Trigger warning: violence, self-harm

I don’t know if I’m ever going to share this letter with thousands of strangers. It was tough sitting in the corner of my room and putting my suffering into words. What I’m writing right now is a part of me, the darkest one I may say. The one I’ve been running away from since a long time ago. And here I’m today, sharing it with everyone out there who might relate or who might need it to heal and feel that they’re not alone. I chose to write this today after hesitating a couple of times. I decided to face my reality, my past, my future, and my fears with what I love doing most, writing. As Jerry Gilles says, “Confront your fears, list them, get to know them, and only then will you be able to put them aside and move ahead.” So here it goes.

 I’ve never felt safe being home. Or shall I call it, being in my “house,” because home is where you feel safe? And I don’t. I’ve always been terrified of being near my father. His hug was jail to me, and his touches were thorns. His voice sounded like the monsters underneath my bed. As a child, I remember him beating me up for silly stuff, not paying attention, being too noisy, and any silly acts that would cross your mind.

Then I grew up, and so did his abuse; matters became worse. There’s so much I want to say when I mention “abuse.” But I don’t want to spend my whole life focusing on the abuse and forgetting to heal. I even remember apologizing after his abuse because, for a long time, I went to bed, blaming myself for the abuse and continuously convinced myself that I “deserve” it. My dad used to be my hero. Then I realized heroes don’t exist.

I threw this letter in my closet for two weeks. It triggered me. Then I took a deep breath, gained my power again, then continued writing.

Growing up in this house, I always questioned God about why all this was happening to me. I prayed, hoping someone was up there listening; I mean, there has to be. I needed a shoulder to cry on; instead, my hands fell on blades and pills. Suicide just felt like my destiny or my exit door out of this hellfire. I desperately needed anything to relate to, a song, a book, a quote, a movie, or even a person. I needed to hear healing words, anyone to let me know that the sun will rise and that the winds will heal my wounds.

If my destiny was a person, I’d ask her why, out of all people, I had to be the chosen one. I’d ask her if there’s hope or if I’ll ever survive. I’d ask her if one day I’ll have a family of my own and a place where I call home.

After all the ups and downs, the hell and the heaven, the rights, and the lefts, I’ve been diagnosed with depression, BPD, PTSD. This was just two weeks ago. I take antidepressants when I’m only seventeen, and I spent my teenage years dealing with trauma rather than being a normal happy teenager and fall in love.

I wonder where I’d be now if I were a normal teenager who didn’t have to look at the mirror and feel guilty about being born. Or who wouldn’t consider her diary as her best friend or put down any chance of love because I’d never let anyone in my darkest memories? Maybe all I need is an apology to heal. I hope one day I’ll get one. So for all you out there dealing with any trauma, you’re not alone, you’ll survive, you’re strong. Just hold on. I’m not a survivor yet, but I’m a warrior, and so are you.

Read also:
Nobody Plays One Role In Love
Combating Social Misconceptions Of PTSD
Judith Shakespeare And Androgyny