Letter to my rapist...
Hi *****,
I know this is very out of the blue. This is probably something you never anticipated and, maybe, you don’t even understand why I would write this. Maybe you don’t think anything “wrong” ever happened, or that you did something wrong. Maybe you’ve never thought about how that night completely altered my perception of myself, of sex, of men. Maybe, because I went back for more, you assumed after-the-fact that you had not, in fact, raped me.
You did.
If you believe yourself to be a good person, perhaps you rationalized it. Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself that it wasn’t rape – it was just unplanned, drunken sex.
It was rape. Let’s not kid ourselves about that.
I convinced myself for a long time that it wasn’t. I convinced myself that I made a terrible, life-changing drunken mistake. One that I can never take back no matter how badly I want to. I made excuses for you. Because of our family ties, I did not want to believe that you were/are a bad person. Maybe you’re not a bad person. But when you took advantage of me, there was no good in that. What you did was very wrong, on many levels.
First of all, I was under age. Sure, I was one month away from being 18 – but I was still, by legal definition, a minor.
Second, I was a virgin. You may not have known that, but at the age I was it was a possibility that should have crossed your mind. You should have asked. At the very least, you should have sought enthusiastic consent for intercourse. You didn’t.
Third, I was drunk. Very drunk. In fact, as far as I can recall, I was passed out. We were making out in your car – and to that end, I was willing. I wanted to make out with you. I did not want to have sex with you.
I don’t know how you recall that night, but this is how I recall it.
I had a teenaged crush on you – something totally normal for a 17 year old girl. I thought you were cute, and funny and, of course, mature – you were a man. Every teenage girl wants a man. I never expected that you would even look at me in that way. I assumed you thought of me as a kid. When it turned out you found me attractive, I was wooed.
We made out. Several times. It was exhilarating – you were a grown man and you were into me. More than that, we both knew there was an element of wrongness to it – you were my brother’s fiancé’s brother, after-all (and the massive age gap). It made me feel good. It made me feel sexy, the fact that you would want me despite all the reasons not to. But I did not want to have sex with you.
We went to your car after everyone else had passed out, left or vanished in some way. We made out some more. We fooled around. I remember the petting. But then I passed out.
When I woke up, you were penetrating me. I was horrified. I’m sure you remember my reaction. “Oh my god!!! I was a virgin!!!!”
I felt dirty and used. I felt like something was stolen from me that I could never, ever get back – because it was.
I hated myself.
Two weeks later, we were all drinking again. I was so horrified about what happened that I needed to justify it – I needed to make sense of it. So I slept with you again – willingly this time. I felt dirty the whole time. I have never hated myself more.
After that, I couldn’t think of myself as anything other than some dirty, filthy whore. As far as I could tell, that’s exactly what I was. So I acted like one. In the months following I had sex with two more guys. I didn’t enjoy any of it. I was crying inside the whole time with both of them – just like I had been when I went with you to your tent two weeks after you had raped me.
You can never even begin to understand the shame I felt from the day it happened.
After those two guys I had horrible, self-loathing sex with, I didn’t have sex for a year and a half. I couldn’t stand how dirty I felt when I had it.
Then, my first summer in [city I now live in], someone turned that around. I met someone who taught me to enjoy sex. With him I learned that having sex didn’t make me a whore. I learned that I was in complete control of my sexuality.
I had never felt so liberated.
I thought I was finally over it.
I wasn’t. I never will be, I’m afraid.
This will be with me for the rest of my life. I hope like hell it will be with you the rest of yours. Nothing hurts more than the idea that you haven’t hurt over this, that you haven’t questioned your own self-worth over this.
You have no idea what it is like to know deep down that you were wronged, that someone violated you – your body, your dignity, your self-worth, your everything, and yet be stuck blaming yourself.
For years every time I thought about what happened, instead of being able to focus on the fact that I had been wronged by a grown man who knew better and that I was a victim, I thought about all of the things I had done that lead to the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. I thought about the fact that I had “seduced” an older man. I thought about the fact that I had been drinking. I thought about the fact that I never explicitly said “no” and my actions up until the point that it happened had indicated “yes”. But as I have gotten older and as I have spent more time in self-reflection, I have realized that I was lying to protect you.
