Letter to my rapist
There are moments where I am helpless. Many days have I writhed in bed, wishing upon my own death, thinking about the comfort of my own warm, thick blood pulsating from my wrists onto the white porcelain crevices of my tub. How I've daydreamed about the days where I would be liberated from the closed casket of my mortal body so I may be freed from feeling my own disgust. How I've wished to peel the skin off my quaking bones and dissolve the foundation of my moral compass in order to sacrifice it and gain ack my humanity once again.
There are days where I have grown to hate myself more than I hate you. I hate who I can become because of you, because I continue to blame myself, for "giving in," for staying quiet, for knowing that there is no true justice that'll serve as reparations for your actions, for knowing that there is no punishment that is enough to relieve me from my own suffering. I just want to silence the masochistic accusations that my internal voice chants; "I shouldn't have drank more than I should've, I shouldn't have stayed in that state of motionless shock, I should've been more courageous to tell you 'no.'" But instead, I stayed silent while my inhibitions echoed through the halls of my abandoned womanhood. In that moment of pure revulsion, I chose to disappear.
But I keep on. I am lucky enough to be surrounded by people, friends and family, that care about me more than I care about myself. On the days where I wish to become obsolete, I remind myself of the people that spark my hope for any notion of a future and I feel at peace. I am lucky enough to be loved by a man who accepts my whole being more than I accept myself, that knows my whole story and still finds me beautiful, that continues to love me when I feel like the earth's disposable scum while I scathe in my own skin.
But I also keep on for the women that know how it feels, to know what it's like to be broken and disintegrated, blown into the harsh winds from hell's gate where there are only rumors of a spark of light in the distance. Where having hope can only occur while we hold each others' scarred, calloused hands as we make our way barefoot through the wretched storm. Only then can I understand that we exist as an empathic collective in a world where our torn souls can escape to become one.
Through that, I begin to love myself once more. Through the collective consciousness of other torn beings, through other entities that have only seen hell and wish to see much, much more. I cannot do anything but forgive you. Though I loathe, shiver, vomit at the thought of you, I must forgive you. I must liberate me, and myself, for those who care about me, for those that I love and have responsibilities towards. And though you may not deserve an ounce of it, I deserve to feel free within my own existence, and to be able to feel wholeness in the art of living.