Found something I'd written about my rapist quite by accident tonight.

Seems like a good thing to let go.

We used to sit on my porch and drink tea.  I drank Darjeeling, with milk and sugar.  He would always have green tea with enough sugar in it to make me cringe, more sugar than you could believe would really dissolve in that mug of hot water – surely there was a sugar saturation peak?  We would sit on the porch and make up ridiculous schemes of becoming rich and famous by being ridiculous – by fooling people, by just ACTING rich and famous, by scamming the world into giving us money.  We would challenge each other, try to outdo each other, work off as each other to try to be as outrageous, improbable, and hilarious as possible.  We would laugh and laugh, imagining pulling a fast one on the world, rolling in dough, and thus granting us freedom, allowing us to be magic, together, forever.  Like we could ever escape.

My mental illness, it made me grip tighter, become controlling, start disciplining myself.  He never did this – he let it all rout him, and I envied him.  The drugs were quieting and calming, no matter how violent he got. 

I cannot remember how to loosen my muscles, relax my grip, the nerves on constant firing, telling my muscles to hold on even tighter.

The first time I kissed him, I trembled in fear.  What I was feeling could destroy me, and I knew then.  He draped his body over mine, light as a sheet, and he was so clean, so pure, his kisses tasted of water.