I don't want to be a stereotype. A wino, a drug user, some damaged little SVU prime time spotlight-centered tragedy. 

I don't want to be the attention seeking little rape victim.

I won't be his little whore.

I don't want to be an alcoholic.

At the same time, I want more.

I want a little bit more to drink than I need. I want to smoke a little weed. I want to forget my troubles, that my sisters are in need. I want these things, I don't need them, per say. 

I don't want to really, really need to focus to get rid of those red little lines under words. I know how to spell and to speak. Why does everything come out as slurred mush? I know what I want to say, and I need to say it so much.

I want to be me. A writer. A novelist. An innocent little girl. I need to be the same me that I was going to be. 

I need to be exactly who I was going to be without him ever hurting me.

I don't want to be that little crying thing in the corner. I refuse to be a cancer, a drain on society, a fry chef at McDonalds, everything he told me I'd be.

He once held my head, forced me down, my face centimeters away from a hot greasy deep fryer as he told me to inhale deep, 'cause that was my future.

Well fuck him.

I'm gonna do okay.

Not every day, I'm only human, but most days I'm going to be better than other people's awesome.

I'm going to be okay.

I'm fine.

And so are you.

PS. Sorry to The Band for writing while tipsy. It's been a tough day, and this felt like it needed saying. One should always try to write while sober, but what can you do if the muse strikes halfway down the bottle, eh?