To my attacker,

I know exactly who you are. You wear many faces, but you’re the same person. You all treat me like I’m nothing like I’m below you. Here I will always stay, the footstool for you to stomp on. I’m just a stepping stone, so you can further your climb on the social ladder.

I’m the one you will continue to beat. It will get worse. We both know this. You can call me any name you want. I have to take, absorb it and just believe it’s true. Whatever comeback or retort I come back with will never be equal to any of your taunts. Every punch, every kick, every elbow will hurt for a few seconds, but they will be back the next day. I just wait for the day, I pray to whatever deity there is that they will end. They will end for you after every one of your laughs. But I will feel them like yesterday into my adult life(if I make it that long) I bet you didn’t know that. You probably think this is good for me like I deserve it. But you’re oh so wrong. You think this will make me a man, but it doesn’t. I’m a broken, battered, half-functioning, chemically dependent, much too angry, scared, fractured, half-formed adult.

See what you did there? Is this self-esteem building? You know the best part. The school, every teacher in it laugh at me more than you, or with you. All the administrators, the principal, the vice-principal think I’m lying. They think I’m making all this up. If I try to fight you one-on-one, you’ll recruit two of your friends to gang up on me, and beat me senseless. My parents, yes my parents they have no idea, and they can’t fight my battles. Plus, school will laugh them out the door! And you know what else? I have two years left of high school. What do I do? I ask this question over and over…..I want to be a man. I can’t show I’m weak. I have me to show you I’m stronger than all of this. I can’t cry. I don’t have too many options. I’m running out, in fact….of options that is.

I have dreams of smashing your face ’til it bleeds. I want you to feel as inferior as me. I’ve been taking your !$#% since I was 9. I’m *&!#$%# tired of it. I want to see you on the ground, crying, bleeding, begging for mercy. What if you weren’t around? What if I made this possible?  Wouldn’t it be great for all this to end? What if I wasn’t here? Nothing matters anyway. F____it.

You see this is all fantasy. None of this is real. This is just a simulation. From one victim to his attacker, of any number of attackers. This rage could result in a death threat, a cry for help, a suicide note, a reason to start fighting, an access to an AR-15. You see where all this pent up rage could go? You see the danger? Now, I ask do the schools have a part, do the parents who raise children who abuse other children have one, do the teachers? But all the responsibilty is placed on the kid who can’t take anymore.Well, I say you need to step back, and alter your focus. Because you’re looking at this from the wrong angle. You have to adjust your lenses and point the scope at all of these forces pressing this kid. You’re seeing the result. You were too blind ignoring the warning signs from day one.

Regretfully not present any longer,

-Victim

(replaced by someone who doesn’t sit to take it, but stands to fight! )- A Survivor Lives Here

“You are worth it. It does get better.”        -Anonymous