dearest --

[lowbudgetTV]

—,

I will never be able to be myself in front of you. It's nigh impossible, and you don't really care nor want that anyways. That's why I've done, I'm doing, and will do what what I do: I run—albeit only in my mind, sure, but I do run.

I've been diagnosed with PTSD. A part of me thought I didn't qualify, but the majority of me knew it was true. I learned things I didn't know about it! My anxiety I've had since I was a teenager, the panic attacks, the depression... it was all runoff from the real issue: PTSD. From you.

You can never know it, though. You won't process it. Not "you won't be able to", no, you just won't. You're incapable of doing so. You weren't able to when you were "healthy" and you won't be able to especially now that the Grand Excuse permeates your bones: cancer. You have enough burdens to carry, but I cannot carry them with you.

People with PTSD, they tend to avoid situations that trigger the "event" that gave them it: the feelings of fear, panic, aggression, et cetera... I have experienced the stereotypical traumas that the populace believes is truly valid: threats to my life, my loved ones dying, serious disability and injury... but the one thing I truly fear is you. I feel nothing for life. I walk past drug-ridden ill people tweaking out. I sit calmly in a barricaded room. I watch horror movies, games, violent spectacles. I blankly stare at the world around me. I feel nothing, but I fear you, deeply. It is something I can never fully erase.

That is the mere fact of the matter. It matters not what the DSM-V says, or the definition of C-PTSD says, or what books say, or what the police say, or what your friends say, or what my friends say, or what my therapist says, or what my mentor says, or what you say. Or what anyone says. All that remains—will remain... is the fact that your presence in my life is killing me—has killed me. All I remember is pain. Cruel, unnecessary pain. After you are ash, all that will remain of you within the mind of your own child is pain. It'll also probably be relieving to have you gone.

I will likely lose family ties. Dearest — will tell them that the unruly spoiled brat has hurt them, and I will be pushed out. That's fine. You did me a service by disconnecting me from them anyways. Now, I will not be sad to see them off. Those who wish to know me as me will be welcome, but other than that, I will be free of this.

I like to write down what I remember as a sort of therapy, as a sort of processing. It also doesn't help that you gaslit me—you did!—a lot. I must remember the truth, so I write it down. Again. Again. So that I will remember, and you will not make mush out of my mind.

You tortured a child. You confused her. You gave her things she did not ask you for, then called her a spoiled brat for being unhappy. You guilted her with these things in order to make yourself feel better. You told her it was fine, because we were even. We were not even. You were an adult; I was a child. I was born into this world ignorant of anything not learned and not told of me. You watched as I performed poorly the act of being human, and you decided to berate me for it. I was a dancing monkey performing the act of stupidity for you, and you loved it—you must have, because you did not ever falter. You neglected me—you did! I never was taken to the doctor, I took myself or begged. I never was taken to the dentist, I took myself when I was an adult and able. "But I did, that one time!" you yell, "you liar!" But it was not enough. It was never enough. You sat and watched my jaw lock open during dinner, and nothing was done. Why didn't you do anything? Why?

I cried often at night wondering why —, who often joked about locking me up in the hot attic to keep me from doing stereotypical rebellious teenager things, berated me for liking childish things. At least I wasn't doing drugs, or bad things, or watching porn. No—you saw me as weak. Weak. Weak. You called me it so often. Why? Of course I was weak. I was a child. I was alone. I was trying to figure out a million different things including why my parents did not love me for me. I was made even more alone than when I started.

There's a thousand other things I could repeat. I've tried to get you to answer to some of them. Just. Say. Sorry. You couldn't. "But—!"

But I was a child. You were an adult.

I was a child.

One instance of your horrid actions should have been enough to know you were wrong.

I am no longer your child. When I was younger, I wrote a little song about the reversal of the concept of disownment. I'm acting that musical out now. I disown you. They do not appreciate my skills. They do not respect my personhood. They do not respect who I am. They do not respect queer people, non-white people, or really anyone even slightly different than themselves. I will never lie again. I know that you know I lied a lot as a child. I didn't know why I did, but now I do: because I so desperately feared you. The chance of invisibility was worth extra rage. I hate lying though, did you know that? I bet you didn't. So, I will never lie again: I do not love you. I stopped loving you years ago. I think a part of you knew that, considering how often you'd say, "you hate me, don't you?"

I'm making amends with myself by ridding my life of you.

So, I run. I've run for a while. I will keep running. As of today, though, I start down a different road. One you're not on. You're too far gone for me to ever catch you. Goodbye.