

"What I Need to Say"

By Morgan Carver Richards

Copyright, Morgan Carver Richards 2015

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, unless permission is obtained from the author/publisher.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story within you."

-Maya Angelou

"You matter. What happened to you matters. Your cases matter."

-Mariska Hargitay

"Healing yourself is connected with healing others."

-Yoko Ono

"I actually think sadness and darkness can be very beautiful and healing."

-Duncan Sheik

"Part of the healing process is sharing with other people who care."

-Jerry Cantrell

Contents:

About the Author

Introduction

Encouragement from Survivors
Chapter One: Sexual Assault

Chapter Two: Child Molestation

Chapter Three: Rape

Chapter Four: Incest

Chapter Five: Male Survivors

Closing

Statistics

Resources for Survivors

About the Author

My name is Morgan Carver Richards. No hyphen. I am thirty years old at the moment and was molested as a child by an uncle. I am the mother of three beautiful children and married to my best friend.

Writing is my therapy.

I was molested by my uncle for several years as a child.

I know that this portion is short and leaves much to the imagination, but this book is not about me. It is about the brave people who have submitted their open letters for this project. If you would like to know more about me, please follow me on Twitter, @morgancrichards, or view my author page on Facebook. If you are interested in participating in future submission opportunities, please email. My email address is provided on my author page on Facebook.

Introduction

My decision to put this book together was a hard decision, but one that I think will help me heal in a way in which I can say that I tried to make it better. I want for women and men alike to read this book and see that they are not wandering in a field of pain alone. There are other men and women walking right alongside you, and we can all help one another on our path to healing.

For twenty five years, I told myself and others that being molested did not have any lasting effect on me. I was lying; it did. It did not shape who I am, who I will be, or the kind of person I am. It did, however, steal a part of me that I cannot get back. It was taken from me at a time when I should have been learning what love means and how to trust those in my family. To me, love is skewed. It is misplaced and often uncomfortable. It is incredibly hard as a mother to be comfortable with other adults around my children. That is only one of the lasting effects of being molested as a child.

I understand firsthand the legal system surrounding child molestation. It can be incredibly difficult to hear that there is nothing that can be done. It is hard to walk around in a city and know that the person who took advantage of you as a child is walking in the same city, free. It is hard to know that my children are in the same city. What has always been my biggest struggle is knowing that it could happen to someone else or has happened to someone else as a result of being failed by the legal system that is supposed to protect us. I know the feeling of your family finding out what happened and the hollow feeling that comes with it. I also know how screwed up family relations can become as a result of you doing what people always say you should do if someone harms you. I understand what it means to feel like there are people who do not believe you, people who will make you feel terrible about yourself or question your decisions. Some people feel that taunting a victim is the best method to voice how they feel about something that caused you physical and emotional harm. I have been there and I still struggle today, decades after it happened. But I have only recently admitted to the struggle, so I cannot be sure of the severity or what may come.

I want to make an avenue for women and men to voice how THEY feel. My mother told me once to write him a letter. I would never even have to mail it, but I could say whatever I felt the need to say to him. It helped in a way that I didn't expect. Just knowing that how I felt was directed at him, letting him know what I felt. I removed his feelings, the legal system, outside pressure, and the feelings of everyone except myself. I poured out the guilt that I felt, I wrote down what I really thought of him and how his actions changed parts of my life in ways that I cannot repair. It wasn't a quick fix, but it had a lasting effect on how I feel. And how I feel is the only thing that matters when it comes to my healing.

Something that needs to be addressed, in my opinion, is the way in which child molestation, rape, and sexual assault are handled. Everything is so mechanical, and there is no requirement for therapy afterwards. It needs to change. I felt...like an animal in the zoo. I was in a brightly lit room being questioned about dates, times, and methods of molestation. Only technical terms were used and at no point did anyone ask me how I felt. At no point did anyone ask what I wanted to say. They asked all of the questions. There was no follow up and it was just assumed that as I walked out of the sheriff's department, I was going to be fine.

I considered writing my story, one that would tell everything from my perspective as a young child, a teenager, and eventually a woman. But it didn't bring about what I needed. I wanted to help other men and women who have been in the same situation of feeling violated and vulnerable. I wanted to provide people with an option of being heard and being able to relate to the pain and the healing. An option needed to be in place to let victims and survivors tell their story, from their perspective. Even when legal action is taken, the majority of the story is heard from the person who committed the act, not the victim or survivor. This needs to change. We need a voice.

There is something incredibly freeing about using your own words to help heal the wounds that someone else caused. Even if they never read the letter, you will get your chance to say what you need to say. It takes your healing process and puts you in control of how, when, where, and why you heal. It also gives you the freedom to decide what will work for you versus what will not work for you.

This process of healing is not going to help everyone. Some people may find it invasive or too public or intrusive, and that is just fine. For those people, I truly hope that you find what works for you. If writing your own letter does not help you heal or make you feel comfortable, I hope that you find some form of healing from reading stories from people who have been there too. This process may also help some people overcome hurdles that they may not have been able to overcome.

The submissions that I received are the words of the author. Some of the submissions may contain vulgarity, raw emotions, and wording that could be offensive or upsetting to some readers. Please keep in mind that I encouraged the survivors to submit their words, with their emotions, in the way that they wanted to convey their message. I stated clearly that any wording, word use, or phrasing was acceptable, as this was their time to say what they needed to say in order to heal. This concept is the main principle behind this project to give the survivors a voice. Their own voice. If something is offensive to you, I encourage you to skip to the next letter and allow the survivor their voice.

The general content of this book is not intended for all audiences. Because of the content, language, and situations presented in this book, I would like to make a suggestion that readers under the age of 18 read at the discretion of their guardian, although some letters may be appropriate for broader audiences.

All last names of the people who harmed the person writing will be left out. Some of the authors of the submissions have chosen to remain anonymous. Please refrain from directing any negative, hurtful, or discouraging words, written or spoken, at any of the individuals who have so bravely decided to share their thoughts and stories. Most of these submissions have been edited for grammar and spelling, no content was changed from their original submissions. The reason behind this was to allow the survivors to write freely without having to interrupt the process to pay attention to grammar and spelling.

These are their stories. Thank you.

Encouragement from Survivors

February 6, 2015

Dear Sexual Assault Survivor,

Hello my name is Lakia Shavon Lightner, and I want to share, encourage and inspire you through this letter. It brings me great satisfaction to type this letter just with you in mind. At age six, I experienced sexual assault and continued until the age of ten. Once I watched 30 minutes of the Oprah Winfrey Show that featured children like me who were being raped; it gave me the courage to inform my mother. Immediately my mother contacted a doctor at Saint Francis Hospital and scheduled my first appointment. After meeting with my new doctor, he was able to gain valuable information to start the legal process against my uncle. Next I was told by my doctor, "Lakia, your uncle can't hurt you anymore." Hearing that made me feel safe. My mother told our family members, and they said, "Lakia, you're wrong for telling on your uncle." My response was, "What if it happened to you or your children, what would you have done?" My uncle was convicted for my rape and that of another child on March 25, 1994. His release date was December 10, 1998. The summer of 2014 as I visited my grandmother, which is my uncle's mother, she said she was sorry for what her son did to me. I said, "Grandma, it's not your fault."

As a fellow sexual assault survivor, I want you to share your story with others. Also joining organizations whose mission is to assist sexual assault survivors is a great way to therapy. That is why I am involved in RAINN and Jane Doe No More speakers' bureau, to share my story and encourage and inspire others. I have felt my involvement with both organizations is therapy for me. On March 31st, 2015, a book will be published featuring my story and those of other sexual assault survivors. I hope you were inspired by my letter and upcoming book project. Remember, when you share your story, it helps other sexual assault survivors heal. Most importantly, if you did not seek professional assistance, I highly suggest doing so. Doctors who specialize in sexual assault cases are a great tool in the healing process. I'm sure thankful that my mother got me help during my childhood.

Sincerely,

Lakia Shavon Lightner—Sexual Assault Survivor/Public Relations/Women's Studies

Chapter One

Sexual Assault

LETTER 1

To The Strangers Who Took So Much,

I will never know why I was such a target. I will never understand what made me stick out for the numerous sexual assault crimes I have had to endure. Honestly, what makes you powerful enough to give you the right to take advantage of someone? What gives you the right to think you are on such a higher level than someone else that you need to threaten their life in order for you to have your own sexual gratification while forcing another to endure hours of pain and torture? The physical pain and scars will heal in time, but the emotional and psychological scars have lasting effects, and those don't go away. They have lasting repercussions and you caused these. The panic attacks, the constant anxiety, the false reality of things, the non-stop worrying over everything, the nausea, the PTSD. Do you have these day to day problems from what happened? Do you suffer in silence? Does your family suffer because of these issues you deal with? How DARE you take my life and make it this way? How DARE you go about your life happy and care free and not a worry in the world while I struggle day to day. My self-esteem is at its lowest point, and my relationship with my husband, my family, and my friends suffer because of it.

When you wake up in the morning, do you look at yourselves and think, "I am the cause of so much self-destruction in women"? CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? I'm talking to you. You're garbage, you're nothing, you're useless. Your idea of respect and women is the furthest thing from what could possibly be accurate. CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? Imagine your own mother, sister, daughter going through what you did to me, how does it feel? CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? You took away from my self-respect, my self-esteem, my dignity, my soul, everything, but you know what? I will get it back, and I will come out stronger than before. CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

LETTER 2

Tara (Albany, NY)

Dear assailant,

I know your name, but I am choosing not to use it because, after years of pushing the word aside, I finally feel like I can call you what you were to me: my assailant. I was young, too young, to truly understand what had transpired on the occasions you assaulted me. I didn't know much about sexual assault, and even less about consent or even what sexual contact really was. That's how young and naïve I was before you took that away from me. All I could tell was that it felt dirty and that it was wrong. I knew I could never tell anyone, especially not my parents, because I felt it was my fault. I was embarrassed, afraid, and could not effectively process what kept happening at an age well before I had even gone through puberty. I just knew it was bad, and therefore, I must be bad, too. So I buried what happened, each and every occurrence, and I got very good at putting it deep in my mind, where I would never be tempted to tell anyone. For most of my life, until recently, I succeeded.

You took a lot from me, most of which I did not realize until years later, when I finally felt like it was okay to acknowledge what occurred and admit: I was assaulted. You took my innocence and replaced it with shame. You took my self-confidence and replaced it with guilt, humiliation, and a lack of self-worth. You took my identity of being a "good" kid and turned it into me feeling like I wasn't good after all, and needed to hide my true self in case anyone realized it. Yes, you took quite a few things, but you also taught me some things, too. More than anything, you taught me how to tuck away the pieces of myself that were less than ideal – how to put away all the dark things, all the uncomfortable things. No matter how much I did right, I always felt alienated from others, like no one would look at me the same way if they knew. Despite having friends and a strong support system, I felt inadequate and undeserving throughout my childhood and into young adulthood. I felt like I had to hide myself and only portray the good and strong parts; this is a lesson I am still trying to unlearn today. In the end, it is not the things you made me do that stick with me - I am very fortunate that those memories do not hurt me anymore. When I think of someone else being forced into their first sexual encounter at such a young age, having their body, hands, mouth, pulled and pushed into places they did not want them to go, I feel extremely angry, furious, disheartened. Somehow, though, when I think of what happened to me I don't feel those things. However, when I think of the years I spent struggling with feeling lonely and ashamed, I am angry. When I think of how I could not understand never feeling a sense of belonging no matter how happy I was or how many friends I had, I am furious. When I think of how I still struggle today with being open about those darker, more uncomfortable pieces of myself, even with those I am closest to, I am disheartened.

I am lucky, because the memories of what happened don't haunt me. I am successful, I am loved, and I don't waste an ounce of energy trying to push away thoughts of what happened – I don't need to anymore. I can finally admit that I was sexually assaulted, but that doesn't mean I am any less than if I hadn't been. I wish I could tell you that what you did to me did not end in that room; it has clouded my identity for over 10 years now. However, today I am confident, I am happy, and I have learned a new lesson: it is the dark, uncomfortable things that make us who we are, and they are certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Most of all, I am not alone, and I never was all along.

