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I was 8, you were 13.
I was an athlete, a tomboy, and a free spirit.
You were a computer wiz, had ADHD, couldn't play sports because of your soft bones, were small for your age, bullied at school, and you were angry.
I'm sorry that you felt so poorly about yourself. I wish I could've helped. I'm sorry you had to go through so much. And I'm even more sorry that you were met with further criticism from mom whenever you came home. I'm sorry that she wasn't there to support you, to lift you up again, and to make you feel whole after all that you were going through. I'm sorry you had to go through that. I wish I could have made it all go away.
But I'm also sorry that you decided to take your anger out on your little sister and hurt her in ways that she still can't seem to reconcile today. I'm sorry that you used your position as her brother, toyed with a moment of trust she had in you, and then broke that trust in ways no child should ever experience.
In ways that I couldn't understand at eight. In ways that left me confused and ashamed, as if I had done something wrong. In ways that I still can't fully understand, and in ways that give me the worst knots in my stomach today. In ways that make relationships and intimacy detached and wrong today. In ways that leave a lingering sense of defectiveness within, and form this grotesque lens that I've seen myself through for sixteen years since. In ways that make pains seem inescapable. In ways that I never feel I'll learn to trust again. In ways that make my skin crawl whenever the naked images creep into my head. In ways that make it feel like I can never wash this shame off of my body and like nothing within will ever feel whole again. In ways that have no answers, can't be healed, and make me feel like dying.
I'm not a free spirit anymore.
There is a before, and there is an after.
I still feel gross about it, and I don't know how to heal this wound.
I'm sorry you were feeling hurt and angry at thirteen.
But I'm also sorry you decided to hurt me at eight.
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