This is a Letter To My Abusers…Trigger Warning HIGH Level

Cops and Doctors have one thing in common, and that’s that they all say “When you stop caring, you stop doing your job.” It basically means when you stop giving a fuck about all the bad stuff, you start becoming useless to those that need you.

One of my rapists is absolutely convinced that I ruined his life when I made the list of all the names of the men I remember seeing the last time I was gang raped.

It’s laughable really, but it pisses me off all the same. I ruined your life? Let me tell you what happened after you started raping me twenty-two years ago.

Consider this your trigger warning.

I stopped giving a fuck about my life, and my existence. I started scarring my body so that I could remember that I’d been sexually abused, because I could chemically feel my brain forcing me to forget so that the trauma wouldn’t consume me.

Eventually I forgot why I was “accidentally” hurting myself all the time, because it just became easier to cause myself pain, then deal with the fact that not one fucking person in my entire life realized that every night for weeks on end, I was being raped.

Imagine the humiliation of a seventeen year old girl, walking into her house after being raped on the front fucking lawn of her home, her sanctuary, being told “I thought you wanted it” by the neighbor with a child who watched the entire thing go down and chose not to call the police.

Let’s talk about how only minutes after crawling into bed, my home was burglarized by professional burglars, who decided I was the perfect person to start raping. Brutally, and violently. Viciously, without a single care of what it was going to do to my psyche.

Let me tell you about how the trauma was so great I actually felt my soul leave my body, not for the first time, and descend into what can only be described as the tenth level of hell.

Let me tell you about the years I isolated myself from people, terrified that if I had anyone in my life, they would get hurt as a biproduct of my existence. Let me tell you about the years I allowed toxic abusive people into my life, as a way to recreate the emotional abuse I was going through, because I didn’t understand the difference between love and abuse.

“I” ruined your life? I didn’t graduate highschool, I didn’t get to go to college, I didn’t get to do something with my life that fucking matters, because you destroyed every second of mine, because your daddy told you it was okay for you and your friends to rape little girls.

“I” ruined your life by telling the truth. “I” ruined your life by making sure that friends around the world know your names in case something happens to me. “I” ruined your life? Good because you fucking decimated my life.

You put the lives of the men and women that I care about at risk. You used people I loved as a weapon against me. You put the life of my mother at risk. You destroyed every second of my life, purely because you didn’t understand that your fucking cock isn’t a god damned weapon for you to show off your superior skills.

You are fucking children, in a war you can’t possibly comprehend, because I am not a victim. I’ve never been a victim, I haven’t had the luxury of being a victim in my entire fucking life. I have had to be a soldier since I was four years old when my baby-sitters boyfriend raped me. Only to grow up years later to be the man who raped me on my front lawn in BC.

Rapists are the absolute scum of the earth and they deserve no sympathy, no empathy and no second chances. I’ve made excuses for you idiots our whole lives because you, like me, were children when it first started, but you arent’ children anymore.

You are grown ass men with children of your own. At a certain point you’re going to have to look in the mirror and ask yourself if you’re going to be your version of a man, or if you’re going to be daddy’s little rapist bitch and continue the cycle with your own kids.

Either way I am not going to be there to watch you. This is a path you have to take on your own. I’m done cleaning up your messes.

Author: Devon J Hall

Devon J Hall is a thirty-eight-year-old Writer and Author from Surrey, British Columbia by way of Calgary Alberta. She lives with three cats, one mother, and is addicted to coffee, cigarettes, and weed, not necessarily in that order.

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