I have been writing you for three weeks now. This is a sort of personal record for knowing what I want to say but not knowing how to say it despite years of thinking about it. The words come all at once, jumbled, confused, and anxious. They are more raw cry than sentence., more gut instinct than communication. I feel taken back to time when I was powerless.

Three weeks and I don't feel any closer to communicating with you than before. I have to keep stopping to forgive myself. Which is ironic because everyone thinks I need to forgive you, but I have been training to forgive you by shouldering more responsibility up onto these shoulders for decades. Long after I should have stopped, I kept trying. And sometimes I hate myself for that. For volunteering for this damage. But I have never hated you for letting me. So I rise and forgive myself again.