Take me back to therapy a third time, then,
since I have left
but you just can't leave me alone.
Tell me I overreacted.
Tell me I am to blame.
You haven't been yourself.
Tell me I'm not over it.
again –
Again,
tell me you meant well,
the best of intentions.
Tell me you didn't intend
to panopticon my students
to manipulate me into shouting at them
to touch them and show off your body to them
to text me at 2.27am in the morning
or call me at 9.30pm at night
or stalk me via proxy, over and over and over again,
until there was really no one left to block.
Tell me you didn't mean to deliberately mark my classes down,
over and over and over again,
especially the ones you thought were my favourites.
Go ahead. Tell me I play favourites.
Tell me I'm disgusting.
Tell me it's all my fault.
Tell me it wasn't what I thought it was.
Because at first, it wasn't.
God, please tell me I didn't love you at first.
And please tell me who you are.
Tell me, for
otherwise I might just remember it all,
just how weak I have been:
the finger put into my ass
so that I would never like anal sex,
the glass table shattered in my face,
the attempt to make me into another version of you
because you couldn't get over being gay yourself.
The attempts to rape me in my own house, twice, with alcohol to boot,
because no, you could never be gay.
The exact words you said when you told me I turned you gay,
when you told me I had NPD,
when you told me you weren't ISD,
when you told me I had no professional image –
and when you told me I could always count on you.
I could always trust you.
I could always believe
that I was a damn good teacher
and a super good coach.
That you loved my husband like a son.
That you had been hurt because I had a disorder.
That you had such good times in CJC/SJI/wherever and whenever.
That I was your best friend, wherever and whenever,
and nothing would ever change that.
You say I’ve changed.
Hell, don't tell me; I know.
Tell me when you're ready
because hell am I ready
for you to individuate.
And why don't you also tell me
who changed me.
Who told you it wasn't abuse to the nth fucking degree, pure and simple.
Who sent me to therapy.
Who you really are.