Given what I've chosen to do, I'll have no way of leaving a physical note with my body. I did not want to leave nothing of my thoughts and justifications with those who find me, so I'm posting here and I'll be leaving the username and password of this account to my closest friend. I did consider sending a scheduled email, but I've heard many times from those bereaving a suicide that they don't understand how or why, and I thought it might be of some comfort to read comments by people who understand what I'm doing and why.

So here it goes. This is for my family.

I was sexually abused by my father, early and often. It went on for eight years. Many of you knew. None of you acted. It took me until I was sixteen years old to tell, and when I did, I was ostracized. People I loved and thought would support me said things to me that have echoed in my head for years. You called me vile, nasty, gutless, shameful, asked me how I could dare try to ruin his life with my allegations. What about the way that he ruined mine? What about the profound, unimaginable damage of being raped by your biological parent? I was a kid. I still had all of my baby teeth. I was scared and you were all there and no one saved me.

The last time he raped me, I was 12. I didn't know it would be the last time. As soon as he found out I had gotten my first period, we were done. I was no longer of interest to him. And I had no idea what my purpose was if it wasn't that. I started having sex with older men to fill the void. At 12. That's been my best-kept secret of the last 11 years – I whore myself out to the most violent and depraved men I can find, because my dear old dad taught me that that's the only thing I will ever be good at. That's the only thing anyone would ever want me for. I've been raped, assaulted, abused, more times and in more ways than you would ever imagine. I eventually started doing hard drugs to numb the pain. I fell in love with opiates. That was the feeling I'd been looking for my whole life. I felt like I had been out in the cold for twenty years and someone brought me inside and tucked me into bed.

I have known since childhood that this, here, is the way that things would end for me. It was one of the understandings that kept me alive through everything – that it would be my choice to end things, whenever I decided was right. I know that now is right. The last thing that I want to leave is a letter to each of my parents. They were here when I came into the world, and I want them to hear what I have to say before I go out.

Dad. You're sick. I know. I have a feeling that the first time you touched me, you had no idea what you would do. I don't think you ever imagined that you would inflict the degree of violence you did in the end. I honestly believe that if you could have done different, if you could have been better, you would have been. It took me many years to accept that. That you didn't do this because you hated me. You did it because you put your urges, your wants, your desires first, and I was of little concern. I was collateral damage. I think that's important to say because I'm hoping that if we set aside fault and blame, you'll be willing to really hear me about what your actions did to me.

I never had a chance. From the first time you put your hands on me, I was different. It was like you created this parallel universe where it was just me and you. No one could see me there, so no one could save me. The thing is that I never really left that world, even when you quit raping me, even when I stopped talking to you, even when I moved clear across the country. It still feels like I'm in a secret place that you created for me, that no one can see me in. And no one can save me. I still have to feel that fear and dread and powerlessness every day of my life. I am terrified of everything. I trust no one. I have no faith that there is any good in this world. To me, everything looks like violence and destruction and hate and harm. Every father looks like a wolf and I am so scared for every little girl that I could about vomit just thinking about it.

Mom. You experienced unimaginable pain and confusion as a child. I know that you have disconnected yourself from a lot of the world in an attempt to keep yourself safe. I get that when you married this seemingly good guy and had a couple of kids, you thought you had finally done it. You were safe. And then your little girl started to walk and talk and you saw a new side of your husband. A side that you didn't want to believe was real, because how could you? You had finally healed enough to find a good man and start your own family, and you learn he's a pedophile? I get it. I know why you turned the other cheek. But I'll never really, truly understand.

You saw him. Over and over again, you quite literally watched him rape me. In the same room. You intentionally gave him privacy, time, opportunity. You saw the photos. You saw my bloody clothes. It's as if you trafficked me for him. You fed me to him. I cannot wrap my head around it. I know why you couldn't believe it, I know why you felt frozen. But I'll never understand how that fear could overpower the instinct you should have had as my mother to protect me.

And then when I came out about it all, when I told someone, and you turned on me and said that I was a liar. That I was mentally ill and it must have been planted in my head by someone else. I hate you more for that than I do for sitting by his side years earlier while he raped me. I had lived through my childhood already. I did that alone. But when I was 16, when I told, I pleaded for your help and you turned your back on me. Again. After the divorce, after you went to rehab, after you went back to school. You had more options then. Before, you turned on me because you were terrified. But then, you turned on me because you're a coward. I deserved better. Maybe 'better' would have even kept me alive.

I'm not religious. But I have prayed for both of you to go to prison. I've prayed that there will be justice for that little girl that I was 20 years ago, who didn't deserve all of that fear and all of that pain. You harmed me so profoundly that I can't look at photos of myself as a child. I get angry. I hate her. I hate what she reminds me of. From the moment that you came to some unspoken understanding that you would protect each other in your abuses of me, my life was over. If it isn't prison, I hope that something else forces you to reflect on that. I hope that something else motivates you to get right with God. All of my loved ones now who know the truth about you expect me to wish pain and suffering on both of you. They expect me to hope that you both die a cruel, slow, painful death. The truth is that that would never be justice enough.