Fault

I hate myself. I really do.

I hate the way I walk, the way I talk, the way I dress. I hate the way I try to please everyone, the way I submit to anyone, the way I let people take advantage of me.

I hate myself for the past, for what happened. Why would it happen so many times if it wasn’t my fault? Why would they choose to hurt me specifically, and to do it over and over, if there wasn’t something wrong with me?

Everyone says it’s not my fault, but I don’t believe them. It is my fault. I should have known better. There should have been some juvenile sense of chastity or morality about me—some inherent, childlike innocence—that propelled me to stop what was happening and get help. I should have stood up for myself and fought back more. I should have been outraged and disgusted and vocal, not gentle or passive or quiet. And if they would have killed me for speaking up, then I should have died fighting.

What will it take to get me to believe it’s not my fault? Is that even true? Can I really be absolved of all the blame, or is that just what people say? Am I still going to Hell? Do I truly not deserve to be punished?

Or am I still just as worthless as they made me feel?