The Apology I Never Got (So I Gave It to Myself)

It happens in the moments where I’m not noticing what I’ve lost, when all that guilt comes rushing in. It’s when I’m listening to a song we used to play in my car while we drove or made out in the backseat. Mr. 32 was supposed to show me a different kind of love, one that allowed me to explore myself as a three-dimensional character, one that allowed me to be soft and feminine, one that let me feel taken care of. 

Mr. 32 had money and a job. And a girlfriend. Mrs. 25. 

I had trauma. 

I had barely survived a brutal assault. My wounds self-inflicted. 

Mr. 32 picked me up and sat me on his lap. He kissed my neck and left marks for me to find the next day. He poured tequila down my throat and waited until I swallowed to give me the orange juice. He bought me wines to try when I read a book. He held my hand and lit the blunt that he rolled for me. He didn’t even smoke. 

We walked in the late night and got fried oreos. We fell asleep on the train and rode it past my stop. He walked me to my door. He told me I was beautiful. He told me I had so much to offer the world. He told me he had so much to offer me. Then, he fucked me over. While he was home with her, I took a test. It was the first one I had ever wanted to fail. 

I passed. With flying colors. 

Amelia became my light. No, she’s not alive. No, I don’t know her due date or birthday. No, she’s not named after my grandfather like I always wanted. No, I don’t know that she’s even a she. I don’t know anything about the baby I almost had. Mr. 32 was immature, and I was not getting stuck while on the cusp of the rest of my life. 

In those weeks, I learned how to walk miles while cramping and bleeding blood clots, I learned how to push pills up my vagina, I learned how to make life-altering decisions, I learned that I don’t want your cum in me. In the months after, I learned that I carry Amelia with me everywhere. I learned that I show her art and movies and music, I write stories for her, I take her all over the world in words. She will watch me graduate, and know it’s because of her that I made it this far. 

I texted her one day. Mrs. 25. And told her the story. She asked me, “Why are you telling me this? What do I owe you? You want sympathy? You want me to care?” 

I told her the truth. I didn’t want her sympathy, I didn’t want a favor, I didn’t want to speak to him again. I wanted to warn her about the man she was sharing a bed with. Mrs. 25 didn’t believe me. Mrs. 25 demanded my medical records for proof. Mrs. 25 got blocked. 

It’s been almost a year since I met the Mr. and Mrs. It’s been almost a year since my life changed forever. It’s been almost a year since I learned valuable lessons. I learned everything that I needed to know about my future, and decided I would never let someone risk it again. 

It’s been almost a year and I can finally apologize to the girl I was last year. I am almost 24 and I know the girl I was at 23 did much more than just survive. She loved and lost, she learned and grew, she changed. I can hug her for the pain, and the amount of tears she cried. I can tell her that she doesn’t need to blame herself for what happened, because she was a girl healing from something painful and sometimes that leads to bad decisions. I can assure her those decisions didn’t define her, she’s lived so much farther past those decisions. One summer I was drowning in confusion, an uncertain future and the facing of two different paths. 

So, to her, I’m sorry. I wish I could hold you and tell you everything that you’ve done since then. Because truly, it is remarkable.