I’ve put off this letter to you for a very long time. I have hidden you in my head since I was a little girl. I’m not sure who I was protecting; my mom whom you so destroyed? Stilla so she wouldn’t know just how little she protected me? me so I would never face everything you took from me? or was it you so I could still think of you as two different people?
You have no idea what you took from me. No one knows what you took from me. I don’t even know all that you took from me. Mom and Stilla don’t care what you took from me; they think I offered it to you. I was only 11. What did I have to offer?
You manipulated me in ways I am still learning to understand. I used to think I didn’t have it so bad. I used to think that because I knew other girls had it much worse, what you did to me wasn’t so bad. It was bad. It is still bad. It is still so bad. Rape isn’t always terrifying, it isn’t always painful but it is never right and it is never painless. I learned a new word a few years ago.
When I first heard the term it was about politics but all I could think of was surviving you. I always described my separate life that included the other you, the one I know as Krank Ficken, as just that– a separate part of me, a separate part of you and a separate part of my life. I kept everything in separate locked boxes in my head. My feelings were never felt when it came to you. I locked them all away.
I had to be the strong one. I had to protect mom. She wouldn’t survive the heartache. I had to shove everything aside and down. When the news broke the first time, no one was there to protect me so I told everyone I lied about you. Why did mom “confront” me with you? Why did the two of you stand there and make me tell all of my friends that I had lied to all of them? Why was it easier to lie to them with you at my mother’s side than to tell her in front of you that it was all true? Why wasn’t the fact that I told this amount of people still not enough for mom to believe that you would do this to…her? You had her so twisted. You strung her along with these false ideas, using her weaknesses as the tether. She still doesn’t know so much about you.
Here we are; it’s been 20 years since and I am not happy. I am so very unhappy with your life that it’s beyond bitterness. The acidity levels of my abhorrence for you could dissolve planets. I am disgusted by every thought of you, every mention of you and memory involving you. For so many years I had protected you in memories because I wanted so desperately to believe I had a normal childhood…except for that one thing. That one thing took up the most room in my life. I made decisions…I have sat down and thought deeply about how to develop healthier relationships with men with you in my past. People should not have to have this conversation within their minds, alone in a room. It’s pathetic and sad and you did this to me.
For the longest time I thought what you did to me was a part of me. I spent these last twenty years figuring out that is not at all true. What is true is that without you I would be a completely different person. You’re forever a part of my identity because of the designs you’ve carved into my character as both the only father figure I’ve ever known and the sickest, most unbalanced creation I’ve ever met; but what you did to me is not what makes me who I am.
I’m still so very angry with you. I’ll forever mourn that girl I never became because of you. I don’t care about the woman I may have grown into because I am who I am and I will always be me. But the girl, the girl you took will always be abandoned. She just wanted to be happy, too. She wanted to be curious, adventurous and careless. She wanted confidence and self-esteem. She wanted friends to like her because of who she was and not what she offered. She liked colors and light and everything fresh. She liked to laugh and play…
I still make comparisons between my experiences and the horror stories of those other girls and I know I’m doing it so it doesn’t seem so bad but it is bad. I deserved to be that girl. I did nothing wrong by existing in that house with you. I deserved those memories. I deserved the right to grow up at a normal fucking pace like I was meant to. You were not given permission; I never gave you permission.
I used to go out of my way to try to define exactly what happened. I worked hard at denying everything. I refused to tell mom about it after you were first arrested. I thought it was best to continue protecting her despite everything she heard while they were taking my full statement. I see now just how wrong of me that was. I told her only a couple years ago that all you did was molest me with items and made strong attempts but never went “all the way.” Ha! What the fuck?! That is the definition of rape! I used to think that because you’d stop partway meant it wasn’t rape. It was; it “counts” and it was stupid of me to grow into my thirties to finally admit it.
I used to think that my crying worried you and that made you stop to reevaluate your actions, never realizing that the fact you would try again next weekend meant you were scared I was going to tell because you finally went too far. You went too far that first afternoon you reached underneath my shirt and I was too scared to react.
I hate you. I truly, truly hate you. I don’t care how childish it makes me sound. I could look at every other optional word that would mean the same and make it sound more dignified but no word can come close to claiming the simple way I feel about you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I hate that you are back in her life. I hate that everyone is okay with it. I hate that I am seen as the bad person for being the only one to speak openly and actively against you. I hate that I gave her a choice with full immunity between you and me and my family and she chose you. I hate that she not only chose you but she thought I was stupid enough not to put her lies together and see them for what they were.
I hate that it is seen as selfish that I would take offense to you in her life. I hate that no one understands how it injures me that she doesn’t care that you manipulated, molested, drugged and raped me for 3 years. I hate that she relies on you. I hate that she couldn’t tell me about you, denies she knows why she couldn’t tell me and thinks it’s a good enough reason to “have no other choice” when she clearly has a few.
I hate that my putting you in jail got you new job skills, teeth and treatment for your cancer. I hate that you have everything you wanted to retire with. I hate that you get to live comfortably while I have memories of mom telling me not to answer the phone so I wouldn’t hear the town call me a whore from the other end. I laughed when my aunt told me how a friend of hers that just happened to work at your prison casually mentioned that you nearly lost your eye in an attack. Your three years in prison doesn’t compare to what I am still going through.
I hate that I feel so much rage sitting here recalling everything that is revealed when I choose to think of you. I hate that Stilla still tries to excuse mom’s choice to be with you. It reminds me of the day she told me not to tell mom when I asked her to tell her with me. Everyone is protecting you and I hate it.
I hate that I questioned my existence because of you but I’m grateful I persevered and won the many that came and still come with those thoughts. I hate that my stroke brought so much awareness but I know that I have not lost because I am finally able to stand up and speak out against you. I will not let anyone hide the truth of who you are while they are near me. I hate you for making mom so stupid. I will place all of this on you because you deserve it. I am tired of holding this blame as if I deserve it.
I am not your victim and I am no longer your survivor. I am now a voice against you and I will not allow anyone to silence me anymore.
With All My Hatred and Disgust,