PTSD & Sexual Abuse

Gone

Your fingers around my neck, your threats in my ears.

I need to get away, need to run.

You pull back your arm and I flinch and wait for the sting.

Only this time it wasn’t a slap, but a punch.

A cold hard fist right under my left eye.

They were purple before but not from you.

From the long restless nights trying to forget your actions the previous day.

You want me gone.

And now, I want me gone too.

Dear mom, a satire of a letter I will never send

Dear mom,

I guess you would like to know why your daughter is so f*cked up.

So, I suppose that is what I’m here to tell you.

Your “sweet, little daughter”, can’t stand up for herself.

That’s the first problem.

She is a weak bitch who isn’t capable of doing anything for herself.

The only thing she was ever good at was starving herself.

Looking at her now you would never be able to tell because she let herself go.

She gave up the only thing she wanted.

She gave up being skinny for a peace of mind she still hasn’t gotten.

She’s just a “fat whore”.

Why does her little girl call herself that?

It’s because that’s all she’s ever heard.

Whore.

Slut.

Ugly.

Easy.

Stupid.

Bitch.

And worst of all FAT.

She could handle the other names but the “f word”…no way!

She can handle being all the others but fat is what she cannot stand.

Anyway, back to the story.

Your baby girl was wearing a skirt the first time it happened.

Easy access, am I right?

It was her fault.

Her clothing choice distracted a pretty boy in the hallway.

And being the little bitch your daughter is, she couldn’t open her mouth to tell him no. She couldn’t push him away because she knew his words would be worse than anything he ever did to her.

It happened.

It happened almost everyday, no matter the clothing choice.

And everyday, your daughter couldn’t say no.

She just let it happen.

Finally, she told him off.

She had had enough.

Pretty boy in the hallway didn’t like that and little whore got what she deserved.

13 years old and already a whore.

Impressive right?

How would people at church on Sundays like to hear that one?

And they did.

Pretty boy followed the bitch to youth group on Sunday nights.

Everyone knew.

Rumors don’t just spread in your year, they spread through the whole school.

Some people didn’t believe him, but a lot did.

So there it is, constant torture over the years.

Desperately trying to forget what pretty boy ever did.

School is supposed to be a safe place, but not when you tell a pretty boy no.

Seeing you

I’m falling hard and fast.

My lungs grasping for the poisons oxygen of the atmosphere.

My heart beating faster than any winning race horse.

I’m tired.

29 long hours deprived of food can do that to you.

You texted me.

It’s been months.

Literally.

You've been gone but that message was just a reminder of the life we live now.

I see you and I fall into a state of panic and feelings of hatred and guilt come flooding back.

All because of what you did to me.

The Jacket

There are so many things I want to write.

So many things I want to say.

But when it come time for me to open up, I freeze.

Lips sewn together with the torn up jacket you left at my house.

The jacket I see everyday that reminds me of the terrible that happened all those years ago.

The jacket that I used to wear to Friday night football games.

The jacket you let me first borrow in 8th grade.

The jacket that ruined my life.

I see the jacket and I want to use it to mop up all the bleeding stains you caused.

I see the jacket and want to ignite it with the flames of the lighter I use to light my cigarettes.

Marlboro reds.

The ones you told me to never get.

The ones I rely on now because I lost my trust in men.

I see the jacket and am constantly reminded of how broken you left me.

Of how scarred you left me.

I see the jacket and I want to embrace myself in the memories of summer fairs and picnics.

I see the jacket and my nose tingles from the scent of your cedarwood aftershave.

I see the jacket and I miss you.

I miss the good times you gave and your kisses and neck rubs.

But I see the jacket and I hate you.

Him

I saw him today.

I was outside walking my dog and across the street he was playing soccer with some other boys I graduated with.

I know it was him.

I could pick his body, his hair, his eyes out in a crowd.

I saw him today.

He must be home on spring break.

I wasn’t prepared to see his face even though it was across the street.

I kept my head low and continued walking on.

I don’t know if he saw me.

But I saw him.

I went inside and threw up.

Everything.

What little lunch I had, my coffee, the 2 mini chocolates I had for snack, my feelings, the gut wrenching vision of him-all down the drain now.

All gone.

All cleaned up.

All signs of distress gone.

A smile on my face I walk calmly downstairs waiting for my dogs to greet me from my 14 minute absence.

I saw him today.

I feel dirty.

I take the 12 steps back up to my bathroom.

I grab a towel and washcloth.

I undress.

I get in the shower.

I turn the water on the hottest setting.

I feel it scorching me, leaving me red and raw.

I grab my favorite soap.

I use half the bottle scrubbing myself.

Trying to rub away the lingering feeling of his touch from so many years ago.

My tears blend with the water.

My cries are silent.

No one can know.

I scrub myself.

I saw him today.

I pick myself up from the now freezing water filled tub.

I grab the blue towel.

I wrap myself.

Hold myself tight.

Squeezing the broken pieces back together.

My skin hurts.

But my mind hurts me more.

I can’t get him out of my mind.

What if I didn’t notice them and continued to walk my normal route?

What if I was careless and let my guard down?

What would have happened if he saw me?

If he saw that the only car in the driveway was mine?

That I was home alone?

Would I have been able to stop him this time?

Or would it be like every other day in eighth grade?

Would he have gone farther?

I can’t stop.

My mind won’t stop.

I saw him today.

I have work.

I clock in late.

My unplanned shower caused me to be 7 minutes late.

No one notices.

No one cares.

My boss asks if I am ok today.

My foot hurts I say.

I stay late.

42 minutes after close.

I take my time with the cleaning making sure everything is done the way it should be.

I let the others leave.

I finish by myself.

Making up for those 7 minutes that my shower caused.

That he caused.

I saw him today

I set my alarm for 7:30.

I get in bed.

My eyes don’t close.

I beat my alarm.

I’m awake.

I never slept.

I saw him yesterday.

Do I miss my abuser?

He was sharp and my soft flesh invited him in, tearing open every last thread of me.

I glanced at the warm, thick stream of red fluid emptying out onto the white sheets.

“Sometimes you have to hurt the ones you love the most”, he said to me.

Each time he touched me, it was like salt meeting an open wound.

It was excruciating however, I craved the pungent flavor.

There is a part of him inside of me.

It will never be released no matter how many times his jagged edges rip through me.

I often wonder why he did what he did and why I let him.

I hate him, but I hate myself more.