If you do, you’ll despise me or leave me, and I won’t be able to survive it.
Since I was seven years old, I’ve mastered the art of forgetting and pretending everything is okay.
So what if I was sexually assaulted? Happens to many other people, and sometimes, it’s worse in their case. I’m NOT that special. I told myself to suck it up and be a man. I told myself not to be a weakling and to stop falling into my feelings or wishing I could have fought.
It was over, and I grew up having the best time of my life playing hockey and slashing people left and right.
I hated the idea of vulnerability during sex, so I tied girls up and fucked them only on my terms. It was good, and I was fine.
But then you showed up, and it wasn’t fine anymore.
Because, in reality, I do love vulnerability in sex. I don’t think it’s about the gender; it’s about power, and I enjoy surrendering it. And I never knew that until you cornered me in that box the first time.
I never imagined how healing it could be to enjoy something that ruined my life, knowing I had the power to stop it.
But I could’ve never admitted it out loud to you, because it was never only sex for me, Marcus. From the beginning, our encounters were terrifying revelations and a scary need for a deep connection.
You saw the fractured parts of me and still stayed, and Icraved that, but the thought of you leaving one day terrorized me. So I had to push you away before you pushed me.
Had to abandon you before you abandoned me.
Even if it hurt.
Even if…I can’t really stay away from you.
I was fine pretending, but you keep provoking the version of me I thought I killed a long time ago.
The one who wants to fight, to heal, to stop using blood to fill up the hole inside me.
I hate you for it sometimes, but I can never hate you for long. I just hope you don’t dislike me that much.
It’s fine if you do, I know I’ve been such an asshole, and I won’t make excuses for it.
When you get this letter, I’ll be locked in a mental institute with Dad’s doctors.
I know why. I said Dr. Duret’s name in front of Dad again.
Dr. Duret has been my therapist since Mom died. But she doesn’t exist.
I mentioned her before, when I was eleven, and I got extensively examined for it. I guess I forgot about it, which is normal. My brain has a tendency to delete files as it wishes. Dr. Fenwick (this one is real, I swear) calls it a coping mechanism.
That game in which I couldn’t bring you down messed with my head enough that I allowed her back into my life.
Or more like into my head, like one of those stars on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
She looks like Mom and has Mom’s maiden name because I loved thinking I was talking to my mother.
I often forget she’s a figment of my imagination and tonight, I bitched out loud about her. Dad heard said bitching, and he needed to intervene. Hence the locking up.
I mentioned Lenin, too. Dad’s right-hand man who beats me up on his behalf.
This is going to sound crazy, but I think he doesn’t exist either. Because I saw footage the other day, and apparently, I threw myself down the stairs when I thought Lenin was hitting me.
I don’t have to check other footage to conclude I made him up, too.
I’m so messed up, I conjured two entirely imaginary people to take Mom’s and Dad’s places in my life.
Aren’t you glad you got rid of this loose screw?
