Dear X,

Sunday Independent (Ireland) - - THE LETTER I WISH I’D SENT -

IDON’T use your name any more. You don’t de­serve that re­spect. Say­ing your name causes my stom­ach to twist, my hands to clench, the hurt to rise. But guess what? You haven’t killed me. I’m still alive. You’ve dam­aged me mas­sively and I will never be the same again. But you will not drive me down any more. You will not ma­nip­u­late me into the dead­ness of de­pres­sion again; you will not make me crave death!

It’s been a jour­ney through hell with you, you who promised to love and cher­ish me. I still strug­gle men­tally, I hurt, I fear, I cry, but I am free of you. You’ve lost the fame. Now, my energy is for me and those who love and help me through your evil abuse. I’ve blocked your calls. The only link now is email. I don’t rise to your ma­nip­u­la­tors, your false con­cern and your threats. I see you for what you are. In 2023 I can end all con­tact with you.

I have a fu­ture again. I have hope and hap­pi­ness I thought was lost for­ever. I have our beau­ti­ful chil­dren. I un­der­stand so much more about my­self and hu­man fragility. Should I be grate­ful to you for that? I think not. Oh, and would you mind if I told the world how you drank so much cham­pagne on our wed­ding night, you wet the bed?

Briseadh agus bru ort Name and ad­dress with Ed­i­tor

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