I am not what you think I am.
I am not a tall, forceful woman making the decisions of her
   own mind and body.
I am a young girl taken advantage of by the world in which I
   live.
I am a victim of a complication of the brain,
not the complication that is victimizing you.
I am neither the sticks nor the stones.
I am the skinny bones you found me as because names
   and images can hurt me.

I am not the cargo ship.
I am the package that was enclosed, stamped, and shipped
away.
I am not the knife that cut into your finger while you were
   preparing our food.
I am the cucumber sliced into pieces.

I am not the tornado;
I am not the storm.
I am the house spinning out of control, the windows drenched in rain.

I am not the teacher.
I am the student.

Dad, I know that your blood vessels are enflamed, your muscles frozen,
when someone tries to hurt me.
But enemies aren’t always tangible.

You once pushed me on the swings, but now I have to make it to the
   top on my own. Dad, you have to guide me with the gentle warmth of
   your fingers wrapped around mine, not the forcefulness of your palms
   against my shoulders.

Dear Dad, please continue to learn how to love me.
I love you.