A Letter

Note: ENORMOUS content warning for this one. If sexual assault is a trigger for you, you can skip this one. Take care of yourself.

It started with an Adderall-fueled spring cleaning of my laptop’s documents, some dating back to when I’d bought it several years back. There in the word documents, between old college assignments and a smattering of first chapters of stories I’ll never finish, was a file simply titled “A Letter.” Opening it made my blood freeze in my veins as I remembered the whens and whys of the letter’s existence.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee, frankly because I wished to never see him again. It was a catharsis, a pouring out of emotions I thought I’d come to terms with. In retrospect, it affected me more than I thought. Following the incident that sparked the writing of this letter, I found myself seeking comfort in things like alcohol. I gained more weight than I ever had. My depression and anxiety overtook me to a point where my grades suffered and I needed to drop out of school — and I’d seldom gotten anything lower than an A- before.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee — or anyone else — but it’s been two years almost to the day since it happened. And I’m ready to talk about it. This is the letter, exactly as I wrote it the day I was raped.

It was my first time traveling alone. No family, no friend, no significant other. Maybe I was asking for it. I’ve lived enough life to not be naive about these sorts of things, but in general, I’d like to think most people are good. The handsome, friendly man you’re having lively conversation with over some craft beer won’t hurt you, right? Wrong. So wrong. So fucking wrong.

It was my last night in Ohio. The people I were staying with were all asleep. I was lonely. The extrovert in me wanted to meet people, to make memories, not just sit on my laptop in the dark. So I went to the bar on the top floor. The view was spectacular. I had one, two, several drinks. I’m no stranger to alcohol. I don’t get black-out drunk easily. I still remember all of my time up in the bar, chatting with you.

But I don’t remember how I got to your room. The rest of the night comes to me like a movie montage. I was sitting on the ledge of the window, looking out over the Cincinnati lights. Your friend was rolling a joint. Next scene. I can’t make out much, but you were on top of me. Next scene. I wake up, somehow in my hotel room. My friends were petrified I got hurt somehow. As the memories flood back to me, I realize I had been. I check my phone. You’ve messaged me. “I hope you never forget our night together.” I can barely remember it, but no, I won’t forget.

My friends leave for the music therapy conference. I need to head out to play a gig in my hometown. Wanting to take a hot shower and scrub off the uncomfortable feeling on my body, I lift my hideous rainbow grandma sweater over my head. There’s no bra. I left my bra in your room. I see I have another message. You want to see me before I leave. I don’t want to see you, but I want my bra back. So I give you the room number — stupidly — and ask you to bring it to me.

Oh, but you love me. You love how I heal people with music. You want a future with me. You’d do anything for me. You stand in the doorway, blocking me with your body. I tell you I need to leave, I need to go home. I’m cornered in the bathroom. You want to show me how much I mean to you. Your hands meet my high-waisted jeans — who the fuck gets raped in an ugly sweater and mom jeans? You begin to pull them down. I protest and pull them back up. You say fine, okay. Just one kiss. One kiss and you’ll leave me alone. Right? Wrong again.

I kiss you, timidly. You pull me in. I smell you. You lift me up over your shoulder like a ragdoll. You put me on the bed. I’m scared. I tell you I don’t want this. I say no. I said no. You should have left me alone. But you didn’t. You’re between my legs. You take off my pants. Your mouth is where it shouldn’t be. I’m shaking, struggling to breathe. I’m so dehydrated I can’t even cry. I feel sick. And then you take your dick out. You fuck me as I tell you to stop. I don’t want this. Frustrated with my whining, you pull out after a minute or two. And eventually, you leave. Finally.

But you’re still with me. I’m sore. There’s blood. I’m shaking. You keep messaging me, telling me you’re thinking of me. You call me. I don’t answer. I can’t answer. All I want is to get the hell out of Ohio. I’ve never sped so fast on the highway, crying as I tell my two closest friends what happened and hoping the sweet, sweet voice of Freddie Mercury will drown out the voices telling me this is all my fault.

But it’s not. I remind myself. You picked me up. You pinned me down. Even if — playing devil’s advocate — that previous night was my fault, for getting drunk and letting myself be taken advantage of, what you did the next morning was textbook rape. The last thing I did before I blocked you on Facebook was go through your photos. You have a daughter. How the fuck are you going to justify what you did when you have a little girl of your own? Would you want a man to do to her what you did to me? I sure as hell hope not.

I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to believe you’re good, that this was all just a big misunderstanding. That somehow I tempted fate by drinking in a strange place with strange people. That I tempted you with my ugly sweater and mom jeans. Maybe no one ever taught you about the concept of consent. And then I think about how, in less than 48 hours, you have completely destroyed my trust in people. I’m scared. I don’t know if the next guy I hang out with is going to take advantage of me. How many of the men I talk to every day or the men I admire have done what you did? It seems like every woman I’ve gotten close enough to to talk about this subject has some kind of story. And you happen to be mine.

And I hope I never, ever meet you again.

This is probably the most difficult, personal thing I’ve ever shared on here, but stories like these, like mine, need to be told. Chances are, it’s happened to someone you love. Maybe it’s happened to you. And I’m sharing this for the same reason I’ve shared a lot of my deepest struggles in my writing — because someone out there needs to know they’re not alone in this. To all the survivors out there reading this, you are strong and valuable and loved, and what someone else did to you does not define you. Take care of yourselves and be good to one another.

There is help if you need it. You can reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800.656.HOPE or online at online.rainn.org