My former stepfather, the first man to molest me, the one that left the wounds other's cracked into, the one who taught me I was broken, the one who beat my siblings and my mother, the one who stole my innocence, privacy, and trust, the one person I ever truly almost killed... Was found dead today.
I am elated, and exhausted, and full of joy, and feeling knots untie in my soul that hurt, and am embarrassed that three decades later this is how I'm responding. But this is how I feel. He was the first of many, but he was the one that started it. I testified against him and nothing happened. He stalked me and I moved to another state to get away from him even though he was out of our house. He broke my brother and I have no relationship with my youngest sibling because he was his father.
I am GLAD he is dead! I am SICK of having nightmares about him. I'm sure there will be some in the days, possibly weeks and months to come, but it is fucking OVER. He can never find me and I never need to look over my shoulder for that monster ever again.
When I was twelve I tried to kill him during the winter school break. I gave up before I got into his room because I was sure I'd be arrested and my siblings and mother would suffer. But I climbed the stairs with the antique chef's knife in my hand and I still remember how it felt. I had physically put myself between him and my siblings earlier, telling him to kill me if he planned on hitting either of them. I WAS TWELVE! He had been screaming at and hitting my mother for hours, breaking things around the house, and when I snapped, he told ME to calm down.
He was a monster. And the monster is gone.
I'm Kirsten. Some things you could label me with; tattooed, geek, mama, animal lover, weirdo, nerd, writer, movie and TV addict, lazy, ambitious, insomniac, feminist, LGBTQ+.