Before you read, please be aware of all your triggers and your safety. Your health and well-being and more important than this. Please take care of yourselves. And also know that I will be here if you need support.
Thanks to the Stanford rape survivor, I’ve decided to share the letter I wrote to my rapist after he died. Her strength and determination gave me, as well as thousands of survivors, hope. I call her a survivor because that’s what she is. She is not a victim, not any longer, she is a survivor of the most heinous crime that could ever be committed.
The point of this letter is to let her know that I stand with her. I’m not sure if she will ever see this and it’s fine if she doesn’t. I just want her to know that she will always have my support, that I stand in solidarity with her. I want all survivors of sexual assault to know that they are never alone, to know that they will always have someone with them in spirit, and that I- that we- are on your side.
I know the darkness can feel all consuming, suffocating, deafening and loud at the same time. It can feel isolating and like there is no way out. I want you to know there is a way out. You are not alone. And you can pull out of it and stand stronger than you ever thought possible.
Your light may have been stolen, your soul may be dimmed, and your heart may be shattered. This is not where it ends. This is not the last chapter in your story. All of the pieces that were stolen from you and that were broken can be mended and resurrected from the ashes.
You are powerful. You are strong. You are in control. And, most importantly, you are a survivor.
I hope this letter will also bring awareness to the terrible crime this is. I want people to realize how it affects victims and survivors and I want it to show that a survivor’s life is worth more than we get credit for. I want people to know that it is never the fault of the victim. Rape is always the fault of the perpetrator, regardless of anything the victim could have done. No means no and that should never be looked over. Consent is one of the most important things a person has and the brutality of that being ripped away needs to be realized.
So, to my fellow survivors, to the Stanford rape survivor, and to all the people who have never had to experience this soul crushing violation, this is my letter to my rapist.
My house is still on fire. It’s still burning, crumbling. The flames lick the walls and the smoke seeps through the cracks. I would like to say that the flames are no longer in your control, but that would be a lie. You still have a piece of my light, a dear piece, that I did not give to you. Rather, you stole that from me. You put out that flame and started a wildfire. My rooms are on fire, my walls are crumbling in. I’ve managed to extinguish some of the flames, but you came back with gasoline.
I cannot forgive you, not while my walls are still burning, but I would never wish death upon anyone, even you. I would have honestly preferred you beating the shit out of me because physical wounds heal faster. But, no, that wasn’t enough- you also had to take a part of my soul, a part that I did not give to you.
Texas Rep. Ted Poe said, “for many victims, rape is a fate worse than death. Because rape victims say that after being raped they, ‘die emotionally many times and with homicide, one only dies once.’” There aren’t many things that I agree with more than this statement. You didn’t have to go through this. You didn’t think about this constantly, didn’t die inside over and over again until you could no longer find yourself in the ash.
I’m angry because I can never truly tell you how I feel. You can never try to redeem yourself or apologize. You don’t have to suffer like this. You were supposed to be my best friend and you violated all the trust I had while you were violating me. My trust is gone, even for my friends and family, and that is your fault.
When I first heard a mutual ‘friend’ had died, my first hope was that it was you. I feel disgusting and horrible for thinking that, but I can’t help it. I can’t change my feelings on that.
I still don’t think you know what you did. I don’t think you thought of this during the remainder of your life. You died not knowing the most heinous crime you’ve ever committed- a fate worse than death.
No, I wouldn’t wish death upon anyone, but I would prefer having been murdered. You died instead of suffering through this. Ted Poe was right, I’m dying many times- sometimes daily- instead of dying once like you had the luxury to do.
You didn’t know that this doesn’t only affect me. And why would you? You didn’t even think you did anything wrong. It affects my family, my friends, my partner, my job, my education- my entire life for as long as I can see ahead, possibly even my future children. It’s so, so unfair that I’m unable to be intimate with my boyfriend because of something you did. This is not his fault- I didn’t even know him at the time- but I am still not able to engage in that because of your actions. He should not have to suffer from this, too.
It feels like I’m living in a body that is not mine, that I do not own. Rather, it feels like I’m inside of a body that has been used and abused by a coward who needed to steal my soul to feel better about himself. A person who needed to use control in order to feel human. This body feels as if it was built specifically to be violated by you. Did it make you feel better? Did it make you feel like more of a man to destroy my soul and my heart, to take away pieces of me that I did not give you, to steal parts of me that made me whole? Did my broken pieces complete you while my wholeness was ripped away?
I wasn’t dressed promiscuously, I wasn’t drunk or high, I wasn’t walking alone, I’ve never even had sex before, your little brother and dad were in the house too, I wasn’t asking for it, I said no. So why me? Granted, I would rather feel this pain than subject someone else to it, I would rather suffer through this than watch anyone else go through this, but that doesn’t condone your behavior. There is nothing that will.
I told you it hurt and all you said was, “you need to come over more and it’ll stop hurting.” You said, “You’re not the first person that has said it hurts.” You negated all my emotions, all my pain, and even insinuated that you have done this before. You didn’t take off your clothes, nor did you take off mine. You used water as lubricant because I was so obviously not aroused that it was uncomfortable for not only me, but for you. You still needed that power, that control, no matter what that meant for me.
