January 13, 2016

An Open Letter to My Rapist

I've come a long way in healing but have so much further to go. I wrote this on December 31, 2015 and posted it publicly on Facebook. My intention with this letter is to help other victims and survivors know it's ok to talk about the trauma. It's ok to stand up, speak out and tell your story.

I also wrote this to tell those fortunate enough to have never experienced child sexual abuse, rape and incest that when you keep us silent, you keep us in pain. You deny our truth. But the truth has a way of coming to light. Help the survivors thrive. Help the victims heal. Help us fight this crime so another child never lives this way.

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY RAPIST:
I loved you once. I thought you were a great guy. Someone to joke around and hang out with. You shattered that image on August 13, 1978. You told me we would have a great time that day. Spending time together just the two of us. We would have ice cream. Instead, you drove me to a house. I don't remember how far away it was. All I could think of was what you told me in the car. I was to have an operation. A special operation. I told you I didn't feel sick and I was fine but you insisted and I trusted that you knew best. You said I was going to go to sleep and when I woke up my vagina would hurt a bit but I needed this operation in order to have babies one day. I went along. Willingly. Not truly understanding what I was being told.
Once inside the house I noticed it was more of a medical office. You took me into a room where you watched me undress and helped put a medical gown on. It was cold. Three doctors met us in the hall. I was lifted onto a table and wheeled into the next room. It was an operating room painted hospital green. One of the doctors asked if I understood what was going to happen. I repeated what you told me to say. Satisfied, one of the doctors gave me anesthetic and asked me to recite the alphabet backwards. I was scared and nervous so I babbled nonsense until I blacked out.
When I woke up I was in pain. Something was pushing inside me and you were on top of me. I couldn't breathe. I tried to push you off but you were too strong. You laughed as I cried. Someone took photos. I can still remember the click of the camera and the flash that blinded me. When you finally got off me, the doctors took their turn. I don't remember how many hours it took for four men to destroy a seven-year-old child.
Yes. I remember.
I remember the boat ride to Heart Lake where you tried to drown me when I refused to touch you. You got your way only because I was terrified of drowning. I couldn't swim. I remember the times you lifted weights and had me spot you. It was only a cover story and an excuse for you to get me to touch you and for you to touch me. You always had Genesis playing. To this day I can't listen to those songs without wanting to throw up. I remember the time I was eating breakfast in your mother's kitchen when you walked into the house. You entered the kitchen and said you didn't realize I was home. You stood behind me and began caressing my shoulders slowly moving downward. Something in me snapped that day. Fury and rage came up and I saw the serrated bread knife beside my plate. I grabbed it, spun around and held it to your throat. “If you ever even think about touching me again I'll fucking kill you.” Those are the exact words I said. You left without a word. It was two months before my 13th birthday.
I remember the countless times I was forced to kiss and hug you hello. The very thought repulsed me. I remember the way you looked at me and what those looks meant. It was common knowledge that I hated your guts though nobody knew why. I remember when my father died and you hugged me as you told me how sorry you were I lost my Dad. Once again fury and rage rose up. I pushed you and you slammed against the wall. “I told you a long time ago to never touch me again. I meant it.” Everyone in the room heard what I'd said. I'm sure everyone in the sanctuary did too considering I yelled those words at you. Funny how not a single person asked me what I'd meant. Perhaps, deep down, all of them suspected what you were and had done to me?
Who gave you the right to violate me? What were you possibly thinking? You destroyed who I was with your sick selfishness. You demanded I keep what you did a secret.
I kept the secret in an effort to keep the peace. I allowed you to live, have a family and wealth beyond most people's dreams. What I should have done was reported you immediately. What I should have done was tell someone the moment it happened. What I should have done was not blame myself. But enough of the “what I should have done's”.
While I keep your identity a secret, one day you will answer for what you did. Not by me or the pathetic excuse of a justice system we have here but when you are finally dead and go in front of the Council of Elders what will you tell them? How will you explain why you raped a child? The moment you die I go fully public. Your name will be known to all. Everyone will know who and what you were in this life. Your mother had a poem on her fridge for many years. It was called “Your Name” by Edgar A. Guest. I cherished that poem as a child knowing I would never shame the family. How tragic you weren't able or couldn't be bothered to live your life by that poem's message.
It is now 2016. The past is the past. My future begins now. As of this moment I shall be telling my story to as many people as I possibly can. No longer will I be afraid of you. No longer will I be held captive in this prison you helped create. No longer will I be silent. No longer will I be held to blame for what you did. No longer will I hold this guilt and shame.
You destroyed the child I was. Hell will freeze over before you destroy the woman I have become.