Dear 5-year-old me, In thirty years you will wonder how you could have done things differently. You are only five now, but you will be plagued with the weight of what he has done to you, how he has made you feel sexy even though you aren’t quite sure what that word means, yet. In ten years you will hate yourself because of what he is doing to you now at night between sheets that have become a coffin.
Dear beat-down and broken-apart me, The term you are looking for is “workplace bullying”, and, no, there is no explanation that will make you feel okay. Your job has turned so ugly that you are consumed with the dread of the next day even as you lock up the office each night. Ironically, you’re spending more and more time there, although it’s the last place you want to be. You are paranoid, depressed, and riddled with anxiety.
Dear hurting child, I remember your first two decades vividly; I experience them even now. You feel such deep sadness and outrageous anger, and you don’t know what to do with those feelings because the person who evokes them is too big for you to yell at or kick or do all those things you imagine yourself doing. So you’ve gotten good at distancing yourself from him, and from others who want to be near you because it’s too much work being happy for them all the time.