A letter

Dear Father,

I never really liked my name. As a kid I hated how it meant that I was your child. I felt that the title didn’t explain all that I was in life. Jessica, child of Jesse, a common nobody that not even her father could bring himself to love. As a child I convinced myself that the best thing to do is hate before others had the chance to hate me. I remember the few times of happiness I felt I would instantly try and force it down. I didn’t deserve happiness.

When I was 10 I decided I would give myself 10 more years of life before I killed myself. I decided this after you had yelled at me for one reason or another. I remember holding a mini funeral for myself…my little self.

I killed the part of me that made me Jessica.

Jessica was unloved and unwanted. I thought this would make life easier.

But then came the voices…and the shadows.

I hated being in small spaces. I was fine with animals lurking about but small places like bathroom and closets gave me nightmares. I could feel people staring at me. I could hear people whispering. They wanted to hurt me. They convinced me that you wanted to do the same. I couldn’t trust anyone.

Killing myself did not go as planned but it was to late to go back now.

After while the shadow became that of a little girl. Jessica had came seekimg her revenge. It got to the point where being alone was the only way to keep her at bay. I hating sleeping because she was always there. I had nightmares all the time. I would wake up crying and had to sneak into my sister bed just so I could sleep. She wasnt a huge fan of that so I would often sleep under her bed. People didn’t crawl on me or grab me when I was under her bed. During storms I would sleep under the window. It probably wasn’t the safest places but no one hurt me when it rained but they screamed, oh god did they scream so loud.

When my sister was gone I just didn’t sleep. I begin to fear the dark so stayed up crying or writing or reading. Hurting myself whenever sleep got to close.

I spent my days sleeping or reading because she couldn’t reach me during the day time. She wouldn’t dare… The consequences of my fears made it so people hated me anyways. I couldn’t prove to others that the voices where there. No one else saw the shadows.

After awhile the whispers stopped. They didn’t go away completely but they did stop.

Father, I grew up believing you hated me. This was probably because I hated myself. Even now I do not understand how you can even talk to someome as damaged as me.

I look at my daughter and I pray to whatever god is listening that she doesn’t turn out like me.

As I have aged I no longer fear the dark. Small places comfort me, especially if there is a furbaby to keep me company.

I haven’t told anyone about the voices. No one important anyways. Over the years I have actually denied them being there. But they are here. No longer yelling or whispering but I can feel them judging me. I know what it means to see or hear things.

Dear Father

I really don’t know what to do anymore. I guess I could tell you that I am fucked up but you already know it.

At least, that is what she is telling me.

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