I hate myself for that. I try not to, but I do.
You violated me. You stole my dignity. You made me question my worth and even actively engage in its destruction. But all I ever focused on was how dirty it made me. I never wanted to believe that you were capable of such a horrible, life-altering crime.
The truth is you were capable of it. And you did it. I allowed myself to believe for years that you just didn’t realize I had passed out. Now that I am far more sexually experienced it is plain as day that you knew. How could you not? How could you honest to goodness not realize that the person you were having sex with was passed out cold?!!!
You are a rapist, *****. You stole so much from me that I can’t even begin to explain.
Still to this day my sex life is affected by this. I’m 26 years old and I have had sex with far more people than I am proud to admit. Only two of those were meaningful. I am a slut. Maybe I would have been a slut even if I’d made it to college with my virginity. Maybe I’d have had more respect for my sexuality than I have had over the years. I don’t know that. What I do know is that, for some reason, I have a really hard time having sober sex with anyone. Of all of the sexual experiences I’ve had, only three people have had sex with me while I was sober.
I love myself and I have learned to accept what happened. I have learned to take ownership over my sex life – though I do wonder if that first experience has something to do with the fact that out of over twenty partners only three have had sex with me while I was sober. I don’t know how far the impact goes or how much of my sexual history has to do simply with the fact that I have urges but I’ve always, for the most part, been single. I don’t have those answers.
What I do know is that for many years you stole my total and complete ownership over my own body. I can never forgive you for that.
I wish I could ruin your life the way you ruined mine for years. I wish I could tell everyone that knows you that you are a rapist. I can’t. I can’t because I love your sister more than words can say. It’s so inherently unfair that I have to live with this. I could never hurt her or the rest of your family, or my own, by bringing this to light. I just hope that this letter causes you to hate yourself and question your self-worth the way your violation of my body did to me. That’s the best I can hope for. It’s all I have.
I am old enough, wise enough and self-aware enough to finally get past this, but no matter how successfully I move on, this will never stop hurting and I know that. I accept that. It’s all I can do.
I just need you to know how much it hurts.
And how much I hate you for it.
I know this is very out of the blue. This is probably something you never anticipated and, maybe, you don’t even understand why I would write this. Maybe you don’t think anything “wrong” ever happened, or that you did something wrong. Maybe you’ve never thought about how that night completely altered my perception of myself, of sex, of men. Maybe, because I went back for more, you assumed after-the-fact that you had not, in fact, raped me.
You did.
If you believe yourself to be a good person, perhaps you rationalized it. Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself that it wasn’t rape – it was just unplanned, drunken sex.
It was rape. Let’s not kid ourselves about that.
I convinced myself for a long time that it wasn’t. I convinced myself that I made a terrible, life-changing drunken mistake. One that I can never take back no matter how badly I want to. I made excuses for you. Because of our family ties, I did not want to believe that you were/are a bad person. Maybe you’re not a bad person. But when you took advantage of me, there was no good in that. What you did was very wrong, on many levels.
First of all, I was under age. Sure, I was one month away from being 18 – but I was still, by legal definition, a minor.
Second, I was a virgin. You may not have known that, but at the age I was it was a possibility that should have crossed your mind. You should have asked. At the very least, you should have sought enthusiastic consent for intercourse. You didn’t.
Third, I was drunk. Very drunk. In fact, as far as I can recall, I was passed out. We were making out in your car – and to that end, I was willing. I wanted to make out with you. I did not want to have sex with you.
I don’t know how you recall that night, but this is how I recall it.
I had a teenaged crush on you – something totally normal for a 17 year old girl. I thought you were cute, and funny and, of course, mature – you were a man. Every teenage girl wants a man. I never expected that you would even look at me in that way. I assumed you thought of me as a kid. When it turned out you found me attractive, I was wooed.
We made out. Several times. It was exhilarating – you were a grown man and you were into me. More than that, we both knew there was an element of wrongness to it – you were my brother’s fiancé’s brother, after-all (and the massive age gap). It made me feel good. It made me feel sexy, the fact that you would want me despite all the reasons not to. But I did not want to have sex with you.
