A Letter to My Rapist

 Dear Rapist, 

Good old Facebook reminded me of your existence several years ago under the "people you may know" tab. A surge of adrenaline hit my veins.  Do I look?  Do I run?  Curiosity got the best of me.  You're living an average middle aged life, just as a I am.  House, spouse kids....wait....kids.  Since that unfortunate day, I've wondered about your kids. 

You have daughters.  Beautiful little sparks of light.  I'm sure they light up your world as my son does mine.  Do you think you'll ever tell your daughters what you did to me?  That you raped my passed out body, had my friends dress me when you were through with me, and shoveled my unconscious body into the back seat while closing the door on my leg?  Will you tell them that I almost died that night from whatever cocktail you served me?  Did you know that?  That I almost died?  I had a seizure, and stopped breathing several times.  My friends, afraid to get in trouble, poked me every time I stopped breathing.  I should have died that night.  The fact that I didn't actually die?  That's what kept me going when suicide was a very real option.  There was a reason my broken shell of a soul was still here.  

Are you going to tell them that you bragged about this, as if it were consensual sex with the high school whore?  Leaving out all the dirty parts...sweeping them into the dark corners of your brain, so that you could continue to fool yourself into thinking that you were somehow still a good person.

I pray that your girls never encounter someone like you.  I pray that their lives are not plagued by the trauma of sexual assault.  I pray that they never meet the high school version of yourself at a party where there's no one to keep them safe.  

I will be telling my son our story.  I want him to understand consent.  I want him to know the wreckage I clawed my way out of.  He will know that a passed out body is not an invitation, or a prize as it was in your twisted mind.  I will raise him to be a man, unlike yourself.  

A weird part of me is grateful for the suffering you caused.  I would have never known my own ability to survive, were it not for you.  When I finally rose from those ashes, I was immune to pain in a way that I did not know was possible.  Now, I spend my days listening to stories of victims and help them fight for their own survival.  I fight as if their lives are my own, and without you that would not have been possible.  

I'm not sure what I was looking for in writing this.  I guess just to get off my chest that I hope your daughters never experience what you put me through.  Too many women are statistics, and I'm sending up a prayer right now that your girls are forever excluded from that unfortunate club.  My son will know our story, and eventually your name, and he will become the kind of man that you're incapable of being...because no amount of good deeds will undo what you did to me.

Enjoy spending the rest of your days knowing that, deep down, you're a monster...and nothing will ever change that.   

xoxo,

Your Survivor     

Insurrection

 I have jokingly said that when I'm at work, the only way I would know that the world was ending would be through a push notification on my phone.  I see between 100 and 120 patients a week, and during those visits my brain is fully engaged in the moment.  Wheels spinning, laying out plan B, C, D...all of the paths to potential wellness for that individual patient are being woven in my brain like a spiderweb.  Working from home lunch breaks (or the rare gap in patient visits) often involve interacting with my 4 year old son.  It is for his sake, that I'm getting this all out of my head right now.  

On Wednesday, a Democrat majority was established in the Senate.  I hated politics, civics, history, or any of the subjects in school that fall somewhere peripheral to those.  I remember my dad ranting against "gerrymandering" when I was in high school.  In my head, I saw an irritable old man shouting at the sky.  Now I get it.  I started work on Wednesday feeling like something wonderful had happened.  Then, my patients started discussing their anxieties, the usual stuff, COVID, people refusing to wear masks making it hard for them to leave (many people care for or live with elderly family or high risk people and mask refusers and COVID deniers have made the mental health crisis substantially worse, more so than the lockdowns), and they would say vaguely, "and you know, all the stuff today."  My patients are generally reluctant to discuss politics, and I don't pry or tip my hand.  I made a checkbox in my head: find out what is going on today.  Then I heard it again, and again, and when I finally had a moment I pulled up the news on my phone.  

There were no push notifications that insurrectionists were trying to overthrow the government.  I was so busy this week, that I didn't have time to process any of it.  2 1/2 more packed workdays, early bedtimes, early workouts, and an all day playdate have kept me from really thinking through all of this.  Now the images are scrolling through my head: Josh Hawley's fist in the air, Camp Auschwitz shirts, the 6MWNE shirts, the Confederate flags, the gallows, the masked men with zip ties, the police officers taking selfies with the rioters, the video of the QAnon supporter vet who was fatally shot in the neck, smoke surrounding the United States Capitol, and all the shattered glass.  I am praying that the politicians involved in stoking these fires and engaging in sedition face legal consequences for their actions, but I am genuinely concerned for inauguration day.  

I previously wrote about my concerns surrounding the cult-like following surrounding Trump.  Now, I reflect upon these images and feel justified in pulling away from people who feverishly supported this administration.  The mass delusion of QAnon (which alone could be my doctoral project because it is that far out into the realm of collective delusion), the racism that has taken a starring role in this movement, the epic con that all of these people are playing right into.  The people on the front lines of this movement are the Epsilons and they are fighting to keep themselves in the lowest of the caste system.  If you continue to support what is happening, you are more aligned with the beliefs of the person wearing the Camp Auschwitz shirt than you are to mine and therefore, good riddance.

When Ethan asks me about this time in history, I will tell him that (thanks in part to COVID) I was able to be home on the most worrying days: election day, the presidential election certification day, and inauguration day (I intend to work from home), because I wanted to be near him in the event that something significant happened and we would not be separated.  I will share with him the images that are burned into my head, and tell him that we turned on the news at home on January 6th during dinner, which is something we rarely do in front of him at this age.  I will tell him that all of this irreversibly changes the way that I looked at people in my life, and that some were cut out entirely because of it.  

I pray that the rest of the transition of power goes smoothly, but there are clear indications that may not be the case.  Until these times of unrest ease up, I will hole up with my little family and do whatever possible to make sure that we are safe, so that we can continue to fight against racism and hate and look back on this time as a black mark in US history that was ultimately overcome.