You tell me it didn’t happen like that--

I should just get over it… but I can’t.

I can’t forget the words that you’ve said to me,

the ones that slice through my skin like a freshly sharpened blade,

with no remorse for ruining something that was once so soft,

so innocent.

All the words that you associate with my name run through my brain on a never ending loop,

and I admit that I’m afraid.

Afraid that if I don’t document these words then I’ll loose touch with reality,

I’ll believe you when you say that I’m crazy,

that it never happened like that.

Like the time you called me the bitch little girl that wants everything to revolve around me.

Like that time that I came home to Mom crying out that she couldn’t breathe.

I had to readjust her medical tubes because you were too inconvenienced to get out of bed.

Or the time that you held band practice in our living room at midnight,

even when you knew I had work at four thirty in the morning,

because you didn’t care about anyone else’s happiness but your own.

But I’m the selfish one.

 

You tell me you're tired of how I act in this family,

that it’s not healthy for you,

as if I’m the one who’s abusive,

not the one who breaks down from the words that cinch around her throat like a noose.

The girl too afraid to speak because it only makes it worse.

Because expressing my own opinions makes me a witch.

"I don’t even want to look at you."

"Get out of my house."

"If I tell you to lie to the police you lie to the police."

"Police are fucking pigs, they only care about themselves."

"Sometimes you make me want to slap you." 

“You need to grow up.” 

You scream these words at me, saying nasty things,

like how I should’ve lied to the police for you.

Told them I saw what I didn’t see.

Told them you were innocent.

You scream to my brother in the other room that I’m just a pussy,

that I better learn soon enough that the police are not my friends,

and that I should lie to them.

All the while I think, what a great lesson to try and teach your daughter. 

 

“You’re getting kind of big, honey. It’ll be a lot harder to get small again the larger you get.”

And “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

You love to throw these words at me.

To see which ones will stick,

which ones nestle their way under my skin,

and I try my hardest not to react.

I try to become stone.

To not betray my own emotions,

but it makes me so angry, and hurt, and broken.

You don’t feel sorry for the mental illness that you caused me,

the way that I can’t make friends because I’m too shy to speak to strangers,

how my skin quakes nearly 24/7 because I’m always so jumpy.

Now nobody can surprise me,

because I’m constantly aware of my surroundings,

even when I don't appear to be.

You've succeeded in permanently breaking me.

And I will not be another cog in this wheel of abuse.

I will not grow up and treat my own family the way you've treated me.

Because I am lucky enough to have self awareness.

To be able to look at myself crytically.

I took myself to therapy at seventeen because I am determined not to let this kill me.

I may always be broken,

but there are casts,

and bandages,

and things to help me heal.

And I will read every self-help book imaginable if it means that I can spare another little girl what you did to me. 

 

I guess if there's anything good I can say about you,

you made me stronger.

There were days when we were happy, and we loved each other.

But the alcohol turned you into a monster.

Your own Jekyll and Hyde alternate persona.

So, I am thankful for the strength you gave to me.

I know that this will help me in the future.

No one will ever be able to push me around like this again,

because I will push back.

And I am done being a door mat of a person. 

 

Love,

 

a-girl-forged-from-fire

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}