To Those Who Liked Me Better When I Was Abused
You liked me as a quiet, meek, first-to-clear-the-table, last-to-speak-up girl. You liked me voiceless.
You wanted me submissive, obedient—powerless—and happy about it.
You told me to just keep submitting because it would all turn out okay. You said God would work everything out for good, but then you went home and minded your own business because you aren’t God.
You approved of me when I could repeat memorized answers to the catechism, when I could debate the theological intricacies of Calvinism, when I called myself a dirty, rotten sinner.
Maybe you thought you liked me because I was baptized, a child of God, or because I set a good example, or because I was making good on the parental investment. Maybe you thought you liked the real me.
But if we’re honest, you liked me better when I was hurting, when I was alone, lost, hungry for love. You liked me traumatized. You liked me numb, coping with pain I couldn’t understand. You loved me best when I was hollow.