I get stuck in the idea that maybe this is what sex is supposed to be like. As I’ve said, as you know, I’m a virgin. I have no way of knowing. It makes me think that maybe it’s supposed to hurt. Maybe it’s supposed to be brutal. Maybe it’s only supposed to be pleasurable for you. Maybe I’m not supposed to be aroused. Am I even able or allowed to be aroused? Maybe our clothes are supposed to stay on. Maybe I should be feeling gross and disgusting. Maybe I am supposed to be paralyzed with fear. Maybe a knife does need to be present. Maybe my air supply is supposed to be cut off. Maybe trust is just a myth. Maybe I do need to be used and abused, my soul is supposed to die a little, I am only good for sex- that is how it feels.
I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to be, though. I shouldn’t be trying to escape from my body and crawl out of my skin because I cannot handle the damage that is being done. But if it is supposed to be like that, then I don’t ever want it. I’m still a virgin, but part of me doesn’t feel like I am. That’s the part of my soul, the piece of my identity, that you stole. How can I be intimate and give that part of me to someone else if that part was stolen by you?
Perhaps how you treated me isn’t how sex is supposed to be, but that’s sure what the police thought it was supposed to be like. There’s not often a day that I don’t regret informing the police of your crime. I did what I thought I was supposed to, what I thought was right. I went to the emergency room after I sat in my garage and cried for an hour. I waited at the hospital until two doctors, both men, came in and asked me intrusive questions. I went downtown to SANE as I was directed and answered questions before getting poked and prodded by an examiner looking for evidence you had left. I couldn’t use the bathroom. I couldn’t shower. I had to stay inside my skin while it was crawling and keep the clothes on that I was wearing while you violated me.
After about an hour- or at least that’s what it felt like- I was finally able to shower. I tried so hard to scrub my skin off, tried so hard to destroy all the parts of me you touched. My clothes were confiscated for evidence, my underwear as well, and I had to trade in my favorite dress for sweats and an oversized t-shirt that had been donated. It took hours. You destroyed me for an hour and then I was destroyed again for four more.
I had to wait days to schedule an appointment to tell an investigator what had happened. By the time I was able to meet with one, their first question was why I waited so long. They didn’t care that I had to wait for an appointment, they just cared that I wasn’t there right away. I answered all their questions and then was told they’d inform me before they spoke to you, that I would get a restraining order.
That is not what happened. They spoke to you and told me two days later. They refused a restraining order unless I paid them for it. They assigned me a property crimes detective instead of someone trained in sex crimes. They disregarded all of my evidence even though there was evidence presented. The lawyer I met with from the DA’s office told me that you had said it was consensual, so it was. My case was thrown out. The justice system failed to provide justice. All they did was traumatize me more and let you know that I had reported the crime. They gave you the opportunity to come hurt me again. You were one of the 98% of perpetrators that didn’t get prosecuted.
The amount of shame I feel on a daily basis was intensified by this experience. I struggle with whether or not this incident was my fault even though, logically, I know it wasn’t. There is nothing I could have done to stop you. There is a lot of shame I feel from freezing when you attacked me. It took me months of counseling and group therapy to realize that this was not something I had control over. This was a response my body had instantaneously when it realized I couldn’t get away, when it realized that was the only way I’d make it out alive. Freezing is a very common response to this form of trauma, and no survivor should ever have to feel bad about this reaction. If only I would’ve known that sooner.
I am constantly plagued by the memory, by you. Everywhere I turn, you’re there. Every step I take is followed by your footsteps. My dreams are horror stories filled with you. I have these stupid triggers, trivial things that have never bothered me before. Something as simple as green chile dip- one of my favorites- sends me back to that night, that hour of torture because I ate it at dinner. I can never see Harley Quinn the same way because you had her tattooed on your forearm. Her body and face stared back at me every time I tried to look away from yours.
I have heard that your body regenerates cells every seven years. That in seven years all these cells will have died and I will have completely new ones. A new body, new cells; I will be a complete person that has never been touched by you. I find solace in this. In the fact that, maybe, one day, I will live inside a body that was never violated by you and that you will never touch again; a body that is completely my own and that did not have to suffer through your torture.
Perhaps, you did teach me some things by shattering my heart into minuscule pieces. Trust wisely, because even if you’ve known someone for years, you never really know them. I am stronger than I ever thought I was. Despite your constant fire assaults, I am learning to put out the flames. I’ve become educated on this topic because of what you’ve done. I know now that I want to help survivors in any way that I can. I will always help create good people if I’m able. Your examples are those that I will make sure my kids never follow, your actions are such that should never be repeated.
Your death makes me feel so many different emotions that I cannot process them all. It feels like the pieces you stole from me have died with you and I can’t get them back. How do I progress and become human without those pieces? I’m sad that I lost a friend, but then I think I lost that friend a year ago already when you decided to use me like a rag doll. I am angry that you took the easy way out. But I realize now, I am safe. You cannot hurt me anymore. Sure, you could haunt me, but I’m haunted by you everyday. You are the main act in all my nightmares. There is nothing you can do to worsen this. Perhaps it could kill me, death would be easier than this, less painful. Death would be kinder. I die many times while you died once. While you took the easy way out.
And to prove I am a survivor and that I will not go easy like that, I will prevail. Something you didn’t have the willingness to do. I will pull out of the flames. I will find my soul. And I will fix my heart; I will rebuild my house from the rubble you left. I am a survivor and I will survive.
