I don’t want to bother anyone with my problem. And yet I feel as if I’ll explode. For the past week, I’ve had to watch my abuser walk down my same hallways, spend quality time with his friends in his new clothes (guess his mom spoiled him), while I with in my usual frustration, jumpy whenever I feel anyone come near me, wanting to run away and having no one that understands because I CAN’T TELL.
but what if i killed myself? what if i fell out the window? in my letter, i’d blame everyone that protected him, everyone that made me feel like i should stop being negative. i’d blame my parents for pretending to be on board with me getting therapy when in fact they’d rather i’d act like nothing happened.
BUT I DON’T HAVE THE PRIVILEGE TO DO THAT. I DON’T HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF FEELING SAFE IN MY OWN BED. IN MY OWN HOME. I IMAGINE COLD HANDS ON MY BREAST WHEN I TAKE MY BRA OFF, WONDERING IF MAYBE I SHOULD GET A BREAST REDUCTION TO STOP MY OWN BROTHER FROM EXITING HIS ROOM AT 2AM MOLEST ME.
i imagine myself going back to my dad’s house. shooting five shots of espresso and buying a baseball bat and staying awake all night with the door unlocked (my dad recently put a lock on my door to keep my perverted brother at bay), waiting for him to sneak in my room while i hide in a dark corner and watch him discover what he thought was my body but is actually a bunch of blankets and my teddy bear then next thing he knows i’m swinging at his head and choking him with my belt.
I want to be that. I want to be powerful again. I want my father to find his favourite son on the ground, passed out, black but mostly blue, apparent that he was fighting for his life but no one came to his rescue. And I’ll point at him. And say. This is how I feel. Every. Day. Of. My. Life.