I’m not bothering to send you this because I know that it wouldn’t do any good.
I wish you could see how you have emotionally crippled me to the point of disrepair.
I wish that, after 17 years, I could overcome this same old bullshit that always sideswipes me from out of the blue.
I wish my sister would just acknowledge everything for once and see what it is that she has contributed to this mess you call a “family.” Perhaps if you hadn’t allowed her to be so fucked in the head as well, she would have had the presence of mind and the feelings of self-worth that could have led to something more than just “settling” for her pedophile husband.
Of course, I am the only one still living in the past, still reliving it day in and day out.
The outward appearance was all that mattered to you.
You admitted to me that you thought our stepfather molested us both; that it was the reason you sent her to live with her father.
Your ultimate solution was not to divorce him for the safety of your daughters, but to “watch him more closely.”
Just as your ultimate solution where the family was concerned was to stand behind my sister’s disbelief of what happened to me in order to, as you said, “protect her from being hurt.”
What about my hurt?
Where was my protection?
I was a child. She was not..
When I was 19, you told me that you had no doubts that I had told you the truth when it came to what her husband did to me two months before my 15th birthday. You even told me that he did it as revenge against her for the affair that she’d had. You told me all of that long after I suffered the damage of growing up in a house being shunned by everyone for my “lies.” For one brief moment, I had a small amount of vindication.
To my detriment, I thought you would stand by those words, but years later you revoked every last one of them behind my back to my (then) soon-to-be ex-husband, telling him that it was all lies, sympathizing with him about how fucked up your daughter was and how sorry you were that I hurt him and how desperately I needed therapy to overcome this need I have to gain attention from everyone by fabricating a life that I never lived.
I cut your poison from my life after that.
Your response was no response. No apology, no acknowledgement.
The only thing you have ever been consistent with in my life is finding new ways to open the old wounds and I ran out of bandages long ago.
I wish I could have been happy with the farce we had as a “relationship,” but I can’t. So instead, I opt for nothing.
I’m not happy with that, either.
I hate hating you, but I don’t see any other way to protect myself from you. I hate hating you because I don’t think you do any of these things intentionally, but the fact that you can do them blindly is even more dangerous. I hate hating you because it means explanations to my children I’d rather avoid.
I hate hating you… but it seems to be my only safe option.
This was a letter written to my mother (in my journal) four years ago.
Coming across it again this week while digging through archives for this prompt?
It broke me.
This post is a non-fiction response to a prompt by The Red Dress Club
Keep your posts to 600 words .