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This is hard for me. I know you’ll probably never read this, because reading this would involve first acknowledging that you did, in fact, do something wrong. It is probably worth mentioning that I do believe that you didn’t intend to hurt me. It’s also worth mentioning that, regardless of what you did or did not intend, you did hurt me. Whether you meant to or not, you did damage to someone you claimed to love, and at least some of that damage is irreparable.
I don’t think you’re a fundamentally bad person. If I’m being entirely honest, I don’t even think you’re really and truly 100% to blame for your actions, because we live in a society where the discourse around consent is so incredibly fucked up, you probably didn’t realize what you were doing was wrong until I screamed and started to cry. You might even think that, because you stopped when I cried out in pain, that you didn’t actually do anything wrong at all. You probably think that because you stopped, it wasn’t rape. You did something to me that I had previously told you I would not be okay with, and I am almost entirely positive that you still don’t think it was rape.
You raped me. Even though it didn’t last long, even though you stopped, even though you tried to comfort me afterwards. You raped me.
I don’t need you to apologize to me, not really. I don’t actually really want to ever speak to you again, after I came out publicly about being raped, and you tried to convince people that I was crazy, that I was a liar. I’d be happy if I never had to see you again, after that. I thought, at one point, that I could probably forgive you some day. I thought, at one point, that the pain and anger and disgust might fade, and that I’d be able to at least look at you without wanting to vomit. I know now that none of that is possible, and that if I never saw you again, it’d still be too soon.
I also thought, at first, that I would want revenge. I thought that nothing could possibly feel better and more cathartic than breaking your fingers, your kneecaps, your nose. I used to think that inflicting pain on you would somehow settle things between us. I’ve had to break a man’s foot since then, to get away from someone who grabbed me while I was walking alone at night. I know now that breaking another person’s bones is not something I can ever feel good about, no matter how necessary it is. I know now that I don’t want any revenge, because I’m just not the sort of person who can feel good about bringing more pain into an already-cruel world.
I know now that all I really want is for you to admit to yourself that you did something wrong, and for you to make a commitment to never doing it again. All I actually want from you is for you to resolve to be better about respecting boundaries and obtaining consent. I don’t want to ruin your life, I don’t even want to make you a social pariah. I just want to know that you won’t hurt any future partners the way you hurt me. And I’d appreciate if you had the good grace to stay far, far away from me.
I want you to understand that, despite your best intentions, you did harm. I want you to understand that your intentions don’t actually lighten the burden of carrying what you did to me. I want you to understand that I’m going to have to carry this for the rest of my life. I want you to understand that your good intentions don’t keep away the night terrors and the waking flashbacks. Some small part of me wants you to finally understand that you fucked up, simply because it’s not fair that I have to carry the full weight of what you did to me, while you continue to live your life unburdened by your actions. But mostly, I just want you to know that what you did was wrong, even though you probably didn’t mean for it to be.
All I really want from you is for you to never, ever hurt someone again the way that you hurt me.