Lettre à mon bourreau English version
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Lettre à mon bourreau English version

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>Ğƚ͛Ɛ ǁƌŝƚĞ ĨƌĂŶĐ͘ >Ğƚ͛Ɛ ǁƌŝƚĞ ƌĞĂů͕ ĨŽƌ ŽŶĐĞ͘ dǁĞŶƚLJ-one years later exactly, that would be a great help. Do I still suffer from what we pompously called our "story"? Yes, I still suffer. Doubtless by ŵĂƐŽĐŚŝƐŵ͕ /͛ŵ ƵƐĞĚ ƚŽ ƐĞĞŝŶŐ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ /nternet what you become. I wish to read that you died in atrocious circumstances. This has never happened, of course. Only the good die young, « les meilleurs partent en premier», as it is said. You tend to confirm it. I also read your bio, the official one. Not the other one. The unofficial we both know you and I. The official insists on your simplicity, your success.^ƚŝůů͕ LJŽƵ͛ƌĞ ŶŽƚ ďĂĚ Ăƚ ŬĞĞƉŝŶŐ ĞǀĞƌLJƚŚŝŶŐ under control, all the time, your version is unassailable. Polished. SomeoneĚĞĨŝŶĞĚ ŽƵƌ ΗƐƚŽƌLJ͟ ĂƐa sadomasochist. A story that I was too weak to handle according to him. But I remember that I did not really choose. Is a fifteen-years-old girl aware enough to start a relationshipŽĨ ƚŚŝƐ ŬŝŶĚ ͍ / ĚŽŶ͛ƚ ŬŶŽǁ͘ Especiallyas my memories are incomplete. Muddled up by these substances I liked so much at that time. And, I understand it now, from stress post-traumatic. Twenty-one years ago, that,I can stillremember. You were shouting it from the rooftops, my guilt, my dark, manipulator and perverse part. Your lawyer told me that I had no means against you. Iwas nothing. He would not let me destroy your life. It was informal, obviously. And stupid. I was broken into pieces.

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Published 01 December 2016
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Let’s ǁƌite fƌaŶĐ. Let’s ǁƌite ƌeal, foƌ oŶĐe. TǁeŶty-one years later exactly, that would be a great help. Do I still suffer from what we pompously called our "story"? Yes, I still suffer. Doubtless by ŵasoĐhisŵ, I’ŵ used to seeiŶg oŶ the Internet what you become. I wish to read that you died in atrocious circumstances. This has never happened, of course. Only the good die young, « les meilleurs partent en premier », as it is said. You tend to confirm it. I also read your bio, the official one. Not the other one. The unofficial we both know you and I. The official insists on your simplicity, your success.Still, you’ƌe Ŷot ďad at keepiŶg eǀeƌythiŶg under control, all the time, your version is unassailable. Polished. SomeonedefiŶed ouƌ "stoƌy” asa sadomasochist. A story that I was too weak to handle according to him. But I remember that I did not really choose. Is a fifteen-years-old girl aware enough to start a relationshipof this kiŶd ? I doŶ’t kŶoǁ. Especially as my memories are incomplete. Muddled up by these substances I liked so much at that time. And, I understand it now, from stress post-traumatic. Twenty-one years ago, that, I can still remember. You were shouting it from the rooftops, my guilt, my dark, manipulator and perverse part. Your lawyer told me that I had no means against you. I was nothing. He would not let me destroy your life. It was informal, obviously. And stupid. I was broken into pieces. I had to keep myself safe, that was my choice, better than trying something foolish against you. I could only write. Then, I wrote. For a very long time, on three volumes. I called them Fleurs des nuits and you are inside. You will recognize yourself, but the others will not be able to track you down. Hidden behind your image so smooth, so clear. I’ve built a new life. I feel good. Apart from these threeo’days,clock nightmares or from these on a doorstep, in the fields, in front of paving stones, wherever, whenever, when I am snatched by the flashes, the anarchists. You stand in all of them. When someone around me pulls on his fingers, letting them crack, it scares me. And if you read this one day, you will know why. Not all your scenes are in my books. As I had to protect myself, I invented some facts and sweetened some others. These endless days during our separations I thought that I liked that. That I could not be myself without you. Or that you could change. That took time : one month, two months, six months, ten months. You enticed me with promises and apologies and I ran back to you as a... What term defined me the best ? Une chienne. I believed, long after, it was all my fault. That I had pushed you to the limit _ in English, it sounds great _ so often. That our love had been passionate. Unique. See, the bullshits you soaked me with, they worked, I convinced myself. But I have to admit, you are a compelling salesman with your "frieŶds". With youƌ ǁife. I’d heard many times how I was destroying you. But itdoesŶ’t seem like nightmares are bothering you. You are so relaxed, on all your photos. Accomplished and trouble-free. You do not know «Đe Ƌui Đoŵpƌiŵe le Đœuƌ Đoŵŵe uŶ papieƌ Ƌu’oŶ fƌoisse». This one word, destruction, comes back first when I remember. Since, I have conducted for years a self-analysis. Followed up plenty of psychotherapies. Again, in the end, I realised that even if I am an unbalanced person, I did not deserve what you did to me. Then, it is incredible, the more Id moved forward without you, the more I’dgood. Until the day I found the felt website Mémoire Traumatique and admitted eventually that you were not the victim. That I was the one hiding my bruises. This one who was avoiding wearing a neck brace while I could hardly move, because it was too obvious. The one with long sleeves, jeans and a scarf in a
