The woman known simply as “my abuser” to this web site sent me an e-mail last night. It said nothing about the abuse, as if it never happened. I don’t know why I was surprised. Her absolute denial is the crux of my problem, because the more she glosses over it, the more I feel the shame, fear, disgust… you name it, and I’ve gone through it.
The e-mail was simple. A picture of her at a soccer game with the note “I would not be here without your influence.” It would have been sweet if we were friends. But I can’t think of anything as sweet anymore. It literally makes me sick to my stomach when I see her name in my inbox, because I want a mea culpa and what I get are things to lure me back into conversation.
I realize that with a major break, one in which you say the Kaddish and tear your clothes, finding a resurrection has to start somewhere (I see what I did there)… but this is not it. This is the emotional equivalent of being offered candy from a van.
I’ve been through this before, and I know I am right, because in the past, those overtures have been checks to see if her claws are still wrapped around my heart; she checks because if I express any emotion, the overtures get larger. Time goes by, and the same claws clamp down and I start to bleed.
That’s because in the past, I haven’t been able to stop myself from returning her affections, and the moment I do, she disappears.
Do you see the game? Do you see it? I am not allowed to need her. I am not allowed to love her. I am not allowed to be me unless it fits into the perfect container where I live… have lived… will probably continue to live even if we’re not in contact.
The double standard is that she’s been allowed to love me. She’s been allowed to need me. She’s been allowed a sacred space in my soul to which no one else has access. No matter how inappropriate, she was my first love. No one can ever take that place.
But that doesn’t mean that I have to forgive her for offering a lure and trying to see if I’ll take the bait.
I’m stronger than that. I went through hell to find out that I was a victim, and how to recover from it. I will not go back to that place ever again, because it robbed me of having my own personality. I was so emotionally laden that I couldn’t focus on anything else.
My purpose in writing this down is not for you. It’s to have something in writing that I can look to when I feel that what she did to me couldn’t possibly be as bad as I think.
I accept who I am, and who I am says to tell her to go fuck herself.
So I did.