TRIGGER WARNING! This post might be difficult or unsuitable for some people to read. Proceed with caution.
I don’t hate you, but I know I should.
My body aches from the weight of you, and I know this is a fight I can’t win. Tears cloud my vision, but I blink them away. It’s a small victory, I know, but I won’t let you see me cry tonight. I pick a point on car ceiling and gaze at it intently. I can feel your hot breath against my neck. It’s the least violating sensation right now. I stare at the ceiling harder, thinking desperately about the fabric texture, and wish I could numb myself to what is happening. Your hands no longer caress me softly. I wonder if they ever really did. I feel you everywhere, and want to burst into flames so that you will stop. Your teeth graze my skin for a second, before the pain hits. I want to scream, but who would hear me? We’re both tasting my blood in our mouths right now. I focus on the ceiling again, knowing what’s coming next. Suddenly, I feel light again. I hazard a glance at you just in time to see you jump back into the front seat and start the car.
It’s been 5 years, and every night I stare at the ceiling, willing myself to forget. I wonder why you did it, but mostly, I wonder why you stopped. That’s the part that traps me, the glimmer of hope that you are a better man than what you did to me. You’re not. I wish you were the man who is worthy of the love I felt for you. You’re not. In the daylight, that is painfully obvious. At night though, the sobs tear through me violently, as I try to hold myself together.
I haven’t told anyone. My friends hate you enough anyway. Sometimes I think they hate the part of me that doesn’t. Sometimes, so do I. The hate would be easier, more pure. It’s the betrayal that weighs on me, just as you did all those nights ago. But I haven’t told them, and I don’t think I ever will. Not because I’m ashamed, which I am, but because I’m afraid. Right now, it is inside me, an experience unto me alone. If anyone knew, it would be outside, free to grow. It would suffocate me, just as you did, and I don’t think I am strong enough to survive that.
I don’t hate you, but I wish I did.
This post is nonfiction. I wish it weren’t. I wish it didn’t even happen in fiction. Hopeless, I know.
This is the first time I have ever written about this, even just for myself. I could never quite bring myself to explore the memories I had locked away. So, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not sure exactly how accurate this is. For me, it felt as real to write this as it did to live it.
I’m still wondering if I should hit the publish button, if I want this out in the world. But at this point, it’s my only option. The past few months, it has been coming back to me, in dreams, during the day, all the time. I really don’t know how to make it stop. So, I wrote about it.
I’m going to hit the publish button. I am going to publicize this part of myself, and hope that somehow it will have less power over me now.