LETTER 3

Dearest June, Tuesday, July 15, 2014 My name is Betty Jean, daughter of Larry and Karen, bloodline of military, ministers, missionaries, multi-media artists and musicians. My family of six attended the First Assembly of God in Norfolk, Nebraska, for part of the 1970s and 1980s. During this time, my father held the position of treasurer for this community of believers. Whether or not you remember me or my family is of no consequence. My reason for writing is sensitive, heavy, and you may wish to have a box of tissue nearby before continuing on. I attended Northern Hills Elementary off Elm Street, a few blocks from my home. After a child was approached by someone unknown attempting to coax him or her into a car for a ride home, a police officer visited each classroom to discuss stranger danger as well as the violation of personal space and inappropriate touching of private parts. On both accounts, we were all instructed to inform our parents as soon as possible. Thirty plus years ago, in 1979 or 1980, at the age of 8 or 9, I followed the officer's advice after my personal space had been violated and told my parents. Your son, Scott, babysat for us only once and was never invited into our home again. Once was too high a price. The scrape of his fingernails inside me hurt in a place that I was previously unaware of existing. This should have never happened, even so, it did. I should have been taken to the ER for immediate medical evaluation and documentation. The police should have filed a warrant for Scott's arrest. There should have been a trial or at least a plea bargain out of court. He should have served the maximum time allowed for either first or second degree sexual assault depending on the medical proof. First degree is for penetration with damage, second degree is for penetration without damage. After his incarceration, he would have had to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. Obviously none of these "should haves" ever happened. Instead of justice, protection, resolution or restitution, I was given a broken, haphazard explanation by my father. He stated that this incident was a parody of what people do when they are older. I didn't understand his meaning and thought he was telling me that this would be expected of me as some kind of duty when I became old enough, a teenager like Scott. No words of wisdom, no comfort, no one was sorry. It didn't seem right or fair. Certainly something should be done? In the midst of awkward silence, I made my request to speak with you, Scott's mother. If my parents weren't going to do anything about it, I thought maybe you could, somehow, some way, make everything seem right again. My parents hesitantly agreed. Weeks turned into months of badgering to have my moment with you until one evening when my mother pulled me aside to confess that she didn't want to break your heart. What about mine? I reasoned in my young mind that I had to be a pastor's wife for my heart to matter. Ludicrous. My parents betrayed me deeper and harsher than your son. They were obliged to look out for me, step in front of danger for me, defend my honor! I never confided in them again. I took their little game of forgive and forget, kept brushing more and more secrets under my rug of shame. This rug was never supposed to belong to me; it was not my sin. Over time the lump grew into fifteen faces that I hid from the world, as well as from my parents. It wasn't until 2010, when my firstborn became a Jane Doe, that this rug of shame started to unravel in entirety. She was the product of violence (face #14) whose life also ended in violence. She became a modern-day Moses through the gift of adoption for nineteen years and seven months. Her death bought my freedom from the Christian zealot who was so obsessed with me that he didn't see his sin as anything more than mutual. It was not mutual. I said no. I said please don't. I asked God why my baby girl had to die such a horrific death, enduring 15-20 stab wounds on each side of her body. He answered me with another question, just like he did Job. "How many faces do you remember?" Fifteen. "The rest are in the sea of forgetfulness, leave them there." I only have to remember fifteen. Your son is only one of those numbers. How am I supposed to feel now? Everything happens for a reason, I know this. God hasn't forsaken me, people always will, even good Christian ones. I hope your son can be brought into repentance before God's vengeance reins down on him. God is cleaning house. I stopped holding information back from my parents, not that it matters here and now. They are still just as passive as they used to be. My mother is dying of cancer. She was diagnosed in 2006 and has been fighting it ever since. My father lost his accounting job with Christian Fidelity Insurance several years back when the company was bought out. They struggle financially and emotionally to get by each month. They don't know how to console me in my grief. Their best effort was simply to restate their original promise to allow me to speak with you, even if it's only through a letter thirty plus years too late.

Betty Jean

LETTER 4

July 23, 2015

Approximately 39 years later

Dearest Kerry & Kelly and Don,

You two whore twin sisters, I don't remember if you spell your whore names with a "y" or an "i". I was 5 years old then; I'm 44 now and I still don't give a fuck. Unfortunately, you two whores aren't dead either. I know this because I looked you up on Facebook. You whores need to keep that Facebook shit private. I might not kill you if I found you, but I can goddamn guarantee that I would fuck with your existence for an extremely long period of time, let's say...39 years.

Don, I have come a long way where you were concerned. You probably are dead now. You were old in 1976. Well, for a five year old girl, you were fucking old. But, I give you a little room here because you were a retard. Literally, I was assaulted by someone with an intellectual handicap. Thanks for that, by the way. Whenever I get within three yards of someone with an obvious disability, my personal alert system makes the US Marines look like pussies.

I don't know how two whores and a retard came up with the plan, but a lone, naive five year old girl fell right into place, didn't she? Seriously, you fuckin' cunts should hope I never find you.

I assume life for a grown ass retard male wasn't great in 1976. But, you two whores, what was your fucking excuse for setting up a five year old child to become a victim of sexual assault? I know you cunts were kids yourselves, but certainly, you were old enough to know better. I also remember a time after the incident with Don that you tried to lure me to someone else. A few years later, your sixteen year old brother blew his brains out right in front of your parents. Was your family that fucked up? Wait...I'm checking something...nope, still don't give a fuck. I didn't have sympathy for any of you then, and I still don't to this day. NOT. ONE. FUCKING. IOTA.

I can't remember what you whores said to me while you were walking me back home that day. Part of me wants to remember and the other, self-preservationist half does not. Whatever it was, I trust that it was the very reason I never told a soul what happened. My mother died when I was 28 years old still completely unaware of what happened to her baby girl, you fucking whores. Surely, no matter how broken I am at the moment, I do remember what it was you said that day in 1976, and I will celebrate by reaching out to those who know and love you by telling them what whores you really are.

Don, you are actually lucky. Your nephew tried to friend me on Facebook about a year ago. I should have accepted and immediately told him my story. But there are, apparently, limits to my bravery.

In case any of the three of you fucks have ever wondered what happened to me, I EVOLVED. It took a lifetime of youth to stop abusing myself. It took another lifetime to no longer take shit from anyone. It took the final lifetime to speak out, share my story, and bring to light the damage that two whores and a retard have done. This letter is, actually, the first time, with my voice, pen or keyboard, I have uttered any of your names.

In some ways I feel lucky. The attack on my body was not physically violent, and because I am a fast learner, it was a one-time deal. Those small favors are where my luck ends.

You fucks have arranged it so that I trust absolutely no one. I can't stand to be touched by anyone who is not my husband or child. Less not, but many times, I've had to remind myself that I am not dirty during intimate moments with my husband, a man that I have loved for 29 years. I am stressed in crowds, small spaces, and loud situations. I am describing PFTSD to you whores. POST FUCKING TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER. I hope karma brings you some on a silver platter and shoves it down your whore throats with a Samurai sword.

Don, you were fucked from birth. Trust me, I would probably put you out of your misery with my bare hands if I thought you were alive and available. Whatever your disadvantage was, you knew how to molest a five year old girl and for that I don't, won't, can't ever forgive you, and I hope that every creature underground skull fucks you from here to eternity.

In closing, whores, I see that you have families. Good for you. I do as well. The difference is, I'm not a whore and my husband knows my story. Fuck you and yours, cunts. Aside from being pissed, I'm okay. I love fiercely and protect violently. I hope that peace slips your grasps for eternity.

Signing my whole name because secrets protect the wrong people,

Tina Ayala (formerly Swansey)

Ortonville, MI

Chapter Two

Child Molestation

LETTER 1 (Author Submission)

Larry,

I have always taught my children to refrain from using the word "hate". I try to refrain from using it myself, well, because it is...hateful. But you see, Larry, there is this one instance that I feel full of...hate. Hateful, if you will. Hateful is an adjective, the definition being "arousing, deserving of, or filled with hate." I hate YOU, Larry. I feel hateful when I feel this hate that I have for you, but I don't feel bad about this hate or this hateful feeling that I have for you.

You used to tell me that I looked like a teenager. I was five. And then I was six, and seven, and eight. You used to take me to the barn with you, Larry, and it would start in the truck on the way. The barn was right beside Mawmaw's house, so it didn't take you long. I wonder how long you thought about it before we actually left, you sick fuck.

You used to show me dirty magazines in the truck, or disgusting 80's pictures of women who used to mail you pictures of themselves naked, or sometimes half-naked. I just looked at them and felt confused. I had no idea why you always wanted me to look at the naked pictures with you. But then again, I was a child, not the teenager you thought I looked like.

It started off at the barn, Larry. You remember, right? You would walk around that shitty wooden partition and jack off. There was a hole in the wood, and your disgusting dick used to stick out and you would stare at me from around the wall. I walked around the wall and asked what you were doing, because I was five. Five, you sick fuck. You showed me the dirty magazines and kept jacking off. I was still confused.

You always took me to the barn with you when I was at Mawmaw's house. I now see how pathetic you were, living with your mother and molesting a little girl that was your brother's daughter.

I remember bologna sandwiches. Mawmaw always made them for some reason. She would tell me to sweep the floor, you know, the one that was never clean because there were roaches everywhere. I remember your son, the one who is diabetic and lost his leg, and how he was overweight. He would wheeze when we would all play outside, and I always felt pity for him because he was your son and he was the one who would wheeze, not you. I also remember the bathroom. It had lime stains and black stains in the toilet and the tub. I hated taking a bath in that tub because it was so dirty and there were always so many roaches. I remember hearing a news story where a little girl died because a roach crawled in her mouth in her sleep and she choked to death. I thought of that little girl every time I came to Mawmaw's, and I thought about how I could die the same death, especially when I spent the night. I remember the pecan tree, the one Mawmaw would send us to with a bag and tell us to get the pecans. I knew that people thought that I thought I was better than them. I heard it when they said it, Larry. I heard it when you said it. I was a child. I didn't think that I was better than them, I just knew that a roach infested house with a child molester wasn't normal. And maybe I was better. You know what, Larry, I am better. It was fucking disgusting, you and your filth.

But what I remember the most about that house was you. You were disgusting. Even as a child, I found you repulsive. You were fat and balding and always smelled horrible. Your old iron twin bed in your mother's house always had disgusting sheets. I would be in the living room, not far from your dirty, smelly bedroom, and you would call me into your bedroom. You never even told me to close the door, so I have always thought that maybe Mawmaw knew. Maybe she didn't, maybe she was outside and had no idea. I don't know, she never addressed the issue with me. But she still talks about you, all the time, which is why I don't see her that much. It makes me sick to hear about you. I lost that connection with her, and I hate you for that. And I am confused about whether I should blame her because you are her son, and I know how torn she must have been. It still doesn't make it better though.

That house was so small, she had to know, but maybe she didn't. I don't know why, even then, I always wondered if she knew. Maybe I wanted her to make you stop. You were jacking off under the sheets. I would walk in and see the up and down motion and you would stare. You always wanted me to touch it. It felt too warm and weird and I didn't like it when you asked me to touch it.

I figured out that it was wrong. I think I knew that it was wrong earlier than I admit to knowing that it was wrong, but I always thought that I would get in trouble if I told. You always told me not to tell anyone. I thought that since I hadn't told anyone the first time it happened, that it was somehow my fault and that I would get in trouble, you sick fuck.

I almost told. Once. I was watching TV in my room and Oprah had a segment about this exact thing that I had always known was wrong. But it was different. She was looking into the camera and telling me, ME, that I should tell my parents if something like this was happening to me. I waited a little while and finally got the courage to go tell my mom. When I walked into the living room, my mom was talking to her friend, we will call her May, because it wasn't her fault and it wasn't my mom's fault that you were a sick fuck and I don't want for her to think that she was the reason that I didn't tell. I didn't know that May was over and when I said "Mom", they both looked at me. I couldn't do it. Sometimes when my kids come downstairs and say "Mom?" I follow them and ask several times what they need. I make sure that I ask them when we are alone and several times, just to make sure that they know that they could tell me if something bad was happening that I didn't know about.

I was always really weird around men if I was alone with them. I remember this one time May's husband came to pick me up because I was friends with their daughter and we were going to play. He was alone. I was so scared, Larry. I was so scared that he had dirty magazines and that he was going to start doing what you did. Or that he would make me do what you made me do. But he was such a nice man and still is, and I still feel bad to this day for feeling that way about him because I know he wasn't a sick fuck like you. I know that I shouldn't have to feel bad about those thoughts, but I still had them and I still felt bad. I still feel bad.

I don't want to be someone who says that I have intimacy issues because I was molested because I don't want to give you that power. But I have intimacy issues, and I was also molested. I don't know if they are connected, but I would rather not investigate it because if someone said that my intimacy issues were your fault, I am not sure that I could contain my hate any longer. I don't like to make eye contact. I don't have a social issue, but I remember how you used to stare at me, STARE, when you would jack off. And I don't like eye contact. But I still tell people that it is me, my fault, that I don't make eye contact. I am taking the blame for you, you sick fuck. Even though I am still not going to admit that you had any role in my outcome. I am who I am today because of myself, not you, you sick fuck.

When my cousins were born, the girls that lived next door to you...my blood pressure just went up thinking about it...I worried. I was eight when the first one was born and ten when the second was born. When the oldest was a toddler, I used to worry about her. I hoped that you didn't do the same thing to her. When she watched The Land Before Time, I would pray that you would leave her alone. I really hope you did because if I ever find out that you didn't, I wouldn't be able to contain the hate. It would be my fault for not telling sooner. There is a big difference between feeling like something happened to you, because of you, and something happened to someone else, someone you love, because of you. So I still get to feel bad about that too, and I know that I shouldn't have to feel bad. And it's your fault, not mine. So why the fuck do I still feel so bad? So bad for things that were not my fault?

When I was fourteen, I went to the beach with my best friend. We used to talk about everything, and when she told me her story, I told her mine. She did the right thing. I am so proud of her to this day because I never returned the favor. I was, and still am, a coward. I'm sorry, you know who you are. She told her mom. Her mom told a school mom who had a meeting with my mom. I went home as damaged goods. I am still damaged goods, with my "social issue" and "eye contact issue" and my "intimacy issues" and how I am pretty sure I am going to worry myself to death with all of the things that make me feel bad. I know that every time I say that I was molested, I am a statistic. More likely to be impulsive, more likely to being sexually promiscuous, more likely to have an issue with addiction. Well, fuck you, Larry. If I have an addiction issue, or an issue with impulsive behavior, or an issue with sleeping around at random, it's on me. You do not get the satisfaction of me becoming another statistic because of you.

It went nowhere. I hate that the C****** County (SC) District Attorney's office couldn't help. Backwards fucking hillbilly sheriff's department. I got the feeling that they didn't care; maybe they were filthy child molesters too and that's why they looked at me like I was some prissy little tattletale. I wonder if their homes had roaches and bologna sandwiches, too, because those are things I associate with child molesters. I associate pecans with child molesters, too. I didn't eat pecan pies for a long time. I eat pecans now because I like them. And because fuck you, but I will never pick another pecan up off of the ground under a pecan tree right after seeing your filthy body. I know that you signed a waiver when they questioned you. I also know that they dropped it after that and you never even saw a pair of handcuffs. I hate that when a friend and I skipped school senior year to go talk to the police again, they said they would look into it. I got the same backwoods, hillbilly feeling from them that time too. They probably saw my tight jeans and tight shirt and thought I was asking for it as a child. I hate that time I went to the District Attorney's office eight months pregnant and begged him to get this man off the streets. He told me to come back after I had the baby, as he was concerned for my well-being. I was alone that time. I have never gone back and I never will.

You will not see jail time for this crime in your life, Larry. After this letter, I will never pursue you getting thrown in jail for being the child molester you are. I do not want for you to think that I am okay with that, because I am not. I do want you to know that when you die, I will piss on your grave. Literally. I have been planning it for some time. When I saw you at the hospital when Mawmaw was sick, my husband comforted me. He held back too, and I know that it took a lot for that. He knows and he hates you too. But he loves me more than he hates you, and he has always known what to say. And in this instance, what to do. But I held back. We held back. I let you get in that elevator and leave because you knew that I wouldn't go in and see her with you in the room. Not with my daughter still growing inside of me. I held back that time I saw you at the sale. You know, the one where people sell livestock? I saw you, you sick fuck. It took two young males to hold me back. Thank them, if you need to, but I had less self-control and less self-worth then and I am not sure what my sixteen year old self would have done. And you were on crutches. I heard you fell on a ladder and have a limp. I laugh occasionally at the thought.

But when you die, Larry, I will piss on your grave. I may do it when I am eighty years old, if I live that long. I probably will not live that long because the hate and guilt and thoughts that I know are wrong have eaten at me. I know it affects my health, it affects my actions. I'm tired of trying to do too much and to follow the rules and save the world to keep from feeling like a bad person because of you. I may do it the day after you die. I may take a thirteen-hour flight to rent a car, to drive for twelve hours, just to piss on your grave the day after you are buried. After I piss on your grave, I will drive twelve hours to hop on a thirteen-hour flight, and I will go back home, my home, and sleep like a fucking baby. But I will piss on your grave. I will also leave this letter when I do it. It was me, in case anyone wanted to know who pissed on his grave and left this letter. I am pretty sure the thirteen-hour flight and twelve-hour drive gave me away, y'all know who I am. This is my letter, if you don't like me anymore or are angry at me after this, so be it. This is what I need to say to help me. Please don't ever let me find out that it happened to my cousins too, because pissing on your grave will never be enough to let out this hate if it did. This hateful feeling that I have. Because then it really will be my fault, I will have let it happen to them too, and they don't deserve that.

Sincerely, you sick fuck,

Morgan Carver Richards (your niece and every other little girl who had to deal with a sick fuck like you)

Rock Hill, South Carolina (happened in Chester County, SC), as well as Dubai, United Arab Emirates.

LETTER 2

Dear Ex-Parent,

You were the monster under my bed. You were the scary creature lurking in my closet waiting to pounce on me the minute I opened the door. You were my worst nightmare that was impossible to escape from. Everywhere I turned you were there.

During the day you would systematically tear me down with your verbal assaults. You would yell. You would scream. You would tell me how worthless I was and how no one would ever love me. You would humiliate me for having bedwetting issues. You would tease me for the way I walked. You told me I was stupid, ugly and a disgrace to the family. You threatened to give me up for adoption whenever you were angry with me. Your words hurt because you should have loved me.

Your terrorizing reign continued at night when you would come into my room. Now instead of being your verbal punching bag, I was your physical dumping ground. As you started to undress my soul would leave my body. I laid there motionless starting out the window and hoping it would all be over soon. I didn't dare fight back, object or challenge how you were using my body. Doing these things during the day only resulted in brutal spankings with your belt. Your spankings would leave bruises and welts on the back of my thighs, making it painful to sit down. The more I begged you to stop, the harder you would hit me. I would do anything not to receive a spanking. So when you came into my room at night, I would disconnect from my body until it was all over.

As my parent you were suppose to build me up, not tear me down. You should have protected me and not been the one that I ran from. You should have given me comfort and teach me how to navigate through life. Instead you abandoned me and I had to figure out life on my own. You made me feel like a burden or a huge inconvenience. My presence wasn't worth your time, your love or your affection. So I was cast away to the bathroom where I would curl up in a ball inside the bathtub with only a towel to keep me warm. From inside the bathroom I heard you laughing, playing and enjoying the family you really wanted. Your message was received loud and clear. I was not worthy enough to be part of your family. You did not want me.

There were times when you acted like you wanted me in your life. I would get excited, making sure to look perfect, act perfect and just otherwise be the shinning example of the perfect daughter for you. This was my chance to earn a spot in your perfect family. Each time I tried, I would be sorely disappointed. You weren't interested in me. You were only using me as a chess piece in your twisted game to hurt someone else. Once you accomplished your goal, I was cast aside until the point where I would once again become useful in your hurtful game.

For year I have wasted so much time and energy trying to be perfect enough for you to love me unconditionally the way a parent should. I believed that if I just did one more thing, stood up for you one more time or said the right thing one more time it would be enough to make you proud. It would make you love me. I jumped through hoops for you. I was at your beckon call trying desperately to right every wrong that came into your life. It was exhausting and it was never enough for you.

Instead of holding you accountable for treating me like this, I internalized your disappointment by mentally beating myself up. I tore myself to shreds for not doing better, or being better for you. My self worth was in the toilet for much of my adult life. I questioned my ability to be a wife and a mother. I didn't think I made a very good friend. I certainly was not a good person. Someone who is a good person can, at the very least, make her parent happy.

This is not how I want to live my life. So now I'm done trying to be good enough for you. It is easy for me to stop trying because I know now that you do not love me. Your words, your actions, your disappointment in me are not signs of love someone has for their daughter. Your love came with the condition that I be the perfect daughter who made you the center of my world. When it became clear that wasn't going to happen anymore, you became hateful. Your love for me should be unconditional but it is not. So I am done trying to change that.

All of your hurtful words and heartbreaking actions did not tear me down. While you were trying to destroy me, I was doing what it took to survive. This made me strong! This made me invincible! Now I just need to start loving myself as much as those around me already do!

Sincerely,

The Daughter You Didn't Deserve

LETTER 3

To my "uncles" Lenard & John,

UGH to use the word Uncle, (that you are related to me) makes me sicker than you can imagine. You were NEVER Uncles, more like tormentors!!!!!! You made my life a living hell when I was at my grandparents' home. I will be sixty this year, and I still have night terrors so bad that there are times my husband has to wake me from them. I still have flashbacks and feelings of someone coming into my bed so real I want to throw up. I have been in and out of therapy for years because of you both. It's so hard to even write this now that I have to work on it and leave it alone for a few days. This small amount so far up to here has taken me from June 6th to June 23rd. If I don't speak out so others can hear, I will have failed myself. Not only was I abused but so was my cousin, who I was close to. Then I find out years later that other female cousins were abused, and you abused your own sister, my aunt, when she was young.

All these years I have been told to deal with it and get over it and move on!!!! Seriously!!!!! We survivors of abuse have PTSD just as severe as service members do when they come back home. I could go on and on about all the things that can trigger my fears that you both created. I'm so jumpy that I startle people who come up behind me, and then they feel bad for having startled me so much. I have tried to work on that, but it's just something that's in me, almost like being in my DNA. That may sound extreme, but what you did to my inner self was extreme. It's now July 2nd and I continue. My inner self, my inner child, still cries out for justice for what you did to me!!!! You took away my innocence, my childhood, my sanity (on so many days). July 3rd, I'm watching a show now about crime cases that had the death penalty. Do I wish death on the people who abused me? No, but what I wish is for their crime to come to life and be acknowledged. I this will never happen, especially after all of these years. July 28th, I look at this every day in my email and think, do I have the strength to write, do I want to deal with it? As you can tell with the dates, it has taken me many days in between to write, but I have to work at my own pace. Not only did you affect my childhood, but also my adult life because it was not until I was in my early 30s that I started having flashbacks, and I started remembering. It was the worst thing I could have thought of. The first flashback I had, I was driving and had to pull my car over!! Then things just started coming out more and more from there. And in the middle of this, I was trying to raise three small children and maintain a marriage. Oh, my marriage, how you fucked that all up!!! All of the sudden I have flashbacks, feelings, smells, all so real I thought it was happening all over again. There were times when it truly felt like someone crawled into bed and laid on top of me. It was so bad, I had to jump out of bed and try and shake it off. It was one of the hardest things; I can still feel it. My poor husband didn't know what to do, or how to deal with it. My therapist at the time said it was normal because it's how your mind and body remember things. Trust me, I don't want to remember!! July 29th, I don't want to remember anything about you two!!!! Now that my mother (your sister) is gone, I would love nothing more than to make your life miserable and let people know what you did. But I can't, I figure you will have to answer to God someday, and that will be enough for me. July 30th, for everything I lost as a child, I gained more from being blessed with a wonderful husband and three awesome sons. From that I now have three beautiful daughters-in-law, two grandsons, and a granddaughter. My uncles took so much, but I gained so much, even in spite of what happened in the past. It's the past, and I have to remind myself of that all of the time.

LETTER 4

Dear Richard,

I am writing this letter to let you know what you put me through for ten years when you were molesting me and then raping me at fifteen, as well as the feelings I had during the four years of the trial.

First and foremost, I want you to know that I forgive you. You took away my innocence. I went from a five year old who had no worries in the world to a kid who cried when anyone looked at me the wrong way, to crying when I needed something for school. I was too afraid to trust anyone. You were an uncle who was supposed to protect me, but you were the one who caused the most pain. I was always afraid that today was the day it would get worse. Not knowing if I was around you, if you would let me be a kid or if you would do what you wanted to do.

At 16 years old, it got too much for me. I tried to kill myself. Thankfully my brother was there to stop me. I then turned to a life of controlling the sex I had. When I felt like I had no control over things in my life, I would control it with sex. It kinda put my life back in order from the tailspin of what I felt. I felt like I was damaged goods.

As you told me, "Who would want you now that you are damaged goods?" I believed it. I settled for less than what I deserved. After I tried to kill myself, I stopped talking about it for three more years.

New Year's Eve 2000/2001 at 11:59 pm on 12-31-2000, I confronted you in front of everyone. I was filled with anger and hurt. I was bombarded with your wife Joyce and aunt Diane asking me a million questions. Grandma got up away from the table and walked into the kitchen, not saying a word. I felt like I was the person that caused all this. I felt with them questioning me and trying to get me to blame it on someone else. I was the one breaking up the family.

You called me a liar and a stupid little bitch. I stood my ground and said the same thing over and over trying to get everyone around to listen to me. Tears were streaming down my face because I knew I was alone again. No support from my cousins, Grandma. None. I then went on for a few years just bottling it up. I knew it wasn't my fault, but I could not help but to have those feelings of why did I let it happen to me, why didn't I speak up before now, why me?

April 2010 was the biggest step in the right direction. I called to set up a meeting with an SVU detective. I felt like I was superman that day. Nothing could stop me now. Enough was enough. I had to stand up for what was right and wrong. And what you did to me and the other victims was wrong.

I went for the meeting with the detective. I was so nervous and sick to my stomach. I had to relive every detail of the ten years you stole from me. It was sickening. Every smell, every touch, I had to say it out loud to take control back from you. I was gaining my freedom. It felt like you could not make me cry anymore. I was so proud and very happy for once in my life.

Then I was put into three years of hell. You delayed the trial with every pretrial motion you could think of. It was an emotional roller coaster.

The day I learned that the other victim, who was supposed to be my best friend, recanted so she could still be apart of your grandkids' lives, I was devastated. That was like I was stabbed in the back with a ten-inch blade.

My name was being drug through the dirt for no reason at all. I was so angry, I wanted to hurt someone. Because of you, I have PTSD. Because of you, I have trust issues. Because of you, I am damaged goods. The last pretrial hearing that was done, we were told there would be no more delays, we were going to trial. I was so ready for that day to happen. I was brave all these years. I was going to tell my story and let everyone know what type of person you are.

I got the worst news of my life. You hung yourself Dec. 15, 2013. It felt like you raped me all over again. Part of me was free from the trial, the emotional restraints. The other part of me felt like you cheated me out of my justice. When was it going to be my turn to get my life back? I felt destroyed. There would be no justice for me. I talked to friends about it and realized that you cannot molest or rape another kid. So, you might have gotten out of your peers judging you, but God has the final say on what happens to you. I started to let go of that emotional chain that you put on my life all these years. I felt all the fear and hurt and anger go away.

You might have thought you got the last laugh, but to be honest, I am the one who is still here, and I am the one who has stood my ground and has not faltered. My story has always been the same. I still get to tell my story. It might not be in a court room. I am telling it to more people, and it will help them in the long run. So, I say with my Superman Cape on, I won!!

Sincerely,

Mary

LETTER 5

Dear Stephen C****** C*****:

This is a letter of forgiveness and farewell. When you sexually molested me in third grade, you caused a gross entanglement of emotions that only got more tangled, deeper and more complex, as I grew older, until it collapsed all together, leading to an indescribable amount of pain and suffering. Twenty years old no less, an age of growth and development, I retreated into the dark depths of depression, suicidal thoughts, substance abuse, and other traumatic response symptoms, at the supposed "time of my life". I am now farthest away from my childhood and away from your role as an authority figure in my life that I can write you this letter. I now see you as a person instead of a father figure; therefore, I now have compassion and forgiveness towards you and all of your actions against me. I will specify:

-abusing your role as a father figure when you chose to sexually abuse me

around eight years old, continuing to abuse me for over a year

-using my childhood innocence and trust towards you as a father figure for

your own gains, refusing to acknowledge your actions

-projecting your own sexual frustration on me, both physically and mentally

-cheating on my mom, your wife, and then lying to her about your actions

-thinking only of yourself when you have two children who are learning

about the world, thus learning from you and your actions

-bringing your insanity and the insanity in your relationships into my

innocent consciousness (example: bringing M****** G***** into our lives,

watching her break a window and scream obscenities in)

-putting my mother, your wife, into a position where she had to decide

whether to keep the family together or separate us

-putting my mother, your wife, into a position where she had to decide

whether to keep a father figure in C******'s and my life or to prosecute you

and thus remove a father figure from our lives

-emotionally abusing me by creating inner turmoil in my young and

growing mind from your consistent lying to me, my mom, and sister, and

then refusing to acknowledge your lying, revealing the duplicitous

nature of humans

-disconnecting your words and actions (displaying duplicitous nature)

-exemplifying negative behavior such as watching TV late at night,

smoking, lying, screaming, an obsession for money

-treating me as if I was a child so my thoughts were below yours, the

adult or authority figure

-NEVER apologizing for any of your actions

This list is not exhaustive; however, after all this, I still forgive you. You lost two daughters and my beautiful mom. You have dug yourself into a deep hole and now it's time for you to dig yourself out. Take responsibility for your words and actions, you are a grown man. Maybe then you will make a new life for yourself. Until then, farewell.

Best,

Cailey Ann Cotner

LETTER 6

Dear Gloria and Mitchell,

As a child, I recall my joyful spirit and loving nature. Always hugging and kissing on those I loved and attempting to protect them from spankings because it hurt me deeply to see them cry. I ran home from school each day into your arms, Mom. After being away all day, I was so happy to see your face. I loved life and all of you. Not that I don't now, but your actions, or should I say, inability to act, has changed how I love anyone.

I knew he was evil when you announced that you were marrying and moving to Texas. When I began to cry, it was not because I would miss him. He picked me up and claimed my tears, but they were for us, for what I intuitively knew was the wrong decision for all of us. But you had your shiny new boy and planned a sacrifice of your girls for a man. Oh, yes, you told me that you married him because you could not find anyone to help you feed, clothe, and house eleven children, all by different men. However, your goal was to relieve yourself of the burden. I have seen stories of many women raising families alone and the children being so much better than how most of us turned out. Your examples of how to live, love, and survive only led to alcoholism, drug abuse, and more negative self-destruction.

Even when you almost died of cirrhosis of the liver, you couldn't, or wouldn't, let go of the one thing that was poisoning us. Mitchell, your husband and our abuser, my molester, the monster that ruined the lives of your five daughters. But you gave him all the opportunities to do his dirty work, and you could claim that you did not know because you had been drinking.

I still remember. I was nine years old. I cannot forget how awfully small and dirty I felt when I walked into the kitchen and told you that he came to my bed in the middle of the night and touched me there and put his pee pee between my legs. You looked at me as if to say how dare you tell me something so disgusting. I was devastated and cried because I thought I had lost your love for me. When we went to church, I listened as the deacon prayed and called us filthy rags upon God's throne. That was me. A filthy little girl. Why would God listen to my prayers? I was nasty and the more he continued, the worse I became.

But I wasn't alone in my suffering. You fought with your oldest daughter, Mary, about him. "Why won't you make him stop touching us?" she asked. Her emotional pain turned to cancer and took her from an abusive husband. Patterns that you have created in many of my siblings.

You never had any intention of doing anything about what he was doing, even when your second eldest daughter had his child. You look at your youngest son and your granddaughter and cannot deny the resemblance. I confirmed her suspicions during the drive to Mary's funeral. She asked me who her father is, and I told her he is her grandfather. She knew she did not have to ask because she sees him in the mirror.

I see the few pictures of myself as a child, and I see the sadness in my eyes. I recall the doctor visits. I was a sickly pain in the ass for you. Ulcers at such a young age and no one thought to ask what could possibly give a child sores in her stomach. It was the gut wrenching reality that I lived. But you seemed to adjust and again hand me over to yet another abuser. Pops, as we called him, was in your motorcycle club. He said he had young daughters that I should meet and you let him take me away to meet them. During the ride, he stopped at a Kmart and asked me to go in and buy myself some underwear. What did I know about buying my own clothes? Nothing. Sick with fear, I bought a package of women's briefs. When we finally reached his home, his wife and daughters were not welcoming and they stared at me with cold lifeless eyes. I knew instantly that they too had been molested. The girls were too young to be biological daughters of this elderly woman. Was she knowingly supplying these children for his pleasure?

It was time to get me something to eat and he drove me to McDonald's. With the bag in my lap, I started to nibble on the fries when he pulled over in a dark area and began to touch me. I drew closer to the door and cried out, "I want my momma!"

Thank God he stopped and brought me back to the house, and I curled up in the bed and cried myself to sleep. The next morning, the bag of food still by my side, I left the room and he had my stuff ready to return me back home.

All this for your own freedom and fun. Your greed was unbearable as you lied and stole from me. It was always about money for you. Well, I paid you for bringing me into this world. I paid with my body, heart, soul and hard earned money.

By age thirteen, I finally caught enough nerve to threaten his life if he ever came into my bedroom again. I slept with a knife under my pillow. Sweet dreams, little girl who had to grow up fast. Launched into adulthood by the infestation of betrayal and abuse. Because you never stopped him, two of my brothers took me into the attack and also molested me, and a brother-in-law. My life was a spiral of sexual trauma. But I wondered if anyone would believe that one person could endure such tragic experiences? Once when I told a supervisor, she fired me. I keep it all to myself for a long time. But ignoring it was not the answer. I felt as if I had a neon sign over my head glowing "Victim". I had to reverse the damage.

I am proud to say that I am not a reflection of the woman you turned out to be. I realized that the guilt I felt for not protecting myself was misdirected. My out-of-body experiences separated me from the little girl I once was. I broke the curse that seemed to plague me. It took a while. I experienced two date rapes and finally realized that there was something about me that drew these types of men and experiences into my life. I vowed to change and I did change. I sought therapy and read books to help me understand me, you, him and all those around me who allowed me to suffer. You gloated over and took credit for how beautiful I turned out and that I was a model, but you denied your hand in my painful past. You were his accomplice. Yes, you committed the crime with him because you knew and did nothing to protect me, help me heal, or change the outcome of my then future.

And Mitchell, you are the scum of the earth. With a third grade education, you slither your way around us as if nothing you did was ever wrong. When I confronted you, all you could say in response was, "If I would have known it was going to cause you so much pain, I would not have done it." Well, if my tears then did not let you know how wrong and painful it was, then you did not want to know. My sisters and I used to think of ways we could punish you for what you did to us, but Momma would not let anyone do anything to you because you were her meal ticket. She emasculated her boys so they not only did not do anything to him, they jumped on the bandwagon. To think it could have been prevented if you would have had the confidence and courage to say something when you first knew he was a rotten soul.

Going down this road is a bittersweet journey. I remember, but I have forgiven you all. I forgive because I am stronger, wiser and free. I see the hell you live through on a daily basis. Your cesspool swirls with disease, abusive language, and the constant struggle to stay above poverty. All of you continue to drown your memories and pain with alcohol yet when you wake from your drunken state, your guilt and reality of life you have created awaits you. I pray someday that you will choose to free yourselves of your demons and stop the predator from striking again in the next generation.

Your granddaughter was approached by him. He has offered money to be with him. Do you think he will ever stop? During a phone conversation while you held one of your great grandchildren, I asked you if you could look in her face and know that she could potentially be his next victim and do nothing. Someone will have to end his reign of terror. I am not sure what will be the antidote for his venomous bite. Maybe it was true that his mother was a voodoo priestess and put a spell on you. Our New Orleans roots may be deeper than we know.

I was fortunate enough to get away. I knew I had to leave the place I called home in order to re-parent myself and rebuild each and every facet of my being. The girl you called Kathy died with all the dysfunctional history. Katherine is a reborn authentic woman who is loving, lovable, and loved. You confused me about love because you were supposed to love and protect your children. Nonetheless, I uncovered self-love and know that it is one thing no one can ever take from me. Through power, strength, and will, I learned to love you at a distance. I now know who you are and what you are to me. I keep my distance because I choose to maintain my happiness, my healthy emotional and mental state of being. Lena Horne once said, "It's not the load that breaks you down. It's how you carry it." Well, I buried my load years ago. You are now free of me as a burden and I return the favor.

Katherine Ann

LETTER 7

SURVIVING IS ONLY THE FIRST STEP

by Lauren Holiday

August 17, 2011

I was five the first time it happened – too young to even remember fully, except for a few snapshots of details, the way he stood looking at both himself and me in the bathroom mirror as he got ready for bed, lying in between him and my sleeping grandmother, the feeling of quiet panic as I felt his hand on me. By age ten, I had already learned not to expect too much because I was damaged goods, and my only role in life would be to serve at the perverse pleasure of others. I was sixteen the first time I thought of ending it all. Ironically, I survived only on rage and the uncertainty of reincarnation, which caused me to fear my next life even more than my current one.

For the next ten years, I took on the role of abuser, not believing I deserved any happiness. I found solace in drugs, alcohol, sex, food, and any other activity I could obsess over. At the age of twenty-five, I realized this life would never leave me, so I left it. I moved to California and began a new life, one with no past, only a future. I found happiness and love, not only with another, but eventually and miraculously for myself.

I was content to spend the next ten years helping my lover build her dreams, feeling her success was also my success. I was thirty-six when I finally found the courage, the strength, the audacity, to whisper to myself that I, too, had a dream. As I slowly began to offer my talent up for scrutiny, I worried. Did I have the strength to suffer the fickle cruelty of public opinion? But instead, something amazing happened. For the first time, the old fears and self-loathing that crept up when I dared to have hope for myself were squashed by my own new-found desire to stop merely surviving, but for once, to truly live.

LETTER 8

Dear Auntie Carol,

I don't know if you remember or not, but when I was twelve years old, you were kind enough to let me stay in your home for a few days, it may even have been as long as a week. I was there with a cousin whose name I don't remember. I do remember that we had loads of fun, just being alone in the country and playing in the fields. I had always loved that house. I was glad you and Uncle Gerald moved into it after Aunt Rose died. It was kind of weird when Aunt Rose's husband married her sister. She was nice and all, but I preferred Aunt Rose so the house didn't feel the same until they moved out. I don't remember what happened to them. Maybe they moved away from all the reminders. It was all a very long time ago. They were elderly, and I am sure they are all dead by now, reunited in whatever afterlife they believed in. Hopefully Aunt Rose wasn't too mad at her sister. Who knows? Maybe she even appreciated it and is partying with her sister's husband up in Heaven. Life and love, as it turns out, is much more complex and sophisticated than I understood back when I was a child. I think that is what made my twelve-year-old attack of puberty so challenging.

Ah, puberty! What a cruel joke of evolution.

And that brings me to the point of my letter, and why many of my memories are so clouded over with the distraction of a more prevalent story.

Here is what I recall. I had had fun, felt warm and comfortable with you and Uncle Gerald, and enjoyed the company of whoever that distant cousin also visiting was. Likely, it was someone my parents thought I would be positively influenced by, because now as I look back, I suspect the whole visit was a sort of respite for my parents. Respite from the emotional instability my budding boobies and period onset invited. Acting out in puberty was simply a new kind of more perverse and confusing acting out for me and probably just added to my mountain of weird behaviors in the eyes of my parents. Back then I thought I was normal. I have since learned otherwise and wondered often how the strangeness of me influenced the strange happenings of my life. I have no answers for these wonderings. I just wonder.

So, indeed, it is possible that you were supplying respite for my parents and a positive influence for me. Whether that is true or not, you were hospitable, asked for very few chores (which was respite for me) and I had fun. I want to say thank you for that. I don't think I ever did write the thank you letter my mom asked me to send a few days after vacation ended. Perhaps you felt ignored, unloved, unappreciated, but you were not. That is far from the truth of things. Sometimes gratitude gets lost in the grittiness of life. That is what happened. Life got gritty, so I shut my mouth.

I think it's time I wrote you that letter, the one I never would have written.

Dear Auntie Carol,

I want to thank you for your generous hospitality and tell you what happened to me, and to you, even though you were unaware.

The night before I went home, we all went out for ice-cream: you, me, Gerald, the nameless cousin, and your boys. It felt like a true adventure because you lived so far into the country that going into town for Dairy Queen was tantamount to a trip to Disneyland. We were all a little giggly with fun. I remember feeling light and silly and laughing and joking and pouncing from the truck the minute we pulled into the parking lot. I wanted to run and prance about under the town street light with my cousin. There were some boys there, and I think I may have been flirting while we danced around. Though, I am not sure because back then I didn't understand the concept of flirting. I do know it was all very titillating and a great end to a wonderful trip.

There is something so exciting about the night air and a socially constructed accident of budding boys when you are twelve years old and displaced with relatives who live on a farm. The combination can really make a memory of delight. For me, though, this part of the memory is super hazy, and I can recall just bits and pieces of sensations and emotions. Perhaps that's because my sixtieth birthday looms a year and a half away. Apparently due to the energy cost of maintenance and the neuronal erosion of time, a brain only keeps the important information intact; for me, sensations and feelings have always been more important than names and dates.

So here is what I recall:

I remember the drive home was super happy. We were a truck full of laughter and smiles, and I wondered if you and Gerald might adopt me. When we arrived back, Uncle Gerald pushed and cajoled everybody but me out of the truck. He asked me to ride with him while he parked the truck. And you seemed to look at Gerald as if you and he had agreed on something. So you all headed for the house while we headed into the darkness of the Quonset. I guess I acquiesced to the plan, but I just don't remember doing that because my ears were ringing too loud to plant the memory. I do remember feeling weird and dizzy.

