I hate that you don’t understand you did anything wrong. That one night broke me. It was the one thing you could do to me that I can’ t ever really recover from. The kids will never know what you did and will never understand why everything fell apart for me afterwards. I can’ t tell them why their lives fell apart. I can’ t tell them what I went through after that. I can’t tell them that I came so close to killing myself afterwards. I can’t tell them why I don’t let anyone get close to me, why I have no friends and why I let myself get into the state I did. No kid ever needs to know that. They still have to deal with you. But you will never come into my house again. You will never be alone with me. You will never have the opportunity to do that to me again.

But you know what I hate most of all? That I came out of that horror as the person who was wrong, who did the wrong thing and I still get abused by strangers for it. Because of that I will never live a normal life, I will never let myself trust anyone else. I will never trust my own judgement again.
I am so damn lonely I cry myself to sleep, and you get to be the good guy.

It was rape, you bastard. You broke into my house and you raped me. While your six month old baby was on the bed beside me, and your other kids were in the room next door, you raped me. You went home as though it was nothing. I broke.

I’m still broken.