You know what? Fuck you. I fucking survived. Ten years later, here I am, and I know how to deal with you too. You’re gone. I can live my life and you’re not a part of it. I haven’t had a flashback in nearly two years.
Fuck. This entry was supposed to be about triumph, and how I am better than you, and how I have beaten you, and yet when I go to put those words down I start freaking out – and right now it’s controlled, and it’s also to do with brain chemicals and things like that, but I wonder how much of my brain chemistry I can trace back to you. You or what you’ve come to stand for, I don’t know. Are you the reason that I tried for so long to seperate my mind and body? Or was that self fufilling prophecy? Did I act that way because of you, or because I thought that was the way that I was supposed to act?
Last night I carved the word “Brave” into my arm with a serrated wine knife. It didn’t bleed, and it’ll be gone in a couple of days, so I was thinking about getting it tattooed instead. Sometimes I think I need something to encourage me, to remind me that it’s okay, that I can still breathe, that I can still cope, that I am still alive. But I think I’ll donate that money to Rape Crisis instead.
Do you know one of the things that makes me the most angry? I bet you don’t even remember me. I was fourteen when you had me pushed up against that wall. You thought I was sixteen? You were thirty two, if I remember correctly. You fucking asshole.
You owe me an apology. You owe my friends apologies, for when I sat in their kitchens and lounges and motel rooms and screamed and screamed and screamed and they had no idea what the hell was wrong with me.
I still don’t know what’s wrong with me either – if you were the cause, or just the symbol, or if I don’t remember everything or if I’ve made it all up in my mind. I talked to my therapist about it – she wanted to know why I thought it might make my life easier to know one way or another. She also suggested that if I’m not remembering it, then there’s a reason, and that maybe I should just let it be. I wonder what she really thought – if she agreed with my self diagnosis that I’m just a fucking drama queen. When I’d made up my mind that I should talk to her about it – which was fucking hard given that I’d only ever told Dylan and Amy and I don’t even remember telling Amy, and I hadn’t meant to, and then there was a website, but you don’t talk about things on websites, you just write, which is what I’m doing here, and I’m not talking.