This is probably the hardest letter to write, which makes sense why it’s the last and almost didn’t make the cut. It’s not that I don’t want to say a lot – or that I don’t have A LOT ot say. It’s that I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m falling back into the same blaming, shaming, hateful way of doing things. I promise that isn’t my intent here. I’m just really filled with the same pain I know you are, and it’s so confusing and messy.

Actually, the problem is not that I worry I will sound like I am blaming, shaming, and being hateful, it is that I am trying NOT to blame, shame, or hate myself while I try to figure out how to process this difficult topic.

I’ve been able to see you and your fear and lack of resources and the effort to keep yourself safe. I’ve grieved with you while recalling the painful details and the “I wish” moments. I’ve struggled with the pain of accepting that it happened.

It’s been so difficult to listen as you’ve told your story. No story of rape or assault, manipulation or insidious coercion is something anyone wants to listen to. But the years of blame and anger kept you from telling your story, and when you finally could, it was healing for both of us.

But there’s still something there, isn’t there? There’s still a lot of confusion and pain. There’s still something I’m afraid to hear and feel. When I made my list, I wrote it this way: “It happened again – it changed things. I walked a road I never wanted to.”

I feel as though there has been a lot of healing with regard to the things that led up to the first rape. We’ve healed quite a bit by being able to honestly look at and see each other and the awful struggle after being raped – not having support, being blamed, fearing the consequences. But I feel as though there is still so much pain surrounding the second rape and how it changed everything.

I’m almost certain you didn’t give them permission the second time the rape happened. I assume that because I know how afraid you were the first time. I am pretty sure, though, that you did allow them to touch you again after letting them back into YOUR space. I don’t blame you for that. I understand so much better than I did before. I know it wasn’t a simple choice.

The part that I know still hurts us both is the second rape and or life for the next year after that. It’s easier to process a rape as trauma when it hurts, isn’t it? It’s so much harder to process something that made you feel pleasure. Yet, it hurt too, but the feeling was different in that it also felt good. It was different than any other experience, from when I was younger up until the first rape by THAT person. I know you couldn’t help it. I know it’s natural and normal to experience pleasure. It seems strange to apologize for something like that, but I am so sorry you experienced that – we experienced that.

I hate that it happened. I hate that the nightmares still regularly wake me up. I hate that you went through it. I hate that that was the turning point when choices became much more difficult.

You wanted to experience pleasure, and I know in those moments you also felt loved, special, or as if you were the person who was finally cared about. I know you also knew deep down that it wasn’t about any of that. They were addicted to sex, and it wasn’t about you being special or cared about.

And the cognitive dissonance and physical discomfort each time you had sex were painful, not just physically. It was painful because you were doing something against your previous decisions and convictions. It’s not about whether sex was sin or not – that’s not the argument. It’s about how you were struggling with choosing something that didn’t feel right.

It’s as if they took away your ability to choose what you really wanted. Somehow, they took away the choice and innocence you were trying to protect despite the abuse throughout your (our) childhood.

I’m sorry I don’t know what to do with all of this. I’m not angry. In fact, I’m just really sad. I’m sad that it’s so confusing – that I can’t help you make sense of it. I’m sorry you went through that. I’m sorry it forever changed who we are. I’m sorry I’ve treated you as an unforgivable piece of sh*t. I’ve treated you how I thought everyone else should treat you. I was disappointed in you because I had to be.

I don’t know how to help us through this pain. I still don’t fully understand why it’s so difficult. I just know we have a lot of work here, and I’m going to do my best to love you through this.

There’s more to be said – or maybe felt, but I don’t have more words. I imagine I’m going to need help working through this with you, and I imagine we’re going to have to take our time to truly feel how devastating this has been for the last 20 years.

I’m sorry I’ve waited so long to listen, to try to understand this part, to be gracious, to feel the weight of how drastically this changed the trajectory of your life.

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Dr. C. had me read this letter out loud and then asked me if there was a moment when I needed to pause. My response, “If I had paused, I wouldn’t have started reading this.” What does that mean? When I read the letters I write to my 25-year-old self, a pause is a time when I really FEEL. It is usually when I experience the painful lump in my throat, throbbing quietness in my head, and heavy weight on my chest. It is when I need to stop and grieve what just came up. This letter, from start to finish, has me feeling overwhelmed with emotion. I don’t know how to feel…or maybe I am terrified to feel.

“Read it again.” I really didn’t want to. I paused, took a deep breath, and willed myself to pick up my notebook again. This time, I intentionally stuffed everything and read the letter the second time. I didn’t want to suppress how I was feeling, but I was so confused by the grief. I was torn between a sad feeling, a desire to cry, and embarrassment at my own emotions. I commented that I didn’t feel I deserved to be upset. I just needed to take responsibility.

The session was very near the end, so Dr. C. said, “Write about that.”