My soul is too exhausting to carry.
My spirit is heavy and it needs to be nurtured by the hands of it's creator, and I am not it's creator.
My spirit was broken when I was taken advantage of as a child. When I was a little girl, I would affectionately call my abuser "daddy" despite the fact that he was not my father.
I don't know how I got into the habit of calling him this, but he seemed to like it.
My family didn't think that it was weird, either. I had grown an unhealthy attachment to him.
Did I think that, that was what love is supposed to feel like?
I look back at my sixteen year old self and at first glance, I thought that I was angry at her.
She was so empathetic towards the man that had hurt her. She chose not to tell anyone in fear that they would hate him.
When they asked her what she wanted to happen next, all she could say was that she didn't know. She didn't want to put him in jail, she didn't even want to "hurt him back" and make him feel the feel way that she felt.
I knew how pain felt. I was met with a lifetime's worth of personal issues before I could even count to ten.
Why would I ever wish the heaviness of a wounded heart, and crying until you physically can't breathe on someone else?
At some point, though, this sadness transformed into pure, raw, and harsh anger.
As much as I was sad, I was angry.
I would scream at everyone on the top of my lungs. I would fight to stand up for myself when I felt that I wasn't being taken seriously. I just wanted to be heard.
I knew that my words were making sense, but why were they not hearing me? Maybe if I say it louder.
My words are making sense.
They're staring at me and their facial expressions look like they can hear me.
But why do my family's actions align with those of people who hate me?
They're saying that they know that he hurt me, but they ask me when I'm going to get over it.
They go on with life like they don't know about it, but when they get into fights my trauma is used as a low blow to get at each other.
"At least my son's not a rapist!" and "Your son is a rapist!" are two shots that got blown at my abuser's mother while I sat in the same room.
They get visibly uncomfortable and avoid speaking to me about it, but as soon as they need a one-up in an argument, I'm always there.
I feel bad for his mother, sometimes. (Here I go again. I guess that I'm still that same empathetic girl who I thought died somewhere along the way. She's still in here, somewhere.)
Her sons actions are not hers.
As I'm writing this, I'm doing a mental check in with myself.
Am I still good?
Can I keep writing this?
I think I can.
I am strong and capable.
My brothers ex-girlfriend overheard the conversation with my abuser and his mother, after my grandmother confronted him.
When my grandmother confronted him, she said that either it really happened or I'm lying, and she knows that I'm not lying.
In that moment, he confessed.
When he spoke to his own mother, he said that the only reason he agreed was because "everybody is only going to continue believe her, they're not going to believe me."
According to what he told his mother, his confession was fabricated because I was lying and he had no way to prove his innocence, so he just agreed.
I would never agree to something like that, if I knew that it wasn't true.
The same way that I would never hurt him like he hurt me.
The same way I wouldn't use a toddler for my own sick desires.
Am I not just so incredibly sweet?
Or, no, wait...
That's just me practicing basic human decency.
❥ With everlasting love,
angelsclique - 08.10.24
