A letter to my rapist

All names are fictitious. All content is real.

I want to talk to you about how much you have hurt me, and I want you to really listen. To feel these words as deeply as I have felt your frigid presence the last six plus years.

The stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I lived in denial for two years. When I left Sarah’s room, I was ashamed and confused. You were my first real sexual experience. I wanted to kiss you that night, but I didn’t want you to follow me to her room. I didn’t want you to push me onto her bed, to take my clothes off, to shove your fingers inside me as many times as you did, or at all. Then you took out your penis. The second one I had ever seen. And you tried to put it inside me. I said, “no”, and “stop.” You asked, “are you sure?” as you kept trying. I was scared. You were on top of me. Do you know how hard it was to even say no at all? I didn’t want to have sex with you, and I didn’t want to be in that room with you. But it was the first party I had ever been to and it was with people I spent my whole life wanting to accept me. I wasn’t part of that group, but I felt safe with you, because you were younger and had always been nice to me. We had fun at first that night. I was glad I came. Then you got drunk and I stayed sober, and you raped me.

I shuffled out of the room avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone, and rode home with Danielle in silence. When I got home, I got in bed with my clothes and the lights still on. My mom knew something was wrong. She didn’t press. I think she was afraid of what she might learn.

Two years later, I was attending a training on sexual assault and I saw it:

Rape: any sexual penetration of the body by another person, with or without force.

Your penis didn’t fully enter me. You didn’t choke me or give me bruises, but you did rape me.

I left the room in a teary-eyed panic. You were the first thing I thought of when I saw that definition. Not the Greg I held hands with as a kid. The Greg who threw me on a bed, shoved his fingers in my vagina, and asked, “are you sure?” each time I said “stop.” The Greg who kept going until someone knocked on the door or he grew weary of my protests. Not sure which came first.

In 2015 I started therapy as a result of the “definition incident.” I might sadistically thank you for that, as it helped me through many other issues. I also might not.

In 2016, I was raped again by my best friend in college. Not that it should matter, but it was fully with his penis this time. I completely froze, unable to say anything at all this time. So he had sex with my limp body for an hour. Sometimes I wonder if that’s your fault. They say people who are raped and don’t fully process the incident are likely to freeze and be raped again in a nonconsensual situation. So maybe it’s my fault for not fully processing. But you know what, Greg? I was suicidal. I was trying to pass my classes. To earn my meals and rent. So it was hard to do that. At minimum, you, my second rapist, and I can share the blame.

It’s 2019. I’ve spent a lot of time working through these things and many others, but sometimes I see things that trigger me. Things like your sister doting on you publicly or a photo of a new girlfriend you have, and I feel guilt. Of all things, I primarily feel guilt that I never reported you. That the only conversation we ever had about it was you giving a vague, empty apology on Facebook messenger two years after the incident. An apology that only hurt me more, because it indicated that you knew you had done something wrong. You intentionally did that to me, fully knowing that it was wrong. Does your girlfriend know? I heard rumors you did this to other people. Does your sister know? I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to relive that party, but even if I had, it would have greatly affected my family socially and emotionally. Our families have known each other for years, Greg. They are friends. Did you think of them when you locked me in that room? If I had told someone, would other women have been safe from you? Could I have fought off my second rapist?

Grief has been completely and utterly nonlinear for me. I’ve circled denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance for years since that night. You do not haunt my thoughts. You are not important to me, and I do not care about you enough to hold space for hate in my heart for you. You didn’t fuck up my life, Greg, but you changed it forever, and I’m angry with you for it, and I always will be. I feel justified in that. Were you to do this anyone I cared for, this would be my reaction. I now care about myself, and I’m angry with you. You stole my innocence, my trust, and my independence for a long time. I imagine anyone else you may have done this to feels the same. I forgave you long ago, Greg, but I will never forget what happened to me — what you did to me. And you owe it to me, to yourself, to everyone in your life not to forget either.

I hope you are able to live an honest life.

I hope your girlfriend and sister never have to know the version of you I do.

I hope to never see you again.