Then when we got into the barn-like aluminum Quonset, he parked the truck and put his hands all over me. He grabbed at my breasts and pawed at my crotch and slobbered his saliva into my mouth while telling me not to be a cock tease. He said that I was asking for "it" all night long.

This...was...unknowable to me.

It felt so completely out of the blue, so completely unexpected, so completely unbelievable. That my army veteran, buzz cut, body buff uncle who had always represented safekeeping, hard work, and fun might grab at me in this way and say these words to me threw me into an adrenalin panicked state of confusion. I was scrambling to think. My body was being pressed and scrunched. My mind was being raped!

And the only way that my twelve-year-old mind could make sense of it was to think that he must be in love with me.

Then I did what I had always done, acted in control while searching for a way out of the problem.

I suspected that whatever I did or said stopped him more because it was too crazy to be sexy than because I was strong or threatening in any way.

I got out of the truck fairly unscathed physically. I ran into the house. I didn't want to look you in the eye, Auntie Carol, because I knew I was about to ruin your marriage. So I slipped past you and went straight up the stairs with my eyes on my feet. I told my cousin that Uncle Gerald was in love with me and that I knew it was true because he just couldn't keep his hands off me (a line I had heard in a movie somewhere). While we were whispering about what I should do and wondering if I was pregnant, we heard you and Uncle Gerald downstairs laughing.

That was unfathomable. I couldn't see how you could be happy while he was telling you he was in love with me and needed a divorce. I mean I wasn't even happy. In fact, I was worrying that I would be stuck with Uncle Gerald and that I was going to have to fall in love with him. And I certainly didn't feel ready to be a parent to your boys. They were boys, right? I don't really remember the details of your family. I think that is because it's all too covered in clouds of confusion and humiliation. But maybe it's because I have problems with those sorts of details anyway.

Maybe I wouldn't have remembered them even without this incident. That is what I mean when I say I was a weird kid. I often misinterpreted people and events. And I seldom remembered names and faces.

However, I have always remembered feelings.

I snuck half way down the stairs and watched while you and Uncle Gerald laughed and flirted with each other. That was when I realized that no one was going to speak of this thing that had just changed the course of my life.

I went home in a state of shock that, for me, was sadly familiar and felt normal.

A few days later, my mom insisted I write the thank you note I had been avoiding. I was to give you and Uncle Gerald gratitude for your generous hospitality. I was completely conflicted. I wanted to thank you, tell you, scream at you, hurt you. I hated you and everyone who was a part of the story that I couldn't tell because manners dictated be grateful and be quiet. Keep your mouth shut has always caused a war in my head. A war of lies and truth battling for position. The teaching of "tell a grown up" was punching it out with "keep your mouth shut" and leaving me with no mental stronghold because the grownups were the ones doing things to me. So who should I tell? My cousin hadn't helped. In fact, if I remember correctly, she laughed at me and facilitated my erasing her from my person specific memory.

My mom just kept at me and kept at me. Laying one punishment upon another for my refusal to write the note, and then finally I did it. I told a grown up, blurted out, "FINE! You want to know why I don't want to say thank you? It's because dear Uncle Gerald was grabbing my breasts in the Quonset."

There. I told her. And I knew she would kill him. I would likely be writing to my parents in jail, serving time for murder, happy to be protected.

Her response was immediate and unsurprised. "Well, knowing you, you probably asked for it. Just say thank you and be done with it."

She echoed what Uncle Gerald had said about me asking for it. I was stunned into numbness. Maybe I had? I wondered.

Back then the "maybe" was frightening. Now in my senior years, it's a little more logical.

Maybe I had been asking for it because I was unaware of what asking looked like. Maybe body language in a child's form. In fact, now as I look back from fifty-eight years of life experience, I know that that was probably true. When I was twelve, I was discovering and blossoming and budding and growing boobs. I was also still behaving as I had done previous to this transformation. I was unaware that being friendly and fun had changed its messaging. No one told me. They just touched me and called me names. When I was eight years old and I was friendly, it was just friendly. But suddenly my boobs and pubic hair had transformed it into a silent form of provocation and penile torture called cock teasing.

Given the disgusted energy with which people said those words, I figured that "cock tease" was the worst thing a girl could do.

A lot of things happened as a result of that misunderstanding.

A lot of things!

So here we are. It's many years later. I know Uncle Gerald was terminally ill, so he has probably passed. You may even have passed by now as well. Eventually time takes every one of us, like the great equalizer, we all end up dead. Perhaps that is why it's a good idea to write to you now? Because time is catching up with me. And an untold story never dies. Personally, I don't really want to take it with me. Besides, maybe someone else can have a better life because of it.

At any rate, I have been asked to write and so I will. I have learned at least that much. Share your gratitude. And while you are sharing, share your truth.

My truth:

I can tell you that Uncle Gerald's pawing wasn't the worst of the things that happened to me. Though not talking to you about it might have been. Uncle Gerald wasn't even the first one to touch my body parts. Though he was the first to touch them with curves and hair.

Uncle Gerald not being motivated by love was the problem. Because then I couldn't continue to believe in the lie I had been telling myself about why this sort of thing happens.

I closed my eyes really tight and tried not to think about it. And while I did that, I decided that the one thing I would never, never be was a vile little cock tease. Love, I decided, only comes to the person who is willing to please.

Uncle Gerald never left you, and Dad never left Mom.

I assumed you were both more pleasing than me.

Up until then, I had decided Dad stayed with Mom out of love for us kids. That had given his needs a perverse kind of sense. But Uncle Gerald made it into something different. I could no longer believe in romance, soulmates, or destiny. Because the incident with Uncle Gerald wouldn't fit into my fantasy of romance, the walls had crumbled and this dirty feeling action now became something about me and men and my life ahead.

I had buried a lot of truths about grown-ups already. Tried hard to fantasize them into protectors and caregivers. My Quonset date with Uncle Gerald taught me that even the grownups in my family were more enemy than friend. I found myself alone amongst many.

I decided to bury it all, again.

But my damn mother just wouldn't let me be impolite or ungrateful.

She blamed me, again.

Just as Uncle Gerald had done.

The walls of my carefully constructed defenses were now broken. I had spent so many years immersed in the art of mental gymnastics that it was a surprise to find myself unable to duck and weave from the truth. Surprise—to understate the truth—was extremely uncomfortable.

Suddenly, I could no longer trick myself into believing that the soft touching adults in my world had been loving me. Immediately, sensual touching and sexual touching became one. I wanted to throw up the word love.

Previous to Uncle Gerald, I had been able to bury the truth of my father's character by calling it romance. I wanted to love my father, by any name. Then when Uncle Gerald pawed me, I was faced with a dilemma: see my father as bad or see Uncle Gerald as in love.

I chose love, again.

Most days I understood that my father had to stop loving me and stay with my mother. That made sense. I had siblings. They would be sad if I married my father. I had built a lovely little harlequin fantasy until Uncle Gerald burst the bubble by laughing with you at the foot of the stairs.

I tried really hard to keep the fantasy intact. That is the main reason I didn't want to explain to my mother why I didn't want to write the thank you note. I was afraid to look at the family I came from as people who condoned molesting. I was afraid to risk finding out that they were the kind of parents that blamed the child. I was afraid to realize that molesting was the right word for all of them. I was afraid. I couldn't look at it because then I would have to see the true faces of my sensual father and my hating my mother and all that had come before. And all of that had been happening in me for years. So when my mom said, "Well knowing you, you probably asked for it." I figured it was easier to believe she was right than to believe that all of you were all wrong.

For years after that, my mom brought you and Uncle Gerald up to me on a regular basis. Always acting as if nothing had happened. Behaving surprised when I refused to be where you were. Mom invited, "Uncle Gerald and Auntie Carol are coming!" to gatherings that I had to hide away from. She brought you up and brought you up and even bragged that you were coming over to babysit my little sister, effectively forcing me to act out in anger as a means of keeping her, and me, safe.

Every time it happened, I screamed, cried or cajoled, "Why are you doing this? Stop inviting them and talking about them. You know what he did."

Yes. I kept the truth alive and spoke out to my parents, but I never told you.

So here it is many years later and I find myself writing a piece for a collection of stories about sexual assault. The intention is to clean up unfinished business by writing a letter to the appropriate person. But most of my business is finished, out in the open, available to all who like to read. So I thought about the concept and then...you...popped into my unfinished business file.

You—more than Uncle Gerald—are my unfinished business. I don't want to address the person who molested and confused me, that is a done deal. I want to address the person I kept the secret from because I think that could have been the moment when everything had a chance to go differently.

I think if I had gone downstairs that day and bravely walked into all your laughter and said, "Aunt Carol, Uncle Gerald was just touching me in the Quonset. He must be in love with me and tell you about it. How can you be laughing? Aren't you mad enough for a divorce? Even my mom was normal enough to threaten that." If I had spoken this twisted truth, you might have laughed for a different reason, you might have known I was weird (if you didn't already) but you would also have known what happened, and that could have changed everything.

You see, now as I approach sixty, I understand that when a secret is kept from us, a whole new series of events unfolds. Like how grown-ups teach manners and lies about adult activities and leave children ill equipped for the truths that their adolescent bodies encounter. Maybe for you, had you know the truth in that moment, everything would have morphed into something magnificent.

Heck, maybe you were in on it. Maybe you both thought it would teach me a lesson to have a man call me on my flirting; in fact, I have a vague memory of something like that being said at some point. But that doesn't mean it was. My memory is flawed after years of trying to justify the why of the adults in my life.

And even though I have no idea what kind of skeletons are twisting in your closet, no idea if you maybe even like that sort of deception, I still doubt that living your life was improved by my silence. But, who knows? Maybe if I had told you, your life would have changed for the worse. But I doubt it. People who do yucky things tend to be yucky more and more often as times goes by.

One thing is certain, it would have changed for the better. For me anyway.

I am sorry I never gave you a chance to know enough to have a choice and take a new aim on your future life that is now past.

And that's really why I wanted to write this to you. Because finally at this late age, I understand that nobody gets to change the trajectory of their future into one of empowerment by keeping something hidden. In fact, the way to purposely grow in the direction we want to grow in, is not by avoiding problems, hiding from them and keeping secrets, but by saying, "Hey, there is a problem here. Something happened. Help me make sense of it. Let me tell you about it."

In that moment, even Uncle Gerald might have changed. He might have taken a new approach and corrected his aim. He might have apologized. It's possible.

Maybe even you would have. One thing is certain: I would have known what was really going on, and in that moment, I would have grown stronger. I would have grown aware. I would have re-aimed and changed my trajectory.

And that might have prevented the many rapes that followed.

Because it might have corrected my mistaken belief that manipulated sex was what love looked like.

So, if for no other reason than to straighten out a past mistake and grow stronger today in my retirement years, if for no other reason than to share with others who may be having the confusion of this experience in their lives today, I would like to apologize for flirting and being apparently irresistible.

And tell you that you were wonderful. Thank you for letting me stay there. Uncle Gerald was not your fault, unless he was.

Chapter Three

Rape

LETTER 1

Dear Naylor,

I wanted to thank you for the wonderful time we had when we consensually beat you up. You didn't tell me to stop, so I took your silence as permission to continue. You may have been confused in this situation and wanted to deem it an "assault", but it clearly wasn't something you wanted me to stop doing at the time. I feel sorry for rapists like you who have to yell "assault" in order to get attention or try to sue for money. Clearly, it was something you didn't mind at the time and now you regret.

The statute of limitations has run out for you to press charges against me, so I wanted to thank you for a wonderful time beating you down to the bar room floor. I'm sure you now realize what a bitch the law is in protecting people.

I know what you truly are. You are a coward who has to drug people's drinks and rape them to feel good about yourself. You are worthless and will always be a loser. But I will spend my life until my dying breath to make sure you and your kind are put behind bars where you belong. I just wanted you to know, the first thirteen years of your sentence, those are my years.

Don't think you ever have a right to forget my name. I hope it gives you nightmares.

Sincerely,

Susan Hunter

LETTER 2

Dear Rapist,

Chris,

This is the third draft of my letter to you. At first, I wrote to tell you how you destroyed me. How much of my time you stole and the heavy cost it was to me and my family and friends. But now I am ready to write that you didn't destroy me. You delayed me.

For that, I am forever changed.

When someone asks if I need help, I flinch, especially strangers. I can never be in the same room with a person selling flowers. I avoid gas stations, exit ramps, flood lights, construction trailers, heavy gravel and the state of Maryland. I am always skeptical of a predator, especially to do with my children. I look over my shoulder sometimes, just to make sure you are not there, but not as much lately.

It's been nine months since you were arrested for your latest attack. I can't say I was surprised but I was devastated. I testified over and over to keep you from ever raping someone again. I guess I failed. I am glad to hear that both victims survived and are able to testify against you. I know how it feels to be safe because you are behind bars once again.

Because I don't know you, there are so many things I've thought of saying to you. You are a stranger to me. I thought about visiting you in jail just to see you face to face. I thought about writing you a letter but never had the words to describe the immeasurable pain you have caused me and my family. I also assumed you do not care.

I have thought about forgiving you. Not in a spiritual way but for a selfish reason. Not caring about you would be the easiest path to happiness. But I cannot. I have tried and failed. I will carry this burden for as long as I live. At least if I do not forgive you, I can turn my outrage into activism. Activism that might make a difference to a future victim.

If you read this, know that you did not break me. I would have testified against you forever if given the chance. My hope is for all victims to testify, if able. America needs a team of victims standing up to people like you.

