My name is Christian. It was supposed be to be Chrystian. Yes, with a Y. My mother took it upon herself to name me something of the usual. My father fought for my name and nothing else. I was molested in the most unusual way. It felt like my body was replaced by the women that took care of me growing up. I was not molested. I was touched by something other than the usual cases. Cases that are pending in the office of a social worker who has yet to be approved to be move forward. Why don’t girls ever admit they were molested? Were they raped? Do they know the difference. One will get covered up to move on with life. Until they are ready to uncover the truth with their own lies. A master-manipulator with a million health-illnesses in the making. The nice kind. I promise. The other is a way to know you can surpass any pain life has to offer by pretending the world does not hurt. I wondered around the neighborhood that I used up all my power to clean up the mess. Does that make sense? To clean off the neighborhood so I could enjoy my life not wondering who the next person to molest me would be. I spent my time listening to music my parents spent a fortune on. A fortune that would have gone to waste anyway. We worried too much about money and not enough about how to get me the help I needed. My brother never needed help. He always perfect with so many kids. I do not blame them. It felt it though someone was following us with a knife. A gun would have been fun. Only a story my brother would enjoy. I spent all my time wondering with my friends. Me and my thousand minds. I listened to music the way you eat your food to digest and move up towards your brain to analyze and to wonder why the ingredients were so cynical. Pure interest of my mind. The ingredients in all the foods I ate to get my mind off the molested body I lived in was too much for my baby brain that I started making personalities in my head that in the future would get me in trouble. Gabriel, Angelina, Miguel, and Josefina. I said no to Michelangelo. I do not get hit so I started pinching myself so he would leave me alone. They were little cartoon characters in my head that lived in fear as I struggled to get my body out of bed where I became the person that I am today. The name is Yovani. That’s when I swore off any kind of format of speech talking. I hate people if you hear it in that sense. They all talk too much. That’s my brain. They all speak in different languages that I cannot speak on. I learned five languages by the age of fifteen. I swore off sign language because it belonged to my younger brother. The golden staple of our family.