The last time we spoke, you told me you were going to kill me. That I’d meet the “real” you.

I asked you to stop. Told you I was scared. You told me I should be. That you were going to murder me, and that I should be scared.

I hid. Took protective measures. Sought help. Protection. But there is only so far a piece of paper will protect me.

I promised myself I wouldn’t look over my shoulder. That if it was going to happen, I couldn’t prevent it. Consoled myself by doing everything in my power to keep myself safe, and then living my life determinedly looking forwards.

That first night, I parked my car and couldn’t leave it. Sat in the dark, my hand on the door, heart racing, head spinning, fighting desperately to quell the rising panic. And I succeeded. I was stronger than I thought I was, stronger still than you took me for.

Truth be told I’m still scared. I still wake shaking and breathless, convinced you’re here, about to make good on your threat. My nightmares are of you and your words. Of the things you conditioned me to believe you were capable of.

It’s ok. These are all classic trauma responses and I recognise them for what they are. My subconscious forcing me to process my fears. And you’ve dragged this out as far as possible. Exerting what little control you have left over me. Forcing me to face your scrutiny, your questions, your inevitable attempts to shame me, to make me small again.

But I’m not so small anymore. And I’m not so scared that I’ll crumble before you. Not this time. I stood up to you before, when it mattered most, and I’ll do it again now, because I have to. You might well threaten the “real” you, but I don’t think you’re quite prepared for me. The better me. The stronger me. The me who walked away, who left you, who shook off all the chains you had me bound in and got free. You will never know the strength that took. And for that I am thankful. Because you underestimated me then, as you underestimate me now.

I’m scared of you. But I’m sure of me.