Rot in Hell Asshole,

Rebecca

LETTER 3

I have written one, now here's another. To the Monster, Michał, can you hear me now? Can you hear my pain? My anger? Can you hear in your head every word of love you had ever spoken to me, as you raped me and justified your revenge? Revenge for moving on, revenge for taking away your control? You hated that I didn't just give in, and stay in your idea of a perfect world. I broke up with you because I was sick of the pain, sick of your gain. I hated how you tormented me, starving me for love and affection. You made me feel like my lust for you was treacherous, that it was a bad thing. Yet you would lead me on, turn me on, bring me to expectation, and then made me feel bad for even thinking of it. I was the asshole for even considering that you may once think of bringing me pleasure.

How many times have you turned guilt onto me for trying to tell you "You hurt me"? After I learned to turn the table back on you, how many times have you said to me "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me?" You didn't like to communicate, you kept any true thoughts close to the chest. After that, we both truly failed because I held on to a dream; a dream that your words, your lies helped manifest. So many times you surprised me in a bad way. So many times you begged for another chance with such sincerity. I always thought the good outweighed the bad. Soon, all there was was bad. I might have thought back on the good times from time to time, but now all you left me with was the pain.

That night, that horrid night, I felt ashamed, I felt humiliated, I felt pain. After I started to realize that it wasn't my fault, that I had a right to feel pain, I just had anger. I hated you. I hated everything you put me through. I didn't want to go outside, I didn't want to talk to people, I didn't want to even see people and my job was to deal with people. I had not legitimately cried for years, and I cried every day that month. I was and still am traumatized by the level of pain and betrayal you inflicted upon me. Yet now, it's easier to face. I'm not so angry at you anymore, because I don't even care about you anymore. I didn't then either, it was the reminder of what you put me through, and the paranoia of someone else doing that to me. Not just that, but the paranoia, the anxiety, whatever else the doc informed me was PTSD has greatly affected my life. Yet that reminder will come less often, and maybe someday I can be completely free of the torment of this experience. All I know is you yourself are not a part of my life.

There is no Michał. In fact, I only used this version of your name to differentiate you from any other Mike. I completely forgot it was a name that I would occasionally use to be sincere and loving towards you; forgot until this very moment. Psh, it has such an empty meaning now. If anything, it means Monster. I can't remember your height, I can hardly remember your laugh, nor can I remember specific features of your face. I cannot remember what it was I ever loved about you, even if I tried. I have tried so that I could find that initial mistake I made in agreeing to date you. Maybe it was the hours of effort put in to convincing me that my issues were not burden enough to keep you away? I am a very sentimental person, yet I don't have much to remember you by. I've rewritten any songs or experiences, or movie that I loved way too much to let its original sentiment be ruined by you. I couldn't even tell what it was I have rewritten.

I use to say "The worst way someone can hurt you is to be so cruel and evil, that they would take the patience and effort in deceiving you and showing you how sincere they are, only to use everything they know against you to hurt you." I can't believe I use to say that when I was little, because that's exactly what you did. I really didn't think patience meant a 4 year spiel but maybe other than patience, your sick determination for dominance put you in a fight that you weren't willing to lose. Was I that great of a person to you that no one else could have me? You have gone so far as to say you'd rather kill me than see me with another guy. I took that as in 'that's how strongly you felt about ever losing me because it would kill you'? It was more possessive. I have used the words egotistic, narcissistic toward you before. I completely despise the person I know you are now.

I let myself try to see the better side of you. I always see the good in everything and everyone, but from the very beginning you asked me for my help because you didn't like who you were becoming. You were the bad guy with the lost puppy. You totally lured me in through your conniving bull shit ways. I told you that I can only help show you the way, but I couldn't do it for you. You have to want to change and make the change yourself. Either you really were good at playing innocent and liked what the mask hid for you, or you really couldn't stand what being a good boyfriend entitled.

All this showered over me as a result of the night you betrayed me and took advantage of me. You know I can be passive when it comes to aggressively and physically defending myself; I've never had to. Standing up for someone else is much easier than to stand up for myself. You know I hate the idea of hurting anyone or making them feel bad, even if it's legitimately feeling bad for pain they've caused me. You know every aspect I grew up on and that I've been trying to fix in myself for years now. You used everything against me. You made it obvious at first what you wanted when you tried to kiss me. I told you "That's all you're getting, because this shit isn't happening." "No?" in a tone that you knew I would disapprove. Again, I said "No." You spent the rest of the night trying to find a way in. You always had to have alcohol when it came to serious conversations since that was your reason for overstaying your welcome. Your questions suggested that you just cared about finding out my personal life since I've been without you. Yet every little part of that night was another attempt to find a window. I was secure enough that I said no from the start, and figured that was it. It was out of my head, and any other time it came up, I dismissed it. You damn well knew I wasn't for anything intimate or physical with you that night. Whether I saw the signs or not, you had no right to even try.

And my cats? The boy is so lazy, he is submissive to whatever you want him to do. He just wants to be petted. All he was to you was a pretty kitty. But my older girl? She is shy and timid. You have been around long enough to know that she can't just be man handled. She will come to you for pets, and will go where she is comfortable. She is friendly to every single person she meets. Somehow, for a cat that only chirps when she's lonely, I've heard you make her cry. All she ever did was hide from you the moment you walked through my door. You've tormented my Baby, you've terrorized me in my own home, and you're despicable. I hate you Michał, I've rewritten just about every memory to where now, you were hardly ever existent. Soon, I'll be able to let go of this pain, and there will never be a time where you meant something to me.

LETTER 4

Hey Mike, can you hear me now? I know way too many Mikes' but you're not soiling the name. I've written letters for you too, but these here are written with a little more anger. That's what I had after I gathered my strength back. Uncontrollable, random anger comes out of nowhere. I'm getting it under control again, but do you even realize the damage you've done? Do you even care? You were bothering me so much that I spat out "I was raped by my ex a year and a half ago" and that was the only few seconds you let off of me. Did you have no remorse for what you were doing? Did it even occur to you to stop and think about me? Or was I just "So damn sexy"? "Why are you so damn sexy?" was the response I got when I asked why you were doing that to me. Why am I so damn sexy? Why are you so damn stupid?

We had a good night, and a good party at your new house you got with your girlfriend. You were all over her like you should have been that night. I had restored faith in you being a good guy for her. I crashed on the couch and found myself waking up to you standing over me. You asked me to lock up if I left before you got up, but why hide the true intention? The next thing you did was sit by my side and peel back my shirt. I thought you were going to comment on the fun everyone had but no, you had your tongue hanging out like a snake, trying to pull my shirt down. I don't know how many times I said "Stop" and "Go away" Hell, I even tried to tell you sincerely that I was uncomfortable, but neither that nor my body language did anything to get you to leave me alone.

Every time I talked, you shushed me not to wake the girl sleeping on the other end of the L couch. Don't wake her?! What about your girlfriend I could hear, snoring upstairs in your bedroom? I mentioned her, I mentioned my boyfriend, and nothing was getting you away from me. The only reason your hand was able to get to my ass was because I was too busy propping up your torso from all the weight you were leaning onto me. Even after I told you about my ex, you said sorry and leaned in for a kiss. When you first tried to lick my breast, you were saying "Just one taste". "Oh, that was one taste, so you're done now, right?" I asked, hoping you would finally stop. You fucking chuckled. You laughed it off as you leaned in for two more pecks. "So that's three now, are you done?" And yet still you were leaning on me. I wasn't going to kiss you back, nor was there any sign at any moment that I wanted you.

At one point. I even said I was going to hit you. You stuck out your chin and said "Alright, go ahead". It's really hard for me to actually physically harm someone, but does that mean I deserve to be taken advantage of then? Did you think I was lying to myself the whole time? Because never have /I expressed that I wanted you. I couldn't believe you tried to use the vulnerable moment of me talking about my rape, as a window to get in. I thought you would never give up. By the end, I was more than uncomfortable, I was aggravated; I had done everything I could. Then you dare shush me before you went back upstairs? You may have brought a lot of triggers back from my last incident, and you may have disturbed me, but you didn't silence me. I still have my voice and I hope you can hear me now.

LETTER 5

A Letter to My Stepfather, Freddie....

I write this letter to you, even though you're dead and gone. I haven't shed not one bit of tears because you are what you should be, like a rotten animal dead on the side of the street. I write this letter with the expression of anger, not fear, fear you see, that what you have always put in me. I was six years old, some say younger, but I can't remember because I put a lot out of my mind because you have robbed me blind. I want you to know that I remember, I know what you know but a whole lot more because, you see, I researched everything that you had ever told. I remember that as a child I had to listen and obey, remember when you had taken me at night like a robber in the night, you stalked me like a lion that stalked his prey until it was captured, destroyed and, yes, devoured until I was ripped apart.

I was six years old when you had taken me to the same bed that you had shared many days and many nights with my mother, as you placed me onto the bed, telling me, "It's ok, I'll protect you," but the question was, who was going to protect me from you? Spreading my legs wide open until you were deep inside, I was too young, couldn't fight; therefore, I had no other choice but to lay there and cry. Yes, you said, "I'll use Vaseline to keep you from getting pregnant," and that too was a lie. Creeping in the night until you were able to catch me and force me onto the floor, spreading my legs wide open, inside you go as I laid there on the floor. I remember begging you to stop, but that didn't matter, no not at all, because you were stronger than I was. Blood dripped down my legs as I laid there helpless, you got up, zipped your pants, and kissed me goodbye. Nine months later, a baby was born, leaving my whole life broken and torn. If I could tell you today, you said if I told anyone and I did, that my life would always be messed up. I'll never say anything! I'll always be hunted by your words until I realize that you were a lie! I AM SOMEBODY!!! I AM A HUMAN BEING, WOMAN, MOTHER, FRIEND, EDUCATOR, HONOR SCHOLAR, AN AUTHOR, Most of all, I AM FREE!!!!!!!

Pearl Lilly

LETTER 6

Rubin:

I cannot even bring myself to put "dear" in front of your name because nothing about you is dear—you are a monster. I can't believe I am writing this—it's been almost ten years since you changed my life forever. August 25th, 2005, the day I felt like I must have died because surely I was in hell. You made me experience a fear so deep I didn't even know it existed until that day. What started as giving an acquaintance a ride home turned into an unforgivable crime that has shaken me to my core. You took advantage of my naïveté, my youth, my innocence. You changed my life forever. Part of me died that day—the trusting part, the believing life is good part, the dreamer part, the loving part. It all died—it was replaced with a hollow shell, a shell that I have to work daily to chip away at. Nine years—nine years—I was in some type of therapy to get over what you did to me. It's not fair—I still struggle: I hate to go out alone after dark, I constantly look over my shoulder, I'm paranoid, I can't do certain things sexually, I get angry at the smallest thing if it feels like it's not my choice or I'm not in control, I have times I just cry, I am nauseous every August 25th, I have to look away when rape scenes come on TV and tense up. I am still stuck in a mental prison and you enjoy your freedom outside prison walls. You got 3.5 years in prison. 3.5?!?! 3.5?!? I don't get it. I truly don't understand. I did the right thing, I told. Despite your wife going up to my mom in the grocery store and telling her to hug me that night because you were going to kill me, I told. Despite inviting all your friends and family to court to glare at me and intimidate me, I told. Despite having to change schools my senior year because your niece told everyone I was a slut and they found four men's semen in me, I told. You shook any stability and foundation I had in my life. The sickest part of it all is for the longest time I felt I had no worth. I thought I was "used" and no one would want me. I thought I was the one fucked up. I thought I was the one who was wrong, but I rose. I rose to achieve my dreams. I rose to advocate for women who survive sexual assault. I rose to give my testimony and encourage others to speak out. I rose to be an unstoppable woman. I am daily rising above my fears. Day by day, I take a little more of my life and dignity back. Thank you for making me unstoppable. Thank you for showing me just how nasty the world can be. Thank you for showing me what an ugly heart looks like. And lastly, thank you for drilling into my head the world is unfair—that's an important life lesson.

No Longer Your Victim,

Madalyn Henderson

LETTER 7

Dear John Doe,

You will never know how much you hurt me and my development in life. I still struggle with the pain and healing. You took something away from me that I will never be able to get back or share with that special someone I willingly wanted to share my first time with. To this day, nineteen years later, my sexual health and worth is damaged from those years of abuse you made me endure. You may have broken me, but I refuse to let it take over, and I will heal and grow. I can no longer allow you to control that part of me, and for that, I am deciding to choose to forgive; however, know the damage can never be undone and I hope you take these words into heart and never put this pain onto someone else.

Regards,

Christina

LETTER 8

Dear Sir,

My feelings are best told through this short script I wrote when I escaped your brutal hold on me.

There once was a young girl who owned a gray vase. Every day she would fill the vase with blue and red tears. One day this vase could hold no more and finally shattered from the abuse. The girl covered her face and sat in the middle of the room for so long. She withdrew from all that once carried her free spirit. When she finally looked up, she saw that her tears had stained the inside of the vase various shades of blue and red. She collected as many of the broken shard as she could and placed them upon the well. When she stepped back to see what she had made...

It was stunning...

It was beautiful...

It was her.

You may have stolen a few years of my life and the most important thing to me, but you allowed me to look within and find myself. If I had to go back and change anything, I wouldn't. My traumatic past with you has allowed me to better my life and seek the help I needed. I would never have been able to help others through encouragement without these struggles. You made me stronger and more courageous than ever before, and I have accepted my life in its entirety.

Brittany

LETTER 9

Dear Steven,

There are so many things I've thought about telling you, but I knew you'd never understand. In your mind, our interaction was nothing more than a one night stand that was regrettable. You claim that you were at one point interested in having more with me, but who are we kidding? You were clearly just in it for sex.

When I met you online, I thought you were interesting. Your smile was cute, your slightly shaggy hair sexy, and your leather jacket and motorcycle pictures made me think you were a badass. When I spoke to you on the phone, I saw how smart and funny you were. How much ambition you had and how willing you were to admit your mistakes. In a word, I was refreshed. It had been a long time since I had spoken to someone as charming as you, and it was nice to feel the substance in our conversation after having had so many empty ones before.

