An open letter

TO MY RAPIST,

Here I am saying my rapist, as if I own you. But it was you who owned me, my body that night and my mind afterwards.

Do you remember that night? I'll admit there was a time a couldn't remember every little detail and I wish like hell that it was still that way. But no matter what I do I still remember the smell of your aftershave, the feel of your rough hands on my bare skin, the weight of you lying on me, and I can never forget the sound of your voice when you said "Relax honey, this is gonna be so much fun."

I spent months eating Xanax to calm the feelings of shame, anger, guilt and self hate. But it never worked, I always woke up the next day with the same feelings. With the same thought that I wanted to end all the suffering that I would be better off if I was no longer a waste of space. That I would be better off if I was no longer living. 

I wondered what you would say if I told you because of you I overdosed on an entire bottle of Xanax that I had washed down with a bottle of alcohol. How I had driven myself mad with self-blame, with racing thoughts and vivid nightmares; that I no longer wanted to live. Would you care? Would you feel remorse? Would you feel anything at all? Are you even capable of feeling?

But the good thing about a failed suicide attempt (you know, besides that the fact it failed) is that it forces you to make a decision. Up or down, sink or swim, live or die. I knew if I was going to live on this planet, the band aids I had used to cover my scars would have to be ripped open; the wounds cutting deeper with every submission to my memory. I would have to see your face, be back in that room. Smell the alcohol on your breath and feel your hands on my body. First gentle, then violent has I resisted. The taste of blood in my mouth at the first punch. The pain in my body, the confusion in my head, as I woke up in the ditch with police and paramedics crowding around me. 

That was 2 years ago.

They say time heals all wounds but I disagree; eventually as time passes you just accept them. You stop trying to hide them. You realize that living with scars is better than not living at all.

I decided to believe that there is good out there, despite people like you who try to prove otherwise.