Christ, mate.
Irony intended.
I don't know you or any of the people involved, but I know your story. Or one like it, at least.
I'm gonna say some things to you, but I'm really talking to myself so some probably won't fit. Hopefully you'll get something useful out of this anyway.
You're not gonna erase this from your head. In the years when you were meant to be constructing a nice normal identity for yourself and a view of how you fit into the world... you got this shit implanted instead.
The thing to realise is that it's not about him anymore. You said yourself that you don't know if you're going to send this to him. I don't know if you have done or not; I don't think it really matters. It's not about him, it's about his offspring; it's about what grew inside you, sprouting from his seed.
The gross imagery is no coincidence. That's the point of sex, innit? Reproduction. Passing on some part of yourself. It's not just about genetics, it's about a worldview, it's about some deep psychological sense of self that wants to try to preserve itself in the next generation. Why do you think these fuckers want to fuck kids? Why do you think they find the idea of it so alluring that they're willing to risk the fallout?
Some might be the true sociopaths, just seeing kids as easy targets, revelling in the power. But they're not the ones desperate for you to feel their love. They're not the ones imagining that they're striking out the demons.
What you were to him wasn't a sex doll; you were a vessel. At some level he imagined he was instantiating his impossible vision of a perfect fucking life. He knows he's a broken fat old fuck. You were his chance to fix all that; you just needed some guidance, a gentle hand in the right direction.
You and all the others. God.
Of course, what anyone actually passes on isn't based on how they see themselves, but how they're seen. So you've got a distorted copy of this monstrous cunt inside your head instead. You don't even get the benefit of a religious framework that allows you forgiveness, if you’ll just prostrate yourself to a bearded old man in the sky. No fucking wonder you're not on board with that one.
My point is, in your letter the lines are blurred between him and this part of yourself which came from him. Of course you hate yourself, he's a part of you. He'll always be inside you, lack of anal rape notwithstanding; like that makes a fucking difference.
You know this, because at the moment your whole identity is based around that one part. That's why you hate yourself so vitriolically. Our brains are really fucking good at constructing surface-level justifications for things though: witness you calling yourself a sociopath, despite repeatedly demonstrating that you care about other people in your letter, because that'd be a great excuse not to have to deal with the maelstrom of fucking bullshit that is your emotional state; witness this tortured line of reasoning that you're guilty because you didn't take some action or other to stop other things. No mate, the guilty one's the bloke with the wandering hands. You've got enough of your own shit to sort out without all that.
The story is, you've been given a tangled mass of barbed wire to build a life from, when most people get a pile of lego bricks with a couple of sharp edges at worst. The good news is, Jesus loves you.
Just kidding. The good news is, it can be fucking done. It'll hurt like fuck at times, you'll stumble more than once, and it'll never be as shiny and easy and oh-so-fucking simple as other people's lives, but you can build something worthwhile, something which has nothing to do with any of this shit, something which slowly transforms this fucker-copy-dominated sense of self into a person that is really, for the first time, actually you.
You're gonna have to do shit which seems ridiculous and patronising, and deal with your brain concocting stories about why it's a waste of fucking time and you should just give in to the strange comfort of misery and self-destruction instead. Shit like being kind to yourself, past present and future. You can't flip a switch and build a life, but put in some effort to sort your shit out and it will get easier, and it will be worth it.
Then, maybe, one day in the future you'll wake up and realise you've actually been happy for the past little while, and one quiet piece of yourself will say to another, "look, you cunt, I made something of myself anyway, after all the shit you pulled", before the last vestiges of hate fade into the light of morning.
