To the sick bastard who molested me...

Did you know that for over 14 years I didn't remember what you did to me? My little brain put it all in a box and buried it deep in the back so I wouldn't find it. Did you know that I'm starting to remember? So many details are coming back to me. Like nightmarish flashbacks of a day I still can't believe I lived. I'm almost glad I can remember now because so many things about me make so much more sense. For example, I now know why I hate the smell of antiseptic cleaner and why anything that involves doctors or latex gloves gives me anxiety attacks. I now understand why older men make me nervous and why it's hard for me to look people in the eye.

Do you know much you fucked me up? I have intimacy issues in spades. Most days I battle with the feeling that my body is not worth respect and simply not mine to control. Most days I wonder why other girls want boyfriends and love stories and I just want someone to protect me. You did that to me. You and your fucking latex gloves. I trusted you. I trusted that you were a good man because you saved my dogs when they were sick. My mom trusted you; hell the whole neighborhood trusted you. I guess that's what happens when you live in a place where the monsters can hide behind little girls' shame and silence.

I just want to know what the fuck possessed you to hurt me. I know that you know what you did is sick. You'll be very glad to know that the story you gave me to cover your sickness worked like a charm. I even got grounded for the whole summer for “skipping school to play with the puppies in your clinic”, how fucking cliché can you be...

I hope I was the only one you did this to, but I know that your routine was far too well executed for it to have been your first time. It was my first time, did you know that? Well the blood on your fucking latex gloves must have given that away. “It'll hurt a little but I need to make sure you're not sick”, what a fucking joke. The best part is that you made sure I understood I wasn't sick and that I had been a very good girl during the “exam”. “Don't worry, you don't have to tell your mom since I already took care of you”, these are rough translations since you said it to me in Spanish, but that's pretty much the gist of it. Did it make you feel better to tell me over and over that you were a good doctor and I should be glad you took care of me? I bet it did.

My old therapist said I had to forgive you. That was the last time I spoke to him. I don't give a fuck, I won't forgive you. I was a happy child. I was warm and affectionate with everyone. You took that from me. You don't deserve my forgiveness. I hope it haunts you at night. I hope you know that you disgust me. I hope you know that in spite of your sickness, I grew up just fine. I hope you know that I, and whoever else you did this to, will never forgive you. I hope you go to your grave ashamed of yourself.

In retrospect, I'm madder at myself than I am at you. My brothers were doctors so I should have somehow known the difference between a vet and a people doctor. I wonder if I questioned you about that. I wonder if I resisted. I wonder how you convinced me to lie for you. There's still so much I don't remember, but I remember enough. I remember you. I remember the sting. And I remember my blood on your fucking latex gloves.

I hope you rot in hell. I hope God, or the devil, or karma, or whatever makes you pay for what you did.

Sincerely,

Your “best patient”


Update: While I still have a very shaky recollection of what happened, I've come to terms with it. I've learned that I am more than the things that have happened to me. I still don't think I've gotten to a place where I understand him, but I forgive him.