Another Letter to My Abuser

Dear Voldemort,

I know I shouldn’t say what I’m about to say because it’s not uplifting or triumphant; there’s no happy ending to this particular moment in time. I need to get some things off my chest and you need to listen.

I have spent the last two days in complete depersonalization mode, just watching myself from some far-off place and never being able to enter fully into the present moment. I can still function, from the outside, but inwardly, I’m so gone. In case you’re unaware, that’s 48 hours of being lost in La La Land. 48 hours of forgotten meals, of questioning everything, of conversations I’ve missed. 48 hours of paranoia and sleepless nights and insomnia. 48 hours of fighting sleep because I don’t want you infiltrating my headspace any more than you do when I’m awake. 48 hours of avoiding my stepdad if I hear him in the house because I’m afraid he might suddenly turn into a version of you and hurt me worse than you did.

To further bring you into my world, let me give you more examples: I hear song lyrics and my traumatized brain immediately takes them out of context and flips them, so they mean something much more sinister and vile than what the songwriter intended. I have no idea what comfort and safety in a relationship feel like, though I crave it often. You took that from me. My body automatically tenses up when male friends hug me because I’m afraid, and always on guard, of them having an accidental erection and causing me to become triggered. Do you see it yet, the damage you’ve done? Can you acknowledge it for what it is? I hate that you took vital things away from me, especially my ability to trust my friends. Mind you, I can retrieve that with time, but it still sucks. My body is endlessly tired from being in flight/fight/freeze mode constantly. I can’t relax, ever. If I do happen to get a moment’s rest, I can’t enjoy it. I’m suspicious of it, always awaiting the next trigger or flashback or panic attack. You turned me into a broken pendulum, stuck in one spot. Congratulations. Are you proud of yourself? Don’t be. You are, and will forever be, a worthless son of a bitch.

Yours Truly,

A Slytherin Warrior

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