To whom it may concern,
I'm not sure what I want to write today...
I just know that writing somehow gives me a sense of peace. I like to just write random words at time. No sense to them. Sometimes it's just a jumble of words on a piece of paper, no real place, no real meaning. I used to draw a lot to calm myself. I stopped. I realized as I got older that I was no longer drawing things to calm me...I was angry. I would start drawing a flower and then all my pain and anger would come out and the drawing would just become a giant black void. I didn't like the way it made me feel anymore. Writing makes me feel like my words are safe. My thoughts are safe. But that's changed recently as well.
I lived in a house with a terrible roommate. He was a misogynistic, womanizing prick. At first things were fine...then he just showed his true colors.
I write letters to myself. I've done it since I was a little kid....so around 12 years old. I write a letter about my days and my feelings, my relationships and my fears, my hopes and dreams. I seal them in an envelope and I put them away in a box. Well...it's become a few boxes seeing as there's over 300 letters. I wanted to be able to write to someone who I knew would understand exactly what I went through and how I felt. I wanted to reassure my future self as well...so that if my dreams had not come true...they still could someday because they would never be forgotten as long as they were written in these letters. One of those letters obviously held a detailed description of my rape...every feeling...every pain...every moment I could possibly remember...and all the aftermath. The kind of stuff I would never ever ever ever tell anyone about. It was hard enough simply writing it to a future version of myself.
I know you probably see where this is going...I left them out one day...21 letters. He tore open and read 21 letters. 21 letters about my depression, my ups and downs, my personal thoughts and feelings. I'm not gonna lie to you....I felt worse then when I was raped.
When I was raped, he took my body. I convinced myself that he wouldn't take my soul, my thoughts, my dignity. Those were mine and no one could ever take them away from me...I sealed all of my thoughts into stupid little envelopes...easily ripped...easily read...it was so dumb of me...and when I came home and saw my letters...opened, torn open like they were nothing but a good laugh...I snapped.
I was angry...sure...but I snapped...in a different way. I felt like someone had reached into my chest and had ripped out my lungs. I felt like I was gonna die. 21. That is not a small number. That means he opened one, read through all the horrible, agonizing, painful, dreadful things I was feeling....had a laugh....and opened another one...and another on and another one and another one and another one.
TWENTY ONE FUCKING LETTERS...
And if you were wondering...yes he did open the one with a detailed account of my rape. HE READ THAT! Even as I'm writing this, I am so broken inside. I no longer feel numb, I feel violated in a way that even my rapist couldn't accomplish...and the best part out of all of this is he stole 3 of them. 3 letters were missing and when my other roommate (really good person) found out, he tried to kinda see if the guy still had them...he did. In fact, when my other roommate asked him about my letters, he laughed, grabbed the letters he had, ripped em up into a plate and set fire to them. I haven't wrote myself a letter since. I think today I might. I've never actually wrote about this safe haven. I'd like to remind my future self that there was a place I could be a little more open with my thoughts...and no one was there to tear them up and set fire to them...