Last night I wrote a letter to the man who hurt me.
I vented all of the pain, the anger, the frustration, the confusion into this letter that he will never read. I cried, hard sobs that came from someplace deep inside me. I held the little girl who was so damaged by what happened that she split from reality. I finally began to aknowledge how much she suffered at his hands. About how much pain is in her, and therefore is in me. I always thought that she was the only one that suffered, that if I shoved her and the memories to the back of my mind it meant it never happened. But it was I who suffered. She is as much a part of me as the person who writes this.
I've begun to accept what happened through writing that letter. Accepting it for what it was, even if seeing those words and saying them out loud make me sick to my stomach:
I told what happened and nothing bad came from it. The Monster swore only bad things would come if I broke my silence. Bad things came from staying silent.
