Open Letter To My Rapist, You No Longer Haunt Me...
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*For representational purpose only.
To my rapist, I wonder how many other girls could begin a letter to you with that opening.
Here I am, saying "my rapist," as if I own you. It took me 3 years to allow those words to escape my lips. It was you who owned me that night, my body, and my mind for so long after.
Do you remember that night? I'll admit, there was a time when I couldn't recall every little detail. It's amazing what the human brain is capable of, what it will do to try and retain a smidge of sanity.
I spent months attempting to numb myself, to wash away your memory. God, I wanted to forget so badly. But I couldn't forget.
Sure, my brain originally spared me the harsh details of your depravity, but you can't keep secrets from yourself - not for long. The rest of the world, however, could never find out. This was, after all, my fault.
Wasn't it?
I wonder what you would say if I told you about the night I overdosed on pills.
How I had driven myself mad with self-blame, with racing thoughts and vivid nightmares, to the point where I no longer wanted to live. Would you care? Would you feel remorse? Would you feel anything at all? Are you even capable of feeling?
The silver lining of a failed suicide attempt, you know, besides the fact that it failed, is that it forces you to make a decision.
Up or down, sink or swim, live or die. I knew if I was going to remain on this planet, the band-aids I had used to cover my scars would need to be ripped open, and the wounds cut deeper with every submission to my memory.
I would have to see your face, be back in that room, smell your perfume and breath, and feel your hands on my thighs.
First gentle, then forceful as I resisted your touch. I would need to hear the song playing on the TV in the background, my phone ringing across the room out of reach, and your voice - that tone in your voice as you said, "Don't be shy," right before you held me down and then drugged me.
That was three years ago.
They say time heals all wounds, but I disagree; as time passes, you just accept them and make yourself numb. You stop trying to hide them and realize that living with scars is better than not living at all.
I decided to believe there is good out there, despite people like you who try to prove otherwise. And I hope one day you decide to be the good.
Sincerely, Your victim no more
