This April it will be 2 years. Two years since That Night. Two years since you raped me. Two years later, I am a new person. But I’m still haunted, how can I not be? You didn’t just violently take my virginity. You took my sense of security. My confidence. My chance at having a normal sex life, or life at all. Two years later, and you still call once every two weeks in the middle of the night from a restricted number, leaving horrible voice mails that I learned quickly to delete before listening to them. Two years later and I feel like I haven’t made any progress.
You were my first…Everything. I have many hard feelings. I have nightmares at least a couple times a month– a decrease from a year ago. Everywhere I go, I half-expect to see you there– and I hope I don’t, because I’m afraid you’ll try to hurt me. You also asked if my boyfriend, your older brother, hated you. I said he doesn’t; I lied about that, too. Your older brother hates you, too. Even still, it bothers me how well off you still are. You seem so happy with your new friends and new life. Do they even know about your past? I bet they don’t. I bet you lie about everything to make yourself look saint-like.
What bothers me most, though, is that you ruined intimacy for me. I can’t have healthy relationships, because I think everyone around me is as sociopathic and manipulative as you are. I have so much trouble being intimate with anyone because intimacy was introduced to me in a loveless, abusive, forced way. Call me crazy, but I blame you for that.
It drives me insane that nobody knows about the real you. And that you seem to show no guilt.
Are you ashamed? At all?
Part of me really hopes that karma catches up with you. I want you to feel the hurt that you put me through, and go through the horrors I still go through. If I have ever hated anyone, it would be you.
I remember everything. I was wearing my work hoodie and my favorite pair of jeans. I had on a black bra that I gave to the goodwill a week later. You ripped my underwear. I didn’t even know until after. And I was wearing that stupid ring you gave me. I put it in your mailbox almost a year later, and this past weekend your brother gave it back. I hate you for that. I had told myself that you wouldn’t even remember my name in a few months, I took solace in that thought. But you keep reminding me.
Don’t think I don’t remember your hands around my neck. You threatening to break my arm if I struggled further.
Most nights I go for long drives to nowhere in particular. It just gives me something to do. Somewhere to go to be alone with my thoughts. I listen to all the CDs in my car and try to make sense of my life. Of the person you raped me in to. You and your brother taught me how to smoke weed, now I do it once a week. There are worse things, you know that well. But weed helps me relax a little bit. After a bad day, when I remember something from that night that I had buried in my mind surfaces or I see someone at school or the grocery store that looks just like you. A couple bowls of weed take the panic away. With a little weed, I can breathe and stop looking over my shoulder every 30 seconds for you to jump out at me. I like to drive around most to look at big expensive homes and imagine my life 10 years from now–with an amazing husband who won’t see me as tainted. We’d live in a big house with a big patio we could talk and drink and count stars from. I imagine that in ten years, I won’t think of you everyday, I won’t think of you at all.
I wish this wasn’t just a dream. What else do I have except for dreams?
I guess I just wanted you to know, in so many words, that I still remember. And still hurt. And the effects of your damage linger still, two years after. Especially since you probably go around thinking everything’s fine. And they’re not. And they won’t be, at least for me, for a very long time. And while you go on blissfully unaware, I will be driving around Colorado, smoking to hide my feelings, and dreaming of a future I’m not sure I’ll ever have.