Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 139803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 699(@200wpm)___ 559(@250wpm)___ 466(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 699(@200wpm)___ 559(@250wpm)___ 466(@300wpm)
Dr. Gresham thinks I should write this letter to tell you everything that I should have told you a long time ago.
I was fucked up long before I got raped the first time four years ago. It was just easier to blame it on that night than it was to face the absolute hell I endured. But with every passing day that I pretended those nightmarish years didn’t happen, I destroyed another part of my soul that needed to heal.
I was my own undoing in the very end.
I pushed everyone away that ever wanted to help me because I wanted to protect myself, but I should have focused on protecting me from myself more than anything because, in the end, I was the one that destroyed me. No one else.
My mom has always been addicted to drugs and alcohol for as long as I can remember, though I’m sure you know that. She let those same men try to use me to get her next fix.
But I was a fighter, and I was too much trouble. I was always deemed more trouble than I was worth. I used to consider it a miracle. The hatred at home was better than some gross, old man forcing himself on me.
But she fucked up one time, and she lent me to someone that actually cared about what happened to me. He took care of me.
She took me back, and when she did, she tried to drown me.
I’ve been surviving since then. I guess I’ve always been a survivor, but I worked so much harder after that day to live.
But I never really lived, Julian. Not until you.
Fuck, we were always so toxic, but it’s because you wanted me so badly, and I didn’t want that. We both fucked up in so many ways. You never gave me the space to make my own decisions, and I let you run all over me so easily. I could never fight against you.
When I did, it always resulted in an explosion.
This past month, Dr. Gresham and I have been working on everything that happened between me and you—and our baby. He encouraged me to name him. His name is Oliver Liam Markos. I painted what I feel he would have looked like as a toddler, and he’s holding your football in his hands, and he’s wearing your jersey, even though it’s way too big on him.
Because he would have been a daddy’s boy, Julian. The love you had for our son was insurmountable. Nothing could ever compare to it. You would have made a fantastic dad, and I’m sorry that it was ripped away from you so abruptly.
We’re still working on the blame I’m placing on myself. Most days I do okay, and I don’t feel so guilty.
But it’s those bad days that let me know I’m not over it yet. I’m not healing properly.
I’m going to get better. I have faith in that. I’m ready to be out of here, but not for the same reasons anymore.
I want out of here because I know when I’m out, I’m okay. I know that I’ll be able to cope and truly live as I was always meant to.
I will come home to you, Julian.
And I will fight every single day, even on the days that I don’t feel like fighting at all—when I only feel like giving in to the darkness I’ve spent so long crawling out of.
I see you at the end of my dark tunnel. You’re so clear now, and I don’t ever want to lose sight of that again.
I love you.
I will continue fighting for me, for you, for us—because I’m a survivor. I’ve always been one.
And I’m your goddess, Julian. I may fall, but I’ll always get back up.
With all of my love,
Meghan
* * *
✶ ✶ ✶
* * *
Meghan
* * *
I looked up at Dr. Gresham as he stepped into the art room. He gave me a warm smile. “The nurses said you didn’t fight about the medication this time,” he commented.
I shrugged at him. “It’s not so bad anymore,” I admitted.
He stepped up behind me and looked over my shoulder at what I was painting.
It was a painting of Oliver and Julian. Julian was holding our son in his arms, gazing down at him with so much love that it tore at my heart in the best way possible. Oliver’s black, curly hair was just as messy as his dad’s, and they were grinning at each other.
Both of their faces were clear, nothing obstructing the viewer’s view of them.
It meant I was healing, even if the progress was extremely slow. It meant I was coming to terms with everything that had happened.
I was slowly, but surely, getting better.
I set my paintbrush down and admired the painting, a small, tender smile crossing my lips.