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Letters for Myself

Introduction + To the Man Who Took My Childhood


This will be a series.

Part One

To Whom It May Concern,

I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety for over two decades. I’ve recently once again entered into outpatient therapy (this is my sixth or seventh time) and have a renewed dedication for it.

Why?

Well, I am tired of letting the past and my own mind run my life.

So, one of the things my therapist has advised me to try is letter writing.

I’ve never been a huge letter writer, but it has helped me see things from a different perspective.

See when you list all the wrongs someone has done to you, you really think about yourself as a person.

You can’t change the past, don’t even try it. You can, however, change your present and alter your future.

I’ve learned that I have a lot more anger in me than originally thought and to move on, I need to recognize it and learn to let go.

Letters to people who have screwed me over in some sense of word allow me to translate the anger and put it all on the paper.

Enjoy.

P.S. Some of these letters will contain disturbing or even violent descriptions. These are from personal thoughts and wishes. These are not warnings or promises of things yet to come.

It is not my wish to hurt or degrade others, but these words are the result of resentment and anger. Please do not read if you cannot understand.

Part Two

WARNING ⚠️ Disturbing Child Abuse

To the Man Who Took Away My Childhood,

To You,

I barely remember the incident.

That’s not the thing that ruined me.

It’s always been the fear.

Of being pinned down and losing control; of the power someone can wield over me, the pain they can inflict.

It doesn’t matter if they’re remorseful or sorry or feel any guilt.

What’s done is done, and it leaves a mark almost impossible to erase.

It can be erased though, not fully, but smudge marks over time. What you did to me cannot be undone, but it can be smudged.

A mark faded as a memory.

The only problem is letting it...

I can only blame you for the initial experience, the incident. The trust I once had with you... gone with an act. I can only blame you for ONE thing, I blame myself for the rest.

For not saying anything, for sticking my finger down my throat to make myself to get sick to get away from you when all it would’ve taken is a word. Any word synonymous with what you did to me: RAPE.

Because no matter how either of us spins the tale, these are the bare boned facts.

I was seven. You were 17.

I had to learn about sex too early as it was with my godmother dying from complications of AIDS, but you made sure I learned about more than just consequences.

You made sure I’d know about the pain, and the uncomfortable sensation of the first time. Not with love, but with power.

I lost my chance at a beautiful first and it was your determination.

It would be more than seven years til someone touched me again though his touch bore resemblance to yours. Or he tried.

But this time I fought back...

Not with fists, but with words.

He was an adult in his 20s that apparently had a penchant for 12, 13, and 14.

Numbers I reminded him would get him 12, 13, or 14 years without freedom.

I was proud of myself.

Then two years of nothing.

Before I found the boy to whom I owe my life.

It never went beyond touching, not really, but it was mutual.

He screwed me over though in a different way.

Leaving me for someone else and breaking my heart while saving my life from some runaway pills and a death wish. 💀

So I screwed one of his best friends instead, leading me to a nonfatal sort of revenge.

Of course, an awkward relationship of mind games spawned from that, but another story for another letter for another day.

Love didn’t come into the equation for five more years...

My husband, the only man I’ve ever had true love for, at least romantically.

The patience and understanding that sex should have been associated with in the first place.

The only man to save me without destroying me.

Maybe I should come forward now, but decades have passed and laws have deemed that choice long past due.

Maybe I should be part of the #MeToo movement.

It doesn’t help though to do it.

It would only expose us both as victim and perpetrator.

Sincerely,

Hopefully Your Own Victim

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Letters for Myself
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