This is not my story. Writing has been a very amazing outlet for me, and has helped in my healing. These words have helped me express how I am feeling and have felt. They helped me, maybe, somehow, it can help someone else to remember who you are, and it is not just what has happened to you.
No, you do not define me.
No, those scars do not tell you my story, they tell you parts.
These cuts, the ones down to my bone, though they tell what has happened to me, but they do not define me.
You do not get to look at me and say “How insecure. What a mess. Too sensitive. She did it to herself.”
You see insecurity because you are not man enough to comfort someone who is not you.
You see a mess, because you do not appreciate what it looks like to fall apart and put yourself back together.
You see sensitive, because your soul does not go deep enough to understand others pain.
You place blame on me, because you are not man enough to admit what you did wrong and face the pain you caused someone else.
So no, you do not get to define me.
You can look, you have even touched, but you cannot define me by the pain you see in my eyes or the feel of my skin and scars.
Your judgments do not define me.
Your rationalizations of what you did, they do not mention my strength. They only illustrate your cowardice and faulty sense of power.
You, coward, do not get to define me.
The memories may ring in my ears and play back to me like the reel of film in the attic, old and worn, but they do not have the power to manipulate every choice in my life. Not anymore.
Your hands may have touched me, and left me mental scars I can never rid of…
BUT I will not be defined by what you did to me.