A Letter to My Stepfather
Writing letters sometimes helps me.
I’m publishing the ones I write from now on publicly so I can go back and read them later, and maybe for some other reasons I can’t think of right now as well. I don’t know how long this will last (i.e. if once I beat my depression and [hopefully] PTSD whether I will continue this or not) or if it will simply make things worse. Some may be longer than others, as I can guarantee I’ll have lots to say. This post’s archive number is 555… An unlucky number of mine three times. How much worse can it possibly get?
The letters that are and aren’t posted are all going to be saved. Monday night at dinner with my aunt brought up something I’d meant to go on with, but stopped doing, and now I sort of have a collaboration of things for it.
These letters will vary in length, and if profanity slips from my fingertips, I do apologize in advance.
Mothers and daughters can be friends. You have no right to say they cannot be simply because you’re not female. Mothers and daughters are supposed to share this special bond with each other that allows them to be friends but also still allows them to be mother and daughter when needed. If you continue to say otherwise, I’m just going to assume that you really are a rectangular prism of lard and that someone has implanted nails all up in you because you are worse than a donkey’s “heehaw” at five in the morning. You are extremely closed-minded about everything and anything you think you can prove wrong. Quite honestly, I really don’t think there is any possibility for you to change into a better person. I’d suggest church, but I noticed you just lied your way all around there as well. I don’t care that you regret doing whatever it is you say you regret doing. If you ever once regretted doing anything to me, a good place to get over that regret would be to simply apologize to me and admit that everything I keep saying/having flashbacks of/etc. really did happen rather than lying about it.
I’m curious to know whether you are tired of living the life you somehow chose to live on your own yet. Are you? Are you tired of sitting around on your ass all day long making others feel so miserable they can’t see straight? I remember you telling Isaac you wished that you had died during that wreck you had in early February of last year – or maybe it was even January? Either way, it would have saved us all some time and sanity. Maybe I would finally somewhat have closure. I’m sure that wreck hurt, but I know for a fact that it didn’t cause you as much pain as you have ever caused me. You won’t ever be able to know how much pain you have caused me unless you finally open your eyes these materialistic objects seem to have blinded you with and see what really lies in front of them. I am not saying I would love to have some sort of revenge being done to you; I’m simply saying that I don’t deserve this life. I’m twenty-one years old, depressed, suffering from PTSD and having to go through much more than I should have to. I MATTER. You need to get the fact that I matter through that thick skull of yours and open your eyes to see that I do matter and that telling the truth is important.
You should be the one suffering from PTSD, depression and so much more. I’m supposed to be on summer break right now waiting for university to start back up in autumn so I can work on my Bachelor’s degree in Teaching. I’m supposed to be this beautiful twenty-one year old with tons of confidence in myself because I was raised in a household full of love. I’m supposed to be this person who has her whole life figured out, great social skills and possibly even a boyfriend who loves me the way a future husband should. That life out there in the world that the majority of my friends are living is the life I’m terrified I’ll never be able to have.
I wasn’t raised in a household full of love. I wasn’t raised by a husband and a wife who loved each other enough to put the child first. At too young of an age, I became a maid. I had to clean up after all of your crap – especially the toilet. You told me it was because I needed to learn how to be disciplined, that not everything in life was fair, that everything in life came with a price, etc. I was exhausted, almost always fell asleep in school, missed out on too many lessons and didn’t even know how I was supposed to act anymore.
You held a gun to my head, and you deny it. I remember telling my mom that something had happened that seemed like a terrible dream but was actually real, and she said you didn’t own a gun. But I knew you did because I had seen it. I remember that moment perfectly, and I am so thankful God let me live through Russian Roulette, as you called that “game”. I was afraid the entire time. I wanted to cry – to scream – but I couldn’t work up the courage to, so I stayed silent. I was never supposed to tell anyone because you’d come after me. You know what? Since I’ve actually told people, I feel better knowing it’s out there in the open. I’m less scared. I wish I would have known that if I would have died everyone would have known who did it/caused it/etc.
Do you remember when you threw your sweet iced tea in my face because I was crying? It was in Pflugerville, and I was in sixth grade. I was trying to tell you that I didn’t do anything wrong and that you were [yet again] taking Isaac’s side. You were going to spank me with your belt [yet again] until you grew tired of it, even though the previous day you had done that same thing. Anything Isaac said I did you believed because he’s your biological son. You know what? I understand in some odd and weird way that it’s much easier to beat another person’s child than your own. I guess that you become so involved in the activity that you don’t even know what is going on. You ended up not spanking me that night. Whatever the reason for your continuous beatings to my bum (and sometimes “accidentally” getting my back/legs), I will always think of you as a sick, twisted, sadistic bastard who deserves to be in jail for life.
I also remember times when you’d be lying on the floor and intentionally look up my shorts and mention how you could see “everything [I’ve] got” and compare it to my mom’s. Again, you’re a sick man who should not have been allowed to be around children at those church camps. Do you know how difficult it was (and still is) for me to not mention to authorities everywhere that you’re a pervert who lies and manipulates people? No, no, you do not. I have self control unlike some people. And you failed my attempt at having a healthy relationship with a guy as well. I couldn’t stand to be with Chris because you had to go and ruin that for me as well. You would joke about talking to him, you would tell him lies – I don’t know what you did, but he knew you and you knew him, and because of that… I’m supposed to just sit on the stupid sidelines whilst you two play soccer like there’s no tomorrow and continue hurting from all of the hell you have put me through.
All these years you told me about how I’ll rot in Hell because I was such a horrible child, blah, blah, blah. I don’t know what I ever did to make you hate me so much, but whatever it was was obviously enough for you to be able to manipulate my mom into hating me.
Unfortunately, I think I have finally figured out how people like you actually get into something like this. Honestly, I believe that it starts out as an obsession for control and power, and then somehow along the way it turns into an obsession AND addiction for control and power, thus causing it to be the only things you need to survive mentally and egotistically. Unfortunately for you, you will never be able to love the way others can love. Your love is not the good love.
Remember when you, Isaac, my mom and I all sat in the living room and watched The Lovely Bones? You’re George, and I’m Susie. You made a mistake, though: I’m still alive. And I remember so many more things you did to me – bad, horrible, mean, cruel, sadistic things you did to me. I remember them all, and you can never take that away from me. I wish I could push these things out, but I cannot. I’m still alive. You screwed up. I’m still alive and loud, and part of me is quite proud that I’m so loud that maybe I could one day even somehow teach the world just how badly child abuse screws up a person in the long run. I’m done with saying it’s my fault – I’m so done, and you can never take that away from me. Everyone knows what you did, so even if you were to come after me and kill me after all these years, you can’t silence me in the end because my voice will live through them.
Thank you allowing me to live so I can share my story to others. It really means a lot to me that by doing things that make me happy ends up making you miserable in the end. I don’t intentionally do that; it just happens.
I bet you’re so proud that your so-called “parenting skills” caused me to be this person who is writing this letter to you today. If you’re not, you can also blame that on yourself because you are the one that caused all of this. Because of you, I see the world for what it really is on the inside, not what it actually is on the outside.
Sarah Elizabeth Lawson
P.S. You belong in a mental institution if you seriously think I would have EVER allowed you to adopt me. No, lard, I would have kicked and screamed and… let’s just face it: I would have rather died than have legally been a child of yours. You wanted to take me from my dad. I would have found a way, and so would he. It never could have happened without my consent as an eighteen year old anyway. I found that out later on in life. I’ve more letters for you, and I’m certain you’ll feel the same about them as you feel about this one.