I know I invited you to come over to my apartment after midnight. I also know that I didn't tell you anything to make you think I was intending to have sex with you or even make you think that was what was on my mind. To me, you were someone interesting that I wanted to get to know better, and I was ready to take that interaction from the phone to real time. It wasn't about sex, but it wasn't about love either. It was just my way of trying to bring us closer together.

What I didn't know was that you'd been drinking. You'd never thought to mention it during our two-hour conversation, only on your way over during your Uber ride. At that point, I figured it was too late to turn around and since you hadn't been slurring your speech or saying anything outlandish, I thought maybe you really only had a couple of drinks or could hold your liquor well. Clearly, you weren't thinking straight.

When you came to my apartment, I was shocked to see that you were not only interested in, but expecting to have sex. It seemed to not even be a question you wanted to ask me, but an experience you demanded me to take part in. Yes, I flirted and even put on a lacy number for you, but I didn't do anything more than return your kiss before you had me lying underneath you on my bed. You were moving fast and I was scared. I told you that I wanted to stop and was not going to have sex with you that night. You said okay, but in fact, you didn't stop, you pushed. You immediately asked me if we could still "have some fun" while you were lying on top of me. I couldn't move. I could barely even breathe under your weight. How was I supposed to say no?

What happened next is what's confusing to me; as you started to touch me, I was so nervous and uncomfortable that my vulva remained as dry as a desert. I also wasn't moaning in pleasure or breathless from your touch. You noticed after a few minutes and asked me if I was enjoying it. I expressed that I wasn't and asked if you wanted to just cuddle, to which you agreed.

After this though, you seemed to think I could be turned or that my discomfort perhaps suggested that you failed in your pursuit. You started to pull out bondage ropes and demonstrate your strength. I didn't know whether to be impressed or intimidated; I was honestly a little of both.

This all somehow led to us having sexual intercourse. I say it in such medical terms because that's what it felt like to me: a visit to the gynecologist. It wasn't fun, it was a bit painful, and it was definitely uncomfortable. You were even having trouble cumming, and instead of taking this as a sign that things weren't going well, pushed me harder and harder.

I know that I never said "no" during the actual act or told you to stop as we were going at it. But I remained quiet. I know I was nervous and highly doubt I wasn't showing it. It wasn't pleasurable, and I honestly couldn't wait for you to leave. I was relieved that you weren't mad that I didn't want you to stay the night after all, despite it being after 4 am by the time we had finished (well, you had finished).

But you were drunk. I guess you just have a funny way of showing it. You shouldn't be pursuing people when you're intoxicated, Steven. Haven't you learned anything from feminism?

The reason I knew this is because the next day when you took me out for pizza, you had changed. You were acting a lot more calm and cool—aloof really. I noticed the difference in your demeanor and then had the context to realize you were clearly intoxicated to an even greater extent that I could have imagined the night before.

You were warm at first but grew increasingly distant throughout the night. I wondered why this was, but never could have guessed it was about me. When I asked if you wanted to hang out after we finished dinner, you hesitated. Why didn't I see this? Why did I inadvertently look the other way?

It was at your apartment that you let me down gently; and yes, it was gentle. I burst into tears but couldn't understand why when I have only cried in front of a handful of people in my twenty years of life. How could you, Steven, someone I'd only known for a night, have this kind of effect on me?

I blamed it on my family problems, my recent move, and even my mental health. I searched for every possible reason I could be in tears, when the reason was right in front of me the whole time.

It was in the coming days that it hit me in waves. I was depressed, anxious, stressed, and having breakdowns every few hours it seemed. Yes, I've dealt with these emotions before, but it was like the world was crashing down around me.

That's when I realized that this wasn't just sex. This wasn't just an embarrassing instance of regret. This wasn't a mistake; it was so much more than that. Some may even call it rape.

Did I? That was the question. I talked about it to anyone who would listen that I didn't know too well, to keep some emotional distance. My therapist, acquaintances I'd met over coffee, even new online friends. I wanted to know if they thought this was cause for alarm, if I could label it sexual assault. The answers I got seemed to lean towards the "yes" side, but I slowly realized that no one had the answers but me.

So was it assault? Do I think you're a criminal, Steven? I told you my thoughts and you came back to me with some preconceived answer about me having given explicit verbal consent. This scared me because I could tell this was something you've told women more than once, more than just me. The response from you was so cold and calculated that it had to be a stock answer you saved for times when people questioned your intent. That's when I knew that you would probably do this again to some other unexacting victim and that you also wouldn't care. There was no heart or soul in your consciousness and in lacking that, you would just continue your pursuits. You would continue to pretend to have an interest in people you had no intention of ever connecting with beyond the purpose of sex. Love 'em and leave 'em is probably the anthem of your life, and I could tell that wasn't going to change because of me.

Since then, I want you to know that I've been healing. I've been taking good care of myself. I've expanded my business and have become even more successful than I was before I met you. I've started to give myself permission to follow my dreams and listen to my intuition, which has allowed me to avoid encountering more men like you.

I've also had a very hard time connecting with people, and sex seems like a foreign language. No, I haven't slept with anyone since you as I write this letter over two months later and I'm not sure when I will again. All I do know is that the next man who has the privilege of being inside of me will respect me, cherish me, and probably even love me. You've given me the gift of choice, as I now see that I am worth more than this and am now allowing myself to go after it, no matter how long it takes.

So Steven, thank you, but please go to hell.

LETTER 10

July 9th, 2015

Dear Matt,

Once upon a time, I thought that we were in love. I remember seeing you on our tour of the city the first real day I arrived in Milan. I found your smile endearing and your big ears made you approachable. We were abroad in a beautiful Italian city and meeting you was like a fairytale. At the time, I was over the frat boys who I went to college with, who were more concerned with partying than they were with me. You liked going to church and you seemed like a genuinely nice guy. I remember us starting to talk and to text. The next thing I know we are dating and you are telling me that you want to spend the rest of your life with me. I should've known then that no one knows after two weeks what they want for the rest of their life, but you initially made me happy and loved and I thought you were my forever boy. Boy, was I wrong.

I don't think there was an exact moment when I knew that I was in over my head. You were so subtle with the abuse that I didn't notice that you had started to isolate me and make comments about things I've done. When we all went to Rome and we slept together that night, you asked how many guys I had slept with before you. When I told you, you got furious and wouldn't touch me. When we returned to Milan, you came over one day and dragged me outside my apartment building where you proceeded to yell at me and tell me that I was a whore and a slut and that you couldn't believe I had slept with more guys than just you and that I clearly didn't know what it meant to sleep with someone for love. You made me feel disgraced for finding myself and being in other relationships prior to you. You then told me that you would feel better if I told you their names and the different experiences I had with them and the length of the relationship. Looking back on it now, that should have been the moment when I walked away. But instead I stayed because I was vulnerable and you had already gotten a grip on me that was so tight that I didn't know what was happening. You were testing the waters, wanting to see how I would react and how far you would be able to go until I snapped. I remember a fight we once had where you were talking to your other ex, Katie. I found out that you were still talking to her and making proclamations to her and it bothered me. It turned into a huge fight where it came out that you had hit her. I know I should've walked away in that moment, but you rationalized it and said that you were drunk and she had hit you first, and I believed you because I thought I loved you. I thought that you would protect me and be the guy that I would spend the rest of my life with.

We once took a weekend trip to Capri, and don't get me wrong, Capri is absolutely beautiful. But that weekend, we once again got into a fight about my past experiences. You couldn't let it go. You couldn't let go of the fact that I had been with other guys, and you made me feel guilty every moment you could. If I wanted to get dressed up and look hot and sexy, I was a whore. You made me feel like I wasn't worth anything and that my life was only dependent on you. When our abroad experience came to a close, you went back to Indiana/Illinois, and I came back to Virginia. We had decided to try to make long distance work because I thought I was in love with you. You convinced me to live alone when I got back from abroad and knowing what I know now, you just wanted me isolated. You knew I was a social person, and every time I tried to go out, you would call or text me constantly, once again telling me that I was a whore and that all I wanted to do was sleep with other guys because that's what whores do.

Spring semester of my junior year was the worst six months of my entire life because of you. You would threaten me if I wanted to go out, and instead, I spent hours upon hours in my apartment, Skyping with you because if I didn't, it would turn into a fight. The next time I saw you was at Ring Dance. I was so excited because Ring Dance is a special event and you ruined it. You met Ben, who yes, I dated, but he was also my best friend, and you got upset because you knew this and ruined everything. You made me cry all night long and made me believe that my previous relationships were insignificant and wrong. When I came to visit you in Indiana, things didn't feel right. There was an undercurrent of hatred that I had never felt before. The abuse had gotten worse. I never saw my friends and if I did, you told me what a horrible person I was and how I didn't actually love you.

May 18th, 2012. That is the date that things forever changed. You came to visit and I was excited but nervous. Things hadn't been going well. We were arguing all the time and you were being even more controlling than you ever had been before. I remember that my dad asked if we wanted to go fishing, and I thought it would be good for you to get to know him more because I believed that eventually you would be my husband. This decision to go out fishing with me and my dad made you snap and the ride to Richmond that afternoon consisted of you yelling at me telling me that you had no desire to do that and never wanted to fish or go out on the water and that you couldn't believe that I wouldn't listen to what you wanted to do. It had become apparent in that moment that my needs were inconsequential to yours and if they didn't align with what you wanted to do, then they were stupid and wrong. That night after we went to dinner, you raped me. Even when I said no, you continued. The next day, I couldn't process what happened and we drove back to DC, pretending like everything was alright. That night we had dinner with my parents, and I should've said something then, pointing to them and said, "MOM, DAD. He is abusing me and raped me!" But I couldn't because I thought I loved you.

After you left, I started my internship. I couldn't text you all day long like you liked and couldn't talk on the phone for hours on end because I was working two jobs. You didn't like this. You didn't like that I wasn't able to talk to you every moment of every day because you couldn't control me then. You told me that I was incapable of love and that you weren't in love with me anymore but you still loved me. You told me that I shouldn't be spending so much time with my family because you were going to be my family and I needed to focus on you more. The night of my brother's graduation party, you wanted to have a phone call because we hadn't talked in a few days. I told you that the party should be done by 9 pm and that I would call you when the guests left. People stayed until midnight, laughing and drinking and having a good time, and it was the first time in a while that I felt alive. When I went up to my room that night, I had over thirty missed calls from you. I called you back and you told me that I was horrible and selfish and clearly didn't love you. My dad finally told me a few days later that no guy deserved the amount of tears I had cried for you. I cried every day because I couldn't understand why you hated yet loved me so much, why you would make my life a living hell on a regular basis, and why I couldn't walk away. I broke up with you a week before I was supposed to visit you.

Afterwards, you wouldn't leave me alone. You constantly texted me and stalked me on all social medias and finally from some urging from a coworker, I blocked you, only to have you send an email and then one final message asking me how I could be so cruel. You started off the gchat with sad messages and how you couldn't believe it was over and that you missed me and wanted me back. I told you I wasn't going to come back to you, that I was done for good and that what we had wasn't healthy. This made you snap. You began to tell me the same things you had said for those last nine months, and finally, I stopped responding because it wasn't worth it.

It took me almost three years to tell anyone what happened. I could sometimes talk about the abuse but only to my best friend. Finally, one night about a year and a half ago, I got too drunk and broke down sobbing in a bar and told my best friend from home what had happened to me. It took me three more months to tell my parents, and they immediately took steps to help me heal. I found an incredible therapist who helped me work through what you had done to me and then I started speaking. I started to tell everyone what you did because if I didn't, then you still won. I told our abroad friends, who, frankly, weren't shocked that you had done it. Some of them had seen a side of you that you kept hidden from others and only released to me. You were like Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde.

It's been over three years since I have seen you and, sometimes, the memories of what happened slip back into my consciousness, and I find it hard to erase them. But I know one thing: you will never have a hold over me again. You will never take away pieces of me and replace them with hatred toward myself. I am a strong, beautiful, brave, and happy young woman who happened to meet you, a devil in disguise. I've been to hell and back and can live to tell the story. There are days where I wish I had spoken sooner, but I can't live a life with "what ifs". I know now that I will forever grow from this experience. I don't know where in the world you are now and if you have done the same things you did to me to other girlfriends, but I know this for sure, you will never win and you will live with this on your conscious forever. I am a survivor, and I will never let you take that away from me again.

Goodbye Matt and good riddance,

Katie

LETTER 11

Dear Ed,

I should have written this a long time ago. Hell, I should have written it while you were in prison while the emotions were new, fresh, and recent. But then again that's what PTSD is. Replaying the incident over and over again, feeling as if it's happening again and again. It's been over twenty fuckin' years, and I don't feel any different.

Do you even realize what you have done? The four years you served are nothing compared to how fucked I am because of you! I knew and trusted you for nearly five years, then that happened. It didn't have to happen! What came over you to take all of my clothes off when I was super drunk? You acted as if you were going to help me to my room, since you knew I was too drunk. Drunk from the alcohol you purchased. I was only twenty years old and obviously did not know my drinking limits. I wasn't even the legal drinking age. I was 105 lbs. and 5'1", yet I will forever remember you saying, "If you drink with the boys, you have to drink like the boys!" I didn't want any more Jack Daniels shots! I already had almost the whole bottle of the peach schnapps I picked out for myself. Yet you insisted I drink more, hard alcohol at that! It was obvious you weren't going to take "no" for an answer

I never expected this from you, my brother-in-law! I thought it would be safe and problem-free to drink at home, especially with my own sister's husband! Your brother, Peter, his friend, James, and your best friend, Gabe, were all there. You were supposed to be the one to protect me. Yet, it turns out you are the one who had plans to take advantage of me. How long was this planned? You took me in my room when the others already migrated to the living room to sleep. I can never understand what you were thinking ruining our family and your life like that. So you can control and take advantage of me when you knew I was too drunk to do anything about it? I wonder if you had been plotting along all the years prior to this night. I know you probably thought I wasn't going to say anything. You must have thought you had the perfect victim to overpower that night. Or you thought I wouldn't remember anything after all the alcohol you insisted I continue to drink, even though I was adamant about having enough already.

