You First

Dear Sir,

Today is my last day as your trauma archive. After almost 30 years of emotional case history—first as your mistress for a decade, then in the post-abuse fog of a ‘nice guy’ marriage, and now having found myself after divorce—my time here feels complete. Throughout my tenure, I have experienced enough to understand that suffering did not happen to me; it happened within me as a result of what happened to me.

You happened to me.

With professional assistance and concentrated effort, I processed my past need for paralysis. I retraced my steps and collected the leftover bits. And now, I intend to reclaim the whole chunks of time that were rubbed out, blown off, and swept away like little pink flecks.

To frame the issue plainly, I have been trained to constantly and unconsciously adapt my behavior, tone of voice, and entire presence to suit and soothe others. Trauma is the automatic checking of facial expressions. It is the instinct to avoid all conflict. It is what scaffolded me so far from who I might’ve been without you, and it is too adept at erasure to maintain viability.

Today, I declare—I relinquish what was never mine and return to you your sentence.

It may seem ridiculous in these terms, but love was always a cornerstone of trauma’s success. It was nestled inside attachments that were meant to feel safe and betrayals that came dressed as devotions. It was the unfulfilled need for connection and the ravenous hunger for affection. Love was the trap that glued me there and used my body as proof of loyalty for so long. Love was comfort in the arms of familiar bruising. But love was also what threw trauma deep into a chasm, like an echo, bouncing off its own nothingness, sounding and resounding softer each time.

For that decade, I thought you loved me. I believed I was choosing to live in the shadow of your life rather than lose you. By then, you were all I had. I watched that first girl come and go. Then the next. I thought it was a finite number; there was an end in sight, and when it came, I’d be right there, and we’d be together. And hopefully the crumbs will have kept me alive.

By graduation, I had traded away the friends you didn’t want me to have, quit playing the flute in the high school band, and stopped trying out for teams. During college, you had many women, including some of the friends I brought along to visit you (and betray me). I held you when you cried about more than one of their missed periods.

Remember that night we heard your roommate forcing himself on a drunk girl? It wasn’t until then that I realized how deep the well of silence was. I got up to stop him, but you pinned me down with your knees and pressed your whole hand against my mouth to shut me up.

Survival isn't a choice; it's a mode. It switches on without warning. There’s no transition, just a shift from one scenario to another, trained to engage upon various commands. This mode knows no boundary and will route and reroute through your body in any number of visceral responses. It’s very welcoming, and you can stay confined within its safety indefinitely. Its timeline unfolds limply like a rolled-up tape measure that seems to advance but can double back on itself in an instant.

After that night, I quietly tested the waters beyond your control and met a nice guy who asked me to be his girlfriend. When I told you I was moving 1,000 miles away, you promised, “You’ll never see me again.”

Now, I know that what unraveled after that was so ugly and painful that I rejected it and shoved it down in shifting disorders. I was afraid to deal with it, fearing you’d disappear, you and the familiarity.

Can you imagine? Wanting the thing that hurt you the most.

My marriage failed because I performed all my old scripts quite well. I buried the devastation in quiet folds of hurt and screamed through clenched teeth, determined to live a better life.

Except for the cruelty and violence, it was the same miserable life until I finally found freedom in the post-divorce wake.

No more self-contortions. No more swallowing my voice to preserve your image. I will uncurl from beneath the weight of what you would not carry and live my life without you.

I cannot speak for tomorrow, but today, I resign.

I hope you die first.

If I ever see you again, let it be your ghost—pleading for forgiveness, returning the last bits of my stardust.

Until then, goodbye.