Part of me wants to write so I can spill this out of me and leave it. Almost like I can remove it from myself as I type these words. Part of me doesn’t want to write at all, but curl up in a ball on my couch in a comfy hoodie, covered in a blanket and watch Pixar movies while eating ice cream all day. As you can see, I chose to write.
A letter to the man who molested me:
Hi. You know me. You’ve known me for years. I remember you always holding a beer, working on cars in our yard, when I was growing up. I remember that you used to get shaky and need another drink. I remember you being rude and upsetting my mother. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs for you to get out of our house one summer day. I herded you out like Amalthea in The Last Unicorn when she forces The Red Bull back into the ocean. All of maybe 9 years of me. I was small but big at the same time. I got in trouble for that.
I remember being upstairs in my bedroom, with a curtain for a door, which was kitty corner to the bathroom. I was 13, home alone and just about to fall asleep. Our front door was always unlocked. My father prided himself on the fact that his friends and family could stop by and feel like our house was theirs too. You did feel that way, didn’t you? You came to our house to use the bathroom. You had drank too much. Then again, you always did. The distance from the bar to your house must have been too far, even though our house was the other way. Did you know my dad wasn’t home? I know why you didn’t just pee on a bush in our yard like you used to do if all the guys were there.
I remember hearing the door open and close downstairs. At first I thought it was my dad, having come home. It wasn’t. I remember seeing your profile through the curtain in my doorway and pretending to be asleep. I thought that if I play dead, like a possum, you might just go away. You didn’t. I could smell alcohol…so strong, like you had bathed in it. Stale and sweaty. My spit spattered face wetter with the tears that were sliding down my cheeks, escaping from the corners of my closed eyes. I remember wishing that I no longer existed. Feeling that I was disgusting and that I couldn’t ever tell anybody or they’d think I was disgusting too. I felt like a leper. Broken, wasted, used and discarded.
I have never been the same.
I was blamed for my depression. I was told that my panic attacks were me being dramatic and to walk it off. I was blamed for the behavioral results of the pain I went through. And I blamed myself too. Hard. Hated myself, in fact. I cut myself, burned myself…I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything. My wounds could not be touched because they were so deep. They threw pills at me like I was a guinea pig. I lost years of my life to “finding my right combination of medications”. My fault. My depression. My fault. My fault…
I worked at getting better. Through severe abuse, through rape, through suicide attempts that I wished were successful but weren’t. My struggle to live, to heal, was like trying to run through quicksand, with a couch strapped to my back, and no desire to do it.
I am still here.
And you know what? I’m better than anyone ever thought I could be. Including myself. I help people. I show others what it is to be strong by doing it every single day. I take responsibility for my life no matter how hard it is. Because at the end of the day this life is mine, and how far I go in it is up to me.
You, my ex husband, my dysfunctional childhood…are the couch I tried to carry for so long. My fault…my burden. No. I’ve cut the straps and let it all fall off. It does me no good, so I let it go. I let you go. And I don’t need you to admit it, or anyone else to believe me in order to feel validated. I know the truth. And I know it’s not my fault. It never was.
What you took from me is gone. I’ll never get it back. But that’s ok. Look how far I’ve come without it! And look how all these years later you are in the exact same place. I don’t hate you. You don’t deserve that from me. You are sick and you always will be. But me? I am strong. I am stronger than you. You don’t matter.
https://sarahspeaksup.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/logocolors-1.png00Adminhttps://sarahspeaksup.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/logocolors-1.pngAdmin2016-08-01 18:19:002017-03-01 00:20:27A Letter To The Man Who Molested Me: