life changed drastically when my mother's sister had passed unexpectedly, and Jeremy my older cousin came to live with us. The way my mother loved him so passionately killed my insides as I only got fleeting smiles from her. It was eating me up, and my grades started to struggle as reading gave me horrid difficulties. I suddenly developed a stuttering problem, and my world slowly turned into silence. Things were changing constantly around me as my mom gave Jeremy more responsibilities dealing with me. It was like she wanted to rid me from her hands, and even though I was barely six at the time—the loss I felt was undeniably terrifying, but I somehow managed to pull myself together.
The day it started is the day I will never forget. It seemed that I managed to get the extremes of both sides. I thought the lack of my mother's touch was slowly killing me, but I never realized that the touch from Jeremy would send my world into an emptiness of suffocation.
My eyes start to rapidly blink as I stare at my pen as if it had done something wrong like violate my memory. I was not ready to go there yet; even though, that part of my life seemed to always haunt me when I least expected it or thought I was over it. Looking over at the time on my clock radio, I decide to call it a night knowing full well that sleep will not come easy. Not only that, I just do not want to think anymore. My head is throbbing as I lay my head back on my pillow that is now unusually flat, but I don't have the energy or the desire to fix it. I contemplate on turning on my tv as I toss over on my right side, but that would require me to find my remote which is most likely lying next to my pillow. I take an unsteady sigh as my eyelids flutter shut, and all I see is his face. "Damn it...Olivia. Get a grip," I shout to myself in frustration. I hastily roll back on my back as my back lands on something rather hard and solid. It's my desired remote control, and I quickly hit the on button. My room slowly drowns me in noise, and I'm bathed in flickering light from the television. Some type of noise seems to always calm me, and usually it is music, but the tv will do for now. I find myself drifting off, and before I know it the last thing I remember hearing is a sale's pitch for an exercise machine.