This is my goodbye. It’s hard to say the words out loud; it’s hard to admit that I’m scared. That’s why I write.
If you’ve ever waited for everyone to fall asleep, before allowing yourself to fall apart, if you’ve ever cried in the shower so that no one hears you. Then you’ve probably known what it’s like to be me for a few seconds.
I’m happy. That’s what everyone thinks. I don’t argue, in fact, I want people to believe I’m happy. A lot of the time, I am. I have no reason not to be.
I talk a lot so that I can keep my secrets. I laugh a lot to hide my sadness.
I’m overconfident so that no one notices my insecurities. It’s hard to say I love you. Sometimes, it’s harder not to.
It’s easy to hurt me, but I’ll rarely admit it. I’ll laugh it off, act like I don’t care, but inside, a little part of me dies.
The more often you act like I don’t have feelings, the closer I come to believing it myself.
I wish I could trust you enough to tell you this, but I probably never will. I wish I could trust anyone enough to tell them everything. On second thoughts, how do you tell people things you can’t remember?
Depression is hard to deal with, especially when admitting it is still too hard. I tried to tell you, but you laughed. You didn’t laugh at me, or with me, you just laughed. It amused you. Not that I have depression, but that it’s me that could be depressed. I’m too happy to be depressed. I wish that were true.
I wish I could tell you, about the times I was raped. I wish I knew whether or not I was raped. It’s a strong word, a serious accusation. Perhaps it’s the wrong word. I wasn’t raped. I was repeatedly sexually molested as a child.
Is there really that much of a difference?
When does it change from molestation to rape? Is it less serious because there was no penetration?
Let me tell you what it feels like. You’re nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. He is touching you, you know he is, but you hope that it’s a nightmare. Your body is stiff, as you concentrate on not moving, your thoughts are alternating between ignoring it, thinking about anything and everything else, and getting out of the situation. You’re hoping to forget by morning, you’re wishing you would wake up, but you know you’re already awake. You lie to yourself, blaming the book you read, the movie you watched. You don’t believe in God, but you wish you did. You’re hoping that this is the last time, but you realize that it probably won’t be. Now, every time someone calls you beautiful, a shiver runs down your spine and your muscles tense again. Every time a man says something nice, no matter how innocent, you remember the times he said ‘nice’ things. You hide in your room and eat, hoping that people won’t call you beautiful anymore, but then you’re upset that they don’t. In the end, everyone wants to be beautiful. You ignore what happened, drowning it in unimportant thoughts, trying to forget. Until you do. Until the black holes in your memory seem to take over your mind. That’s when you want to remember, to know whether the nightmares are true.
I know it’s not something to be ashamed of, I know it’s not my fault; I know that I should tell someone. But I won’t. It would hurt my mother, knowing she didn’t (or couldn’t) protect me. It wouldn’t change the past. It wouldn’t even change the future. His word against mine. There is no evidence apart from the blurry memories of a scared child.
Flirting with you was fun. It made me nervous, but it was fun. When we kissed, I was tense; I always am at first. It took a while to relax. It was you, it was new, and it was unexpected. Now we barely talk, and I’m afraid that I’ve lost you. You’re avoiding me, and that hurts the most. I wish I had the courage to tell you that I love you. It’s not just rejection that I fear, but the loss of a friendship that has already faded.
I would kiss you right now, if only you were here.
I don’t have the courage to say any of this aloud, and if I ever sent this, I would be too afraid to face you again. I wish things were different, but they’re not.
Lots of love,