So, morbidly, I stay grateful for the things that haven’t happened, instead of mourning the things that have. It’s sick, this psychological warfare that’s been waged. The idea that I could be thankful to this man for a single thing makes my skin crawl. How fucked is it that I’m appreciative he’s yet to fully rape me? I know what the statistics say. Most girls who’ve been in captivity for as long as I have don’t make it out alive. And when they do, they aren’t really living. They’re shells of who they once were, too broken to ever function normally.
