To The Man That Raped Me.

Original post from October 21st, 2017

Dear someone I thought I knew,

To be fair..

By the time I met you I had pretty much lost all desire to care about myself. I was as culture called me an “addict”. I had been for close to 8 years. I was lost in a sea of brokenness that started many years before I ever knew your name. Does this make anything I’m about to discuss okay? No. Not even a little bit. It might give reason behind me believing your lies from the start however. See, the pain, it began as a child. And yet, felt so present at the time. I carried it with me like a comfort blanket. Trying to cover up the destruction that was within me. Every where I went, every person I met, seeped pain from being 8 years old and having my innocence stripped from me. Like the freedom of someone who find themselves in jail a whole lot longer than they ever anticipated. And for what? A momentary slice of “bliss”.

I wandered around life looking for love so desperately that I thought I could find it in your arms. Only to find that the love you offered was also broken and tainted. Something that would soon take me captive without giving me the slightest heads up. Leaving me questioning my worth, my value, and my identity. The fairytales I once believed of love were completely shattered in this one act of you trying to prove your manhood.

You were funny, you were handsome. And somewhat mysterious. Slightly sarcastic – which I loved. But you were also compensating. For what your friends thought was cool. What the movies tell you a real man is. What society convinces men women want. You were a victim just as much as I was to peer pressure.

I used to think it was my fault. I would look in the mirror and blame myself for being so “stupid”. That isn’t your fault either. The word stupid was something I had grown quite fond of over the years. It rang through my mind like the church bells I never heard growing up. I held tight to this word because after you hear it enough you begin to not only believe it about yourself but proclaim it over yourself. It begins to shape you and tell you who and what you are. It begins to feel so good to your skin, to your soul. Who you will always be. Something you will always identify with. It begins to portray itself as your destiny.

It would be easy though, wouldn’t it? To look at you and point a finger. Or the man from when I was 8, to blame either of you. For that matter, I could blame every man that has used the word love to get something from me.

I could blame you for the drugs I took to numb the pain you caused. I could blame you for the alcohol I drank to wash away the hurt I felt after you left me bruised and beaten. I could blame you for the emptiness I felt around those who actually did love me. Because to me this word really meant nothing. I could let you have the control to ruin my future. I could feel sorry for myself the rest of my life because of what you did. I trusted you. I loved you. I thought you loved me. Your words, your calls, and your texts convinced me that you did.

That’s the problem though isn’t it? Your actions never did.

I wondered for so long why you would try to reach out to me and were apologizing, over and over your words stung like a knife that stayed in my back long enough to cause an infection in my soul. You weren’t sorry. But, I didn’t understand to the full extent what happened that cold, dark night in a hotel room. Until it was over. That night never should have happened. I should have known not to leave with you, I should have known your words were void of any truth. I should have known you didn’t have any love to give, you didn’t even love yourself.

Had I known that, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

In hindsight, the thing that got me the most was not even the “event” of the evening before. It was the alarming truth of the daylight the morning after. I couldn’t hide the shame in the brightness of the day. There wasn’t enough make-up in the world to cover the bruises that marked my body. The scars left behind would be something that lingered for years. I was beginning to see clearly what love meant to you.

Turns out, you were just as much a captive to the darkness as I was.

It began to feel good to you. Isn’t it strange some of the things we can convince ourselves are not so bad? So I don’t blame you, though some would tell me I can or that I should. I don’t have time for that. I do want to tell you this though, I forgive you. I have decided I no longer have room in my heart to be angry with you. To be angry with myself, nor do I have the time to waste on things that do not speak to who I truly am.

I pray that you find peace and forgiveness for your sins. I want you to know how much Jesus loves you and that He died just for you. As I’m writing this,  a tear streams down my face because I understand the freedom He has called us to live in and I want you to experience this too.

There is a better life for you my friend. It has taken me this long to let you know you deserve it too. But here I am laying down my pride at the alter of our King, praying that you find your way to His heart.

Much love,

K