Sometimes I think about you and more than anything I want to spit all the venom you forced into me back out at the world. I want the world to know the shape of your darkness so they recognize the patterns left behind on me by your teeth.
I want them to know you like I know you.
I want them to see what writhes beneath that smile, that laugh, and easy charm. Those touches, the mischief, that flirty personality.
I want them to know the shape of the welts you left across my thighs and down my back in the name of discipline. To show how I had to count to 40 when I was in preschool as you hit me and how I had to start over because when I was sobbing and gasping for breath I skipped over 17 and you made me start from 1 again. I want them to see that time I looked at you with my anger and clenched my firsts and you charged at me from the other side of the room to slap me into the door frame because I had dared challenge you with an expression.
I want them to look at us and watch the way you raped an 11 year old me while I laid frozen on the bed with my eyes tightly shut. I want them to hear the prayers in my head and acknowledge the exact moment my faith in God and love died. I want them to hear the whispered, “This will make it better for later. Don’t tell anyone. They won’t understand. You don’t want me to go do jail do you?”
I want them to watch as you carved all those pieces off me that once made me whole. I want them to be forced to reconcile what I should have been with what was taken and the hideous fucking scars that were left behind and worn down and ripped open again when you got the urge.
I want them to watch as you still serenade me a love song from my childhood, about how I was your special girl. One Mom says your wrote for her. I want them to watch everyone around us tear up and get swept away in your fatherly nostalgia and I want them to feel the bile rise in my stomach and the shame that weighs down when the others look at me and tell me I’m too hard on you. That you love me. That your temper and your own childhood make it hard for you to love someone. That you still deserve a chance because you’re my daddy and you were once hurt too.
I want the world to watch the way you burned me and got away with it. I want them to see how your family and mine tells me I should forgive and forget because you’re just human.
I want the world to see how I was made to feel that because you penetrated me only once it was somehow just a weak moment on your part and that it really wasn’t that bad. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but they don’t know the monster in you like I do.
They don’t know you and mom had sex in my room after you raped me. They don’t know how you raised me to massage your body from the time I walked in diapers and that you raped me after I refused to give you one for the very first time. Or that you still made me massage you for hours after that when I was growing up. They don’t know that it’s hard for me to fall asleep and I stay up for days on end sometimes because once I tried to fall asleep beside you and you broke me. They don’t know that you never stopped talking about my body, you never stopped grabbing my ass or brushing your knuckles across the side of my chest when you wanted to make a point.
But mostly, I wish the world could hear the conversation we had about all that when I was 25. The one you made me promise to keep secret and I lied through my teeth to you because I knew the cost of silence around you. I wish they could hear how you still had no problem with the way you touched me. I wish they could hear the way you said I was still your special girl. I wish they could smell the beer on your breath (fresh from the bar where your lady friend stood you up) as you started to talk about how some families are okay with fucking each other and how you think I’d probably be mischievous in bed a few minutes later. I wish they could hear how you denied penetrating me, like that was where you drew the line, but that you didn’t feel like touching me that way you had was bad. That you just loved me so much and I was beautiful and special.
I want them to see how I verbally danced around the dangerous tones of that conversation, how I kept my shit together, how I made sure you didn’t touch me…all while I had a couple of drinks too. I want them to see how I tucked your drunk ass into bed and listened to you beg me to stay for just a little longer. I want them to see how I held your hand even after all of that because you’d raised me to understand the sort of violence that follows refusal with you. That picking my battles meant fighting to the death if I had to, but otherwise be diplomatic.
And I want them to know, on a deep and personal level, how painful it was, how messed up it was, for me to have to do that for you given the circumstances. That I kept my shit together until the end and didn’t fall to pieces until I had moved out of your reach. I grew up feeling like a hunted creature, something I learned only from you. That feeling is something that I struggle with even today. I haven’t seen or heard you in months I still remember what it feels like as if it were something abrasive over my skin rubbing back and forth whenever I breathe. It makes me overwrought and my body doesn’t know if it should panic or shut down when it remembers the feeling.
The Doctors say I have PTSD which helps me feel like maybe I’m not worthless because of the things that are wrong with me. They try to assure me that you really caused actual lasting damage and it explains the things that make me feel crazy. I wish I could truly express the weight of what I feel, of the things I’m contemplating and battling so people stop looking at me strange when I need to leave a room because they started talking too loud and my body reacted to the volume levels like it would have if you were yelling.
Lastly, I want the world to know how goddamn scared of you I still am. More so now than when I was a kid. You told me to my face you didn’t even see anything wrong with the few bits you could acknowledge. I wish I could relay just how badly it hurt and tore at me to find out you didn’t deserve a second chance and that I still had your attention in a sexual way and that I had probably never lost it. I guess I want to world to know how equally fucking painful it was to learn, with the mind of an adult, that you really had meant everything that happened and it hadn’t just been a mistake or something that you didn’t even remember. I know you’ll never touch me again and still you are the thing I have nightmares about.
And just to be perfectly clear I want the world to hear me sometimes…but there is never a time when I want you to see or hear or touch or smell or anything me again.
Not even if you are sorry one day.
I hope when you die it’s with apologies on your lips; that in the end maybe you’ll have gotten enough humanity on you to truly comprehend the horror your life inflicted on us. I don’t want you to suffer….none of this has been to make you suffer. I just want the world to know why it is that I suffer when they ask what it is that’s broken, when they point out what I’m lacking.
It’s not about you. It’s about me. It’s just that sometimes I have to talk about what you did in order to fix what you did/do to me. I just want the world to know everything so that I can stop talking about it and move the fuck on and focus on the things that make me stronger and pull me forward. Things that do not involve you in any way, shape, or form.
So sometimes I think about you and spit venom….but it’s not my own. It was always yours. And while my version of events is brutally hideous in it’s bluntness it’s 100% more fair and truthful than when you cut me off from the rest of the family by telling them ‘her mother brainwashed her when we split.’