“It could take you years to actually face what has happened. And numerous more to overcome it.”
-Carol Sides
To the man whose name is branded in my mind forever,
Do you remember me? Little girl, single digit age, long brown choppy locks? The one you took advantage of in my home? I remember you. It’s been over a decade, but I remember your eyes. The ones that were bulging out of your face with anger, and I remember your 5 o'clock shadow, the one that I can still feel rubbing against my face to this very day.
I want you to know that I kept your promise, I kept quiet. Afraid of your threat, my voice never made a peep as a child, but my head was constantly screaming for someone to help me. The first time I told someone, I was 16-years-old. While I thought opening up about it would help, it only made me feel guiltier. I felt dirty and disgusting. I remember scrubbing my skin with a sponge until I saw blood, just trying to feel clean. It didn’t help.
How are you? I don’t care.
How am I? You don’t care, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m holding on by a thread. Your mind may think that all that came out of that night was something good for you, but that’s the farthest thing from the truth. Because of you, my life is never going to be like other 20-year-olds; You’ve taken more than you ever could imagine. I’m still healing emotionally from the pain you made me endure.
Because of people like you, girls like me are taught that it’s “our fault.” Because apparently even at 9-years-old, the skin we show on our fragile, innocent bodies is made known to be the cause of your sickness. Even as we get older, we get talked down to like we caused this. It’s our fault that we didn’t bring it to light sooner, even though we were terrified of your threats. It's our fault that we let you have the opportunity to do this to other little girls just like me.
But it isn’t.
It wasn’t, and still isn’t, my fault. I was a child. You took that from me.
So while society continues to blame me, I’m writing you this letter to let society know that it was not my fault. And it never will be. And most of the surrounding people in my life who love me, know nothing. I hope that they too will know that it wasn’t my fault, and I don’t apologize for not speaking up sooner.
It’s taken me over ten years, and although I try, I cannot get you out of my head. I want to say that I don’t hate you, but shamefully that is a lie.
On the days and nights that I think of you, I often find myself hoping that you’ve gone no place in life. I find myself yearning so bad that just like me, you’ll never physically be able to have children. When I hear of tragedies in the city that you live in, I somehow always want to think that you’re a part of them.
And most of all, on a weekly basis, I hope and pray that you find Jesus.
I will never stop trying to forgive you, but know that my forgiveness ultimately comes too short of the forgiveness you need. I pray that you find Jesus, and accept Him into your life, so He can give you the forgiveness that you need, but in my opinion, don’t deserve.
But that's the hidden wonders of mercy and grace. While I know that I'm not the perfect Christian, I have the perfect creator.
It's taken me 11 years to fully admit what you’ve done, and it might just take me the rest of my life to get over it.
I want you to know one thing: you broke a little girl that night, but created one hell of a strong woman.
Sincerely,
The Girl Who Isn’t Afraid Anymore.
