Better

The nightmares come back eventually. They always do. The choking pain as I wake up hyperventilating and sobbing. Scared that I was still in the dream, never to escape what laid in the hell I revisited almost every night. Dreams about you watching me as I sleep. Dreams about that night and what could have happened. Dreams that are dark, but I can feel the space closing around me. Dreams that are lonely and no one ever existed, not even me.

I don’t know why I still get them, but in a way I understand. It’s been two years since that day and a lot has changed. I guess it's my mind reminding me why I have trouble with a lot of things. I guess even with an effort I can’t get every last memory out of my head. I know I’m healing though, which is a good start.

I can walk out of a bedroom now, no longer scared that you may be waiting for me on the other side. I can go places and not get scared when I see the car you drive owned by someone else. I can make eye contact without expecting anger and screaming. I can touch someone without flinching away like I’ve been burned by your hate.

You broke your family, did you know that? Does what you did keep you up at night?

You tell us that we aren’t old enough to understand what happened, but at what age does abuse suddenly become understandable? You are the reason we grew up too fast. We became older than you the moment you raised your voice. We became wiser to the world the second you laid your hands on us.

We are sad that after all this time you still blame us, your children, for your adult actions. Actions that have scarred us and left us so numb, your excuses are futile and stale.

Dad has had his midlife crisis a few times over, and now he’s pushing away his children. I kind of expected it when he started working morning to morning. He got a new wife last year. She’s nice and makes us food sometimes. She’s a good cook. I wish she did more, though.

Your youngest daughter thinks the world revolves around her. I guess that's not a bad thing to have, but when she puts you down with words she learned from her mother, it gets a bit too much for even me to handle. Nothing really satisfies her anymore.

Your son needs therapy—that's something I'm very certain about. He’s confused and angry. You hurt us and then you left, never saying sorry and never acknowledging what you put him through. He’s just a kid.

I hope to forgive you one day, Mom. Not for myself, never for myself. But maybe it could help you become a better person. A different person. A person who does actually regret what you did to us. To me. To my sister. to my father.

I do hope the best for you, though. I think it would be a lie if I said I never wished you ill will, but I’ve grown past that. Even after the lies you spoke in court. Even after the way you acted when trying to win us back. Even after you went after my sister's life.

I hope the best for myself too. To become someone you didn’t damage. To be someone who can be strong and save herself from the hole that was put inside me. To be someone who can tell you all of this to your face.

I will be better. One day soon, I will be.