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[writtentonobody]

Dear nobody,

It’s complicated.

How I feel about you is not easily put into words.

I hope you die.

I feel sorry for you.

I hate you.

I’m sorry.

No matter how I word it, nothing seems quite right. It never seems like enough.

But… I know how my body reacts when I think about you. My stomach coils up- twists and turns and churns with hot magma, and I want to expel it. My hands are clammy. My face feels freezing and too hot at the same time. My limbs tremble. And most horrific of all, is the sickening, barely-there arousal that sometimes surfaces- a feeling that makes my insides quiver with shame.

You’ve twisted me up in a way that’s hard for me to express. You’ve turned me rotten. You took what made me innocent and spit it back up in my face, and you’ve turned it into a sludge a hue so sinister that I am afraid to show anyone what’s left of it.

I can still recall the day with too much clarity. (I’m so fucking angry about this day. How you treated me. How my friend treated me. How I had to treat myself. How I had to pick up the fucking pieces of me because nobody else could. Nobody else wanted to.)  Ironically enough, I don’t remember much of you. I remember what you did to me, but I barely remember what you look like. I barely remember the shit you told me. Who you were. But that might’ve just been because I was way too damn drunk.

It all started at a Halloween party. My favorite holiday. My favorite time of year. I came all the way from a different city to visit my friend, and we had matching costumes. I was an angel. My friend was a devil. The plan was to go to a music gig at some bar, because a guy that my friend liked was playing with his band. It was fun, at first. After a couple of drinks, I allowed myself to sway with the crowd. Smile at the other guests. Enjoy the moment, even though I was shy. You didn’t even pay attention to me then, when I was there. But I saw you, I think. With your friends. After the show, we were invited to the afterparty. My friend was excited to talk to the performer they liked (he was apparently your friend, too. Your best of buds. Found out later that your whole friend group was filled with creeps.) and though I was meek, I was excited to mingle and meet new people. And meet new people I did. Strangers included me. There was a cat. I made friends with a very mystical lady who kept calling me pretty, and I was a little smitten. But that was when you swooped in. I was pretty drunk at that point, and you led me to sit with you on the couch. You gave me another nasty, cheap beer, and we talked about a whole bunch of shit that doesn’t matter. I scanned around for my friend. Were they safe? I saw them. All was good. At one point, we started kissing. I don’t remember how. But I was excited. It was my first time kissing a guy. I was a late bloomer, and I was excited to experience new things.

We kissed for a while longer. The party ended. But hey! After party of the after party at your house, right? Awesome. So stupidly, I drove us there in my little purple car. I couldn’t even drive in a straight line. Why did you guys let me do that? Somehow, we made it, though. We all piled out of the car when we got there and ended up in your apartment. There was an upstairs and a downstairs. My friend stayed downstairs, talked to your friends. I went up with you. I was ready for some kissing and some cuddling. We made out, and then, out of nowhere, you tugged down my tights. That was wrong. It was wrong. And suddenly, there was pain. And more pain. And then, quickly I covered myself. “No,” I’d said. “It hurts.” And then you said something sooo cliché. Something like, “Oh, are you a virgin? It’s supposed to hurt the first time.” I might’ve been naïve, but I wasn’t an idiot. You tried again and again, and I stood firm on no. Eventually, you gave up. I quickly ran downstairs, half-clothed, and burst into tears when I locked eyes with my friend. I don’t remember what I said, but you had begged and begged me to stay to cuddle. My friend asked me if I wanted them to beat you up. At the time, I wanted- needed- to get out of there as quickly as possible, so I’d said no. But looking back on it, I should’ve said yes. Maybe you getting a fist to the face would’ve offered me more closure. Maybe, it would have allowed me to forgive my friend more easily for leaving me up there with you.

I screamed and cried on the phone with one of my ex-girlfriends. Then, whilst still quite drunk, I drove my friend home. They offered me a pair of Winnie the Pooh pajama pants in place of my messed-up tights. And then… I had to drive myself home. All the way out of town. I’d stopped to get coffee, and then it was an hour and a half drive back, by myself, at 6 am. I think this was the worst part of it all and the part where I felt most alone. After something so horrible had happened to me, there was nobody to help scoop me back up. I had to pick up little shards of myself and hurriedly shove them into my proverbial pocket. It felt like… this always happens. I always had to do this for myself. But now, the time when I’d needed it the most, I was left, driving myself home, trembling like a leaf, glancing down at pooh bear on my legs to bring me some sort of childish comfort, like at least he was there for me.

When I got home, something happened. It was when that sinister, grotesque thing first reared its ugly head. Something so shameful- so horrific, needy, and evil. I’d gotten home, headed to my bedroom, and I’d immediately gotten off. I know it’s pretty common after that sort of thing. Your body and your mind are so confused. But… I hated myself more than I ever have in that moment.

From then on, I was all screwed up. I used people to hurt me. I drank to numb the pain. I went through psychosis, though this is partially not your fault- something else that was horrible enough happened to me that same year, too, that made me question my whole existence.

Months later, I’d looked you up. I had somehow managed to remember your name, or at least parts of it. And after looking up friends of friends and looking at different peoples’ profiles I managed to find you. I read your profile. Memes filled with misogyny. Unsurprising. Not atypical of what you were. There were also a couple of family photos, and old pictures of you. I was filled with hatred. I wished that you felt guilty for what you did to me. I wished that your whole life was ruined. I wished that maybe you’d even kill yourself because you knew how fucked up of a person you were. But with the same breath, I’d also thought… I hope that your life wasn’t ruined. I hope that you can move on. I hope that everything will be alright for you. I even thought, maybe you were too drunk, too. Maybe you didn’t really realize what was happening until it was too late as much as I did. Realistically, though, I knew that none of these things were probably the reality. You probably didn’t care. Didn’t remember, nor cared to remember. I was probably just a half a blink of a memory for you, if even that.

And it really is unfortunate, too, because somehow, I’d allowed you to have this power over me- a power so intense that it has affected me deeply, even to this day.

Because of you, I am scared to be vulnerable.

Because of you, being touched makes me feel twisted.

Because of you, I have trouble forming deep relationships. (Not just because of you. That runs deeper than you, too.)

Because of you, even though my body screams for hugs, holding hands, being physically close to people, (this is not just about romance, but even with my friends, too) when I think of allowing myself to do so, something in me starts to clamp up, like I can’t.

Because of you, I’m afraid that I can’t be enough.

Because of you, I feel like something horrific.

Because of you, I have feelings that I can’t explain and don’t know how to explain.

You’ll never see this.

But I needed this.

I think my conclusion is that I hope you rot.