An Open Letter To My Abuser
So it looks like you still follow this blog, huh? It’s been a year, just about. A little less or a little more, maybe. I don’t know how often you check tumblr, or how fast your dash moves, or if you will even see this. But I decided to write it anyway. Get it off my chest.
Today is my birthday. And this year has been hell, thanks in part to you. See, you really fucked me up, with the constant lying and manipulation. With the constant misgendering, even if it was unspoken, with the way you would treat me like and object. I still remember how your arms felt around me, like prison bars. Like walls. Unbreakable. Inescapable. And I remember how I lied and told you you made me feel safe, even though I never felt safe around you.
You were very, very good at making me feel like I had to be your friend, like I had to fall in love with you even. Like we were destined to be together. You were very very good at making me afraid to leave, afraid i might hurt you even after all you had done to hurt me. Sometimes I wonder if you even knew what you were doing, how much it affected me. I still don;t know, but now I don;t care.
You probably don;t see yourself as an abuser, and for a long time I didn;t either. I thought something was wrong with me. I was too sensitive, too mentally ill. But friends, real friends, have listened me to recount what you did, and they were horrified. They backed me up. They made me feel normal. Because I’m not fucked up, I’m not monstrous. You are.
You are a conniving, deceiving, loathsome piece of filth. And I am so much more than what you tried to make me. And as I enter the 20th year of my life, as I enter the new year, as I awaken from nightmares about you I will remember that. Despite it all, I am alive, and I am strong. I am loved. I am safe.
I’ve thought about what I want to happen to you. Thought about violence. Thought about smashing your skull in, about breaking all your fingers one by one. Thought about petty things, egging your house, slashing your tires. Thought about some great cosmic punishment, you dying alone and scared somewhere dark.
I’m not going to think about that anymore. I’m not going to think about you anymore. You don’t get to hold any power over me, you don;t get to influence me like that. Not now. Not ever after this point.
This birthday I am giving myself the gift of freedom.
I would like to say one thing to you though, and I will say your name so when you read this you know who you are, without a doubt; so that you think about this letter. And I don;t care if it makes you sad or angry. Because I don;t care about you Danny, not anymore.
And the one thing I’d like to tell you, from the bottom of my heart, from the depths of my soul is this:
Go fuck yourself.
Sincerely, Ix.