summer heatwave. The one who lied about the origin of my scratches or my bumps. Just remind me, did you ever hide your bruises ? Of course, not. Never. I am often ashamed. Because I did not say anything, to anyone. Because I was not able to defend myself against you. I did not look of any help around me. I was locked into this role of a compulsive liar, a nymphomaniac, a role that suited me so well. A role that justified everything. I am ashamed because still today among my closest friends or relatives, only few kŶoǁ the tƌuth. AŶd that’s not fair for me, the tail is wagging the dog ! You should be ashamed. You should be afraid when facing the reaction of your friends and relatives. I know that others like me, prefer to keep the silence. The silence is opaque. The silence involves loneliness. It involves not to be able to answer to the questions when people asking me about those years that you wasted. You had even stolen some years of my life. Now I feel happy. Because I threw you out of my life before it was too late. It was hard, a challenge that I faced. But without escaping from you, I would not have these wonderful children, an easy life I enjoy, far from the world and the people. I am a social misfit, but surrounded by my ones and only. Among people who I meet now, some grieve me. They always find excuses to the violent partners. To the rapists. They can only catalog. The woman is the temptress and the culprit. The man is weak, a victim of his impulses stirred up by our bodies. In fact, their speeches petrify me. They light on the images in my brain, a flame, I try to repress it, it increases. Then, I let it waste away and I feel angry. I believed in you when you cried in my arms. On the fact that you were ashamed. That you were to blame. That you loved me "in excess". As if loving in excess was possible and could drive to breaksoŵeoŶe else’s soul, soŵeoŶe else’s ďody, soŵeoŶe else’sconsciousness. Love is the opposite. Love means to protect and respect each other. I knew nothing about love when I was young. The evening when I met you, I was in the depths of despair. I was there because of my first mistake. I could not suffer more. I was fifteen years old and naive. I suffered more than that. And I find you guilty. There was no passionate love or gearing between us. None of my close relations of that period, including my family have a responsibility other than turning a blind eye on my pain or simply denying. You were guilty. You did everything. Furthermore, you did everything to me. You were able to cheat on your wife and to tell her that I was a whore _ and everyone knows, so are the French girls. To your "friends" that we lived a kind of «Histoiƌe d’Ô». You convinced everyone with your delusion, I was a willing partner, but our requirements were conflicting. Fuck off. We were alone most of the time. You and I. I lived these moments, so did you. When you just stayed calm to pronounce these damned words in three languages : I am going to kill you. When you were frozen. I thought : « je vais me faire décalquer ». I guess there is no such sentence in «Histoiƌe d’Ô». Note that I was never able to read this entire book of shit. Now, this is my regret : I did not run away from you earlier, definitively. I do not understand moreover, why I held. What lead me to forgive you and to put the blame on me. I want to teach to my children what is respect every day. I want to teach to them that a woman is not just a hole _ or three holes, it depends on the use. Love, the real one, needs to be fed by exchanges, but not by exchanges like clouts or punches. These principles were, are and will always be beyond you. I also explain to them that it takes courage to be honest, to assume our responsibilities, or to face our pasts. Besides, I manage my past on my way, even if I write under a pen name. My pen name handled me to avoid you, or to be judged. Today, it offers me peace. Lotis, that
sounded right. It symbolized my mutation. All the stages I have crossed for twenty-one years. And it is a flower which grows iŶ the ǁateƌ. I’ve just realized while writing, you do not frighten ŵe aŶyŵoƌe. AŶd that’s a relief. Here is to close this letter a crucial question: do you have regrets, remorses ? I don't think so. Twenty-one years ago, the last time we saw each other, you said: I could never forgive myself. Still, I do not believe you. And I admit, I forgave nothing to you either. It's time now, so I must insist : you have no excuse. With the benefit of hindsight, I came to the conclusion that you were and that you are still a big bastard.