At least my sister stood by you. That wasn't going to stop me from getting justice. She became the enemy, just like you. More like the State of California vs. Edward. I bet you never in a million years thought this case would go far, let alone go to trial. Most rape cases don't, especially when the rapist is known to the victim. If you just plead guilty or no contest, we wouldn't have gone to trial and I wouldn't have to be traumatized again and maybe you would have received a lesser sentence. But no, you thought you would be able to get away with it.

It took almost two years for the case to actually go to trial. I don't know about you, but I just wanted it to be over with. That is a long time of not knowing and uncertainty of the future. Along with the shock I was still in, along with working full-time, just waiting for the trial to take place.

My sister chose to stick by you and we did not speak for nearly three years. As soon as the preliminary hearing took place, four months after the incident, she moved out and stood by her husband. I wonder what you were telling her. What lies were you feeding her? This whole event tore my family up, but still no one has really talked about it. It is still as if I am the crazy one! Since I am the only one who received any type of counseling or admitted what happened, I must be crazy. Thank you for that.

Later when I did start speaking with my sister, I practically had to beg for an apology. She said she knew deep down you did this to me! She said you were like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Are you happy with the rift you put between us for years? I am sure you knew that would happen. Oh, I forgot. You probably thought you were safe and thought I wouldn't say anything or remember anything.

To this day, I have so many issues, and they all stem from the rape you caused in April 1995. I always replay the event in my head over and over again and I feel I can stop this. I still have nightmares that you are in to this day! Some of them you are still married to my sister, some you are not. Some you are trying to be nice to me. I am constantly easily startled. I am scared more than twice a day, even when I know someone is near me or in the same room as me. I do not trust people. Obviously, my family knew you for almost four years then this happened.

How am I supposed to trust anyone, especially men? I feel uncomfortable if a man stares at me, talks to me, stands near me. I get a sick feeling in my stomach and I just want to run and hide! I do not want to be around people. Most men, especially if I just met them, creep me out. I guess I still don't know who I can trust, since I knew you for five years. Shouldn't all men creep me out, not just ones I just meet? Not like you were a random stranger. Thanks a lot!

Jessica

LETTER 12

Dear Rob,

I will never forget that fateful day 25 years ago when you raped me. I was 16, and you were 21, and I blamed myself for a very long time because I was dating an older guy. Not only did you violate my body, but you took away my innocence, annihilated my trust, and altered my life forever.

I remember it so vividly. I was home alone with my two sisters, babysitting, and down in the basement folding laundry when you came down. I remember exactly what I was wearing—pink Guess t-shirt and sweats because I had my period. You were wearing plaid shorts, a t-shirt, and slip on sneakers. You smelled strongly of cologne, Drakkar, to be exact. It enveloped me and I tasted it in my throat when you forced yourself on me. You had been drinking, even though it was the afternoon. You were rough and tore at my sweatpants and forced yourself inside of me. You kept kissing me and telling me I would like it. I was frozen in fear and didn't know what to do. I was sixteen and scared to death. My sister started coming down the stairs calling for me, and that's when you stopped and pulled away from me, telling me to pull myself together, and if I ever said anything to anyone, you would hurt my sister. I complied and got dressed, sobbing uncontrollably. I was sore and didn't know if I was bleeding because I had my period or because you hurt me, or maybe both. But, I put on a smile and went to tend to my sister. You left as if nothing had happened. True to my word, I didn't say anything to anyone. I was afraid you would come back and rape me again, and hurt my sister. My friends knew something was wrong but didn't press.

A few days later, my friend Heather and I were walking around and you pulled up alongside of us and told us to get in. I was terrified so I did, and Heather came because she wouldn't leave me. You drove fast and reckless, picking up speed and yelling at me, asking if I said anything to anyone, and that you were going to crash the car into a tree. I told you no, and only at the last possible second did you slow down and veer back onto the road. Then, you took us to your father's house as if nothing had happened and introduced us to your dad. After you took us home, I broke down and apologized to Heather profusely. I told her what had happened, and she didn't know what to do but hug me and listen. I also told my other best friend, Jen, what happened, and she did the same. We were sixteen and didn't know any better. I was too afraid to report it and blamed myself, so I just tucked it away in the back corner of my mind and tried to forget about it. I thought I was successful. I was wrong.

As I said earlier, not only did you violate my body, you took away my innocence and trust. I was saving myself for someone I loved, and you took that away from me. You made me a very cautious and untrusting person, someone who was afraid to be affectionate and didn't like to be touched. I had major anxiety issues and couldn't trust anyone. I finally went to therapy in my mid-twenties, and it all came pouring out. I did it not only for myself, but also for my daughter. I didn't want what had happened to me to happen to her, and I wanted to get better. I was doing well, and then I stopped the therapy.

I never really had a healthy relationship or sex life until my 30's. My marriage ended; my ex-husband not only cheated on me but lied and went completely crazy. I never told him about the rape until we were at the end of our marriage, and even then, I didn't tell him details because I knew he would use it against me. My survival instinct kicking in without me realizing it. It seems that all of the men in my life, whether it was you, my father, or my ex-husband or boyfriends, betrayed me and hurt me. And I blamed myself for all of it. I wasn't good enough, or pretty enough, or strong enough, or worth anything. I have a lot of self-confidence issues, insecurities, and fears. I still have extreme anxiety issues. I am now 41 and still in therapy. My therapist tells me that I am a strong, beautiful, accomplished woman who has raised a daughter and survived a lot of shit, you raping me included.

One positive thing that came out of this is that I now volunteer at the county level as a Certified Sexual Assault Advocate. I take hotline calls, go on hospital accompaniments, and am there for the victim. It fills my heart to be able to help others in the same situation I was in 25 years ago. So for this, I thank you.

Currently, I am in a relationship with a wonderful man who not only knows all of my issues, but supports me and encourages me each and every day. He loves me and treats me the way I should be treated and tells me I inspire him and how proud he is of me. I still have my insecurities and trust issues, but I am working on them and he is being patient and doing his best to help me. He stands by me and loves me for who I am, and for that, I am grateful.

Even though you took a lot from me that day, and I will never forget that, it also made me a part of who I am today. I don't know how you sleep at night and look at yourself in the mirror, but I know someday you will have to answer for it.

-Adrienne Bell

Chapter Four

Incest

LETTER 1

Dear Tom,

I don't know what to say. Reducing the damage and heartache into words is a challenge. My life took on a completely different trajectory because of you. Your actions cast me into a victim. I fought for so long to be a woman. But I feel trapped inside a little girl's mind...and body. The mirrors are my enemy. I don't recognize myself. I spent years chasing fantasies and demons, insistent that my identity must be of darkness. Clearly, I'm designed to be a disturbed creature, permanently frozen in torment. I sought out torture to soothe the ache in my soul. Only dragons could claw their way through the coffin I built around my heart.

This affliction, the torment, all shifted. I had the benefit of joining other women, meeting with them, and learning that I was not alone. I was one of many. My story is mine alone, but it's not isolating. There are others like me. There are others like you. And that's when my anger grew. Anger at you and what you did to me. Anger at God for allowing so much evil in the world. I battled with God, with my faith. I fell to my knees in utter despair. Why? Why me? No answers to be had. The silence was deafening. And maddening.

I fell further into desperation. My heart was writhing. I tread perilously close to insanity. In the pit of my hell, I found what true salvation meant. God heard me. He heard my cries and my pain, and He comforted me. I was made broken, fragile, and weak because of you. I stayed this way because of me. I was a victim because I stayed a victim. God made me a survivor. He showed me love in spite of my shame. I am loved by a true Heavenly Father who honors all of His promises. He rescued me. But I wouldn't have needed to be rescued if you hadn't destroyed what wasn't yours. The best illustration is Jacob's battle with God in Genesis 32:22:32. You gave me a limp, and my Father redeemed it.

Tom, I don't know you. I suppose I never did. I was your daughter and you committed a treacherous act against me. Against our family. Against my future. Tom, I forgive you. I forgive the destruction you initiated. Not because you're worthy, but because I am not worthy of forgiveness. And my Heavenly Father still graces me with His forgiveness.

Tom, I pray for you to know God. Not as often as I should, but I do pray for you. I want so much for you to know the freedom I've come to know. He rescued me. I know He will rescue you if you'd let Him.

I'm not fixed. I'm not healed. I'm covered in scars. Some days I don't even recognize myself. But I have hope. And I'm happy. No matter what you are. I want you to know my light is beginning to shine, and it's thrilling! And I have my Savior to thank for this.

Andrea

Chapter Five

Male Survivors

LETTER 1

I Don't Sleep, I Dream: An Open Letter to My Rapist

"Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again." That's a line from a Frank O'Hara poem. I first heard it recited by Don Draper in an episode of Mad Men. Draper was a character haunted by his past. Both that character and this bit of poetry resonated with me. But, thankfully, I no longer identify with that specific line. I'm in a better place.

I have a friend who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. She's my redheaded Comfort Eagle, and I would take a bullet for her. A friend who said, "I have the time" when I said, "It's a long story." She made me realize that I have a message to offer rather than a past to be ashamed of. I can tell her anything, without sparing the details. Of course, the very first person I felt that way toward was you.

I wonder if you have anyone in your life willing to take a bullet for you. Perhaps. It's not like the people in your circle know the things you've done. They can't. That's where I win. You'll never get to experience the joy of letting someone know the real you.

There was a rage that consumed me for quite a while. I wanted to kill you. I wanted to smear your blood on my face like war paint. But taking your life would have only given you power over me once again.

Power is an interesting topic. Think about the lengths you went to just to feel a moment of power. How small you must have felt in your day to day life if you were willing to indulge such extremes. Pathetic. And I thought you were cool. Remember how we bonded over Thomas Harris' novels? You made me feel so goddamn intelligent. Until the day you made me feel duped.

"If I didn't break you, someone or something else would."

That's what you told me when you had me drugged, on the floor, unable to move. You said it like you were doing me a favor. And then you took my virginity.

Psychiatrist of the Year.

I used to get hammered before sex so I wouldn't see your face when I came.

Fuck you.

Years of PTSD and denial ensued. But I'm still here. Do you know how many suicide attempts I survived? That's right. Attempts. Plural. I survived because it seems I have a purpose here. I have an artist's soul. Long after you are gone, nothing more than a corpse beneath a vandalized grave, I will still be here. Creating. Making a difference.

Whatever someone did to you, I guess you weren't strong enough to handle it. Well, I am. You didn't break me. Not permanently at least. I picked up the pieces. The glue has solidified. I know who I am now. Do you?

Closing

Thank you to all of the men and women who have contributed to this publication. Thank you to the women and men who submitted their letters of sexual assault, rape, incest, and child molestation. Without you all, this book would not have been possible. Please know that your letters will help other survivors in their healing process. If only one person reads your letter and understands that they are not alone, this project will have served its purpose.

Thank you to everyone who has written a letter of encouragement to other survivors. Your beautiful words will help so many people.

This book came about as a way to give survivors an outlet to release the things that they want to say to the person who harmed them. I hope that it gave every person who submitted the voice that they needed, and I hope that it encourages other survivors to have a voice in their journey as well.

Resources

If you or someone you know is being, or has been, harmed by sexual assault, sexual abuse, rape, incest, or child molestation, please contact your local authorities immediately.

The healing process for victims and survivors of sexual assault, sexual abuse, rape, incest, and child molestation can be a long and difficult process. People heal at different rates, so it is normal to still see the effects of these acts decades after it has happened. A form of therapy or healing that helps one person may not help another. There are many different sites and organizations that can help you with the process of healing. Please look around and determine what works best for you and your situation.

Here are some resources to help you with your healing process:

*Surviving Spirit

Surviving Spirit "promotes Hope, Healing, and Help for those impacted by trauma, abuse, or mental health concerns through the use of the creative arts, a speakers' bureau, newsletter, website, brochure, retail gallery, coffeehouse, media center and more."

www.survivingspirit.com

You can view their newsletter at:

http://newsletters.survivingspirit.com/index.php

*RAINN

If you or someone you know has been affected by sexual violence, it's not your fault. You are not alone. Help is available 24/7 through the National Sexual Assault Hotline: 800-656-HOPE and online.rainn.org, y en español: rainn.org/es.

RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) is the nation's largest anti-sexual violence organization and was named one of "America's 100 Best Charities" by Worth magazine. RAINN created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline (800.656.HOPE and online.rainn.org) in partnership with more than 1,100 local rape crisis centers across the country and operates the DoD Safe Helpline for the Department of Defense. RAINN also carries out programs to prevent sexual violence, help victims and ensure that rapists are brought to justice.

### *National Sexual Assault Hotline

Among its programs, RAINN created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE. This nationwide partnership of more than 1,100 local rape treatment hotlines provides victims of sexual assault with free, confidential services around the clock. The hotline helped 137,039 sexual assault victims in 2005 and has helped more than 1.5 million since it began in 1994.

### *National Sexual Violence Resource Center

www.nsvrc.org

The NSVRC's mission is to provide leadership in preventing and responding to sexual violence through collaboration, sharing and creating resources, and promoting research. Please visit their website for additional information:  www.nsvrc.org/about/national-sexual-violence-resource-center

The site also has a page that provides additional resources for survivors, including state-specific organizations, please visit www.nsvrc.org/organizations for more information.

