Responsibility. Control. Power. How much does it matter who had it and who didn’t. It happened. Too late.

And why did it stop? Why didn’t it stop. Why did he start! Why did it progress! How did circumstance support it? So he didn’t fuck me anymore, I was getting too fat, that’s what I thought. Too fat and ugly. I didn’t tell him I was menstruating, I guess my mother did or he just knew.

The more I knew it was wrong, the more I hated him and he was gross and disgusting, and couldn’t stand to be near him or touched by him,  but the more I was responsible and I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to care for me. The more distance from what he did, the more wrong I was as a person. Maybe that was because I was a teenager and would have felt that anyway, or because I was no longer loveable or worthy.