My skin still burns. The pain feels current, even though the waves of the abuse have long since washed away. Why do I still feel you? Why do I still see you? Your touch leaves a residue; a grime that I cannot scrub off. Your prescence is hiding in my closest, under my bed, next to me while I sleep. I feel your eyes on me when I stand naked in the shower, when I cry alone on the floor.
You are not gone yet.
I think this one is going to be the real kicker. This one is going to be the hardest to get over. I have spent 20’something years trying to convince myself that it never happened, that I was dreaming it. You didn’t sneak into my room to touch me all those years, you didn’t rub up my thigh when no one was looking. You didn’t sneak peaks at my body, and you didn’t call me a slut.
I tore myself apart with the “None of it was real. None of it was real. I made it all up.” I forced myself to unlink you from the chain of people that used my body against me. From the parade of men that taught me that I am not my own. I couldn’t let it be true. I couldn’t. And why? Why? Because every single one in my family either ignored everything, or said something was wrong with me!
If the truth was set free, and I was able to acknowledge and accept it as reality, I would have to feel the rush of every single inappropriate touch. I would have to remember every time I thanked you for being there for me. I would feel every awkward hug, every time you made me touch you. I don’t want to admit it. I don’t. Why don’t I just keep pretending that it never happened?
None of it was real. None of it was real.
But it was real. Everything has come together, and I can barely stand myself up. I shake. I cry. I scrub my skin. I remember. Everything. And I never wanted to get here. I never wanted this to come out. It will kill me. It will end me. Everything I was ever scared of, those little childhood quirks that no one took a second look at. It was all you. You. The perfect abuser.
And this will end me.
But this won’t end me. I remember. And people know. And as fucking hard as its going to be to get through this, you will not win. This body is mine. This truth is mine.
As I sit here and repair the fucking damage you all have done to me, I realize one thing: You will not win, because I have already won. With the truth.