We went to your car after everyone else had passed out, left or vanished in some way. We made out some more. We fooled around. I remember the petting. But then I passed out.
When I woke up, you were penetrating me. I was horrified. I’m sure you remember my reaction. “Oh my god!!! I was a virgin!!!!”
I felt dirty and used. I felt like something was stolen from me that I could never, ever get back – because it was.
I hated myself.
Two weeks later, we were all drinking again. I was so horrified about what happened that I needed to justify it – I needed to make sense of it. So I slept with you again – willingly this time. I felt dirty the whole time. I have never hated myself more.
After that, I couldn’t think of myself as anything other than some dirty, filthy whore. As far as I could tell, that’s exactly what I was. So I acted like one. In the months following I had sex with two more guys. I didn’t enjoy any of it. I was crying inside the whole time with both of them – just like I had been when I went with you to your tent two weeks after you had raped me.
You can never even begin to understand the shame I felt from the day it happened.
After those two guys I had horrible, self-loathing sex with, I didn’t have sex for a year and a half. I couldn’t stand how dirty I felt when I had it.
Then, my first summer in [city I now live in], someone turned that around. I met someone who taught me to enjoy sex. With him I learned that having sex didn’t make me a whore. I learned that I was in complete control of my sexuality.
I had never felt so liberated.
I thought I was finally over it.
I wasn’t. I never will be, I’m afraid.
This will be with me for the rest of my life. I hope like hell it will be with you the rest of yours. Nothing hurts more than the idea that you haven’t hurt over this, that you haven’t questioned your own self-worth over this.
You have no idea what it is like to know deep down that you were wronged, that someone violated you – your body, your dignity, your self-worth, your everything, and yet be stuck blaming yourself.
For years every time I thought about what happened, instead of being able to focus on the fact that I had been wronged by a grown man who knew better and that I was a victim, I thought about all of the things I had done that lead to the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. I thought about the fact that I had “seduced” an older man. I thought about the fact that I had been drinking. I thought about the fact that I never explicitly said “no” and my actions up until the point that it happened had indicated “yes”. But as I have gotten older and as I have spent more time in self-reflection, I have realized that I was lying to protect you.
I hate myself for that. I try not to, but I do.
You violated me. You stole my dignity. You made me question my worth and even actively engage in its destruction. But all I ever focused on was how dirty it made me. I never wanted to believe that you were capable of such a horrible, life-altering crime.
The truth is you were capable of it. And you did it. I allowed myself to believe for years that you just didn’t realize I had passed out. Now that I am far more sexually experienced it is plain as day that you knew. How could you not? How could you honest to goodness not realize that the person you were having sex with was passed out cold?!!!
You are a rapist, *****. You stole so much from me that I can’t even begin to explain.
Still to this day my sex life is affected by this. I’m 26 years old and I have had sex with far more people than I am proud to admit. Only two of those were meaningful. I am a slut. Maybe I would have been a slut even if I’d made it to college with my virginity. Maybe I’d have had more respect for my sexuality than I have had over the years. I don’t know that. What I do know is that, for some reason, I have a really hard time having sober sex with anyone. Of all of the sexual experiences I’ve had, only three people have had sex with me while I was sober.
I love myself and I have learned to accept what happened. I have learned to take ownership over my sex life – though I do wonder if that first experience has something to do with the fact that out of over twenty partners only three have had sex with me while I was sober. I don’t know how far the impact goes or how much of my sexual history has to do simply with the fact that I have urges but I’ve always, for the most part, been single. I don’t have those answers.
What I do know is that for many years you stole my total and complete ownership over my own body. I can never forgive you for that.
I wish I could ruin your life the way you ruined mine for years. I wish I could tell everyone that knows you that you are a rapist. I can’t. I can’t because I love your sister more than words can say. It’s so inherently unfair that I have to live with this. I could never hurt her or the rest of your family, or my own, by bringing this to light. I just hope that this letter causes you to hate yourself and question your self-worth the way your violation of my body did to me. That’s the best I can hope for. It’s all I have.
I am old enough, wise enough and self-aware enough to finally get past this, but no matter how successfully I move on, this will never stop hurting and I know that. I accept that. It’s all I can do.
I just need you to know how much it hurts.
And how much I hate you for it.
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