Dear Rapist

Trigger warning

Dear Dave Martin,

I’ve started versions of this letter over and over again but somehow I couldn’t muster the proper sentiment until now. I finally think I have it though.

I am mad.

I am scared.

I am hurt.

I am frustrated.

And most of all…

I am angry.

Sadly, the bulk of my anger is still directed towards me but I have saved a little bit for you and it grows a little more each day. Actually, I am trying to nurse my anger towards you because I’ve been told that being angry with you, my rapist, is one way I will be able to start putting what happened to me that night behind me.

I’m sure calling you my rapist has thrown you for a loop. It’s probably not how you see yourself, hell, I wasn’t even sure it was how I saw you for a long time. But after going over the events of that night there’s nothing else I can call you. Sure a litany of swear words would be nice but nothing is as damning as labelling you a rapist.

You raped me.

I said no.

I asked you to stop.

I pleaded with you.

Yes, our first night together was consensual and I enjoyed it even if I knew you were nothing more than a passing distraction. Two weeks later, it was something different. I said “no”, “don’t” and “stop” so many times they stopped meaning anything to me and they certainly meant nothing to you. By the time we actually got naked I’d stopped saying no but I didn’t want to have sex with you. I did it because you’d already ignored my pleas, wrestled me around on the ground pinning my wrists down and spanked me against my will. I really just hoped you’d get off and leave. I was afraid to fight you knowing how strong you are – I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

I don’t really remember much of what happened after I finished getting undressed. I know you used condoms both times (I found them where you dropped them on the floor) so I thank you for that. But you fucked me without regard for me, my well-being and my desires. I remembered wishing you would hurry and you did. I know it was only a few minutes, I could see the clock from my position on the bed, but it felt so agonizingly long.

When it was over I didn’t feel anything. I think I may even have kissed you as we talked afterwards. I was hoping you’d leave but you made the excuse it was too late to drive, you laid your arm across me, which kept me from moving and you promptly fell asleep.

In the morning light things got worse for me when you put me in my restraints against my will. I begged you not to. I was terrified what you would do to me if I couldn’t free myself in any way. I struggled against the restraints and you laughed at me. You thought we were playing a game. I strained my wrists and shoulders trying to get free. My voice broke and asked you again and again to let me go. Finally you did but you substituted your own hand for the restraints, pinning my arms above my head. And when you wanted the freedom to move you shifted your weight so you were pinning me down – I could barely breathe. You put on the condom and fucked me again. I didn’t even fake it this time. You used me and it was over.

I am so thankful one of my idiot neighbours set off your car alarm – it distracted you enough to get you out of my apartment. I kissed you goodbye and sent you on your way. I felt nothing.

It wasn’t normal. Not one day in my life since that night in September has been normal. As a matter of fact it’s been a struggle.

I was physically ill for over a week – barely able to eat – have everything leave my body violently. I was shaky and scared. Confused and afraid.

I am afraid still. Afraid to meet new people. To trust new people. To date. To make friends. I’m terrified to even try. I am afraid to be intimate with people I love and trust. I have lost all interest in sex, submission, kink, playing and even flirting is dangerous territory some days.

I don’t even know if you’ve given me a second thought since I begged you, two weeks after you raped me, to never call me again. I think of you every day. And I wish that I could erase you and all the damage you’ve done to me.

One minute I’m fine and the next I am scared, sobbing mess because something triggered a flashback and I can’t stand it.

I can’t relate to my body sexually anymore. I feel like you robbed me of my sex and my desire. I don’t want to touch myself in a sexual way. I don’t want to feel arousal. I feel dirty and used and repulsive because of what you did to me.

You, my rapist, have made me hate myself. You have made me feel less than. You have made me question my judgement and my choices. You violated my body and you stole my peace of mind and my security.

You did this to me and I hate you for it.

“No” is not a barrier for you to push, move, cajole, coerce or bend. “No” means stop! Do not keep going! Danger! You are crossing a line that will cause damage that you cannot undo and that may not be able to be repaired.

With all the hate I can muster,

Your Survivor


6 thoughts on “Dear Rapist

  1. Everything starting at “It wasn’t normal” and how you have been struggling — all of that is how I’ve been feeling for the past 6 or so weeks. Thank you for writing it all down — it helps me put words on what I’ve been feeling.

    I haven’t named my ex in the post I wrote about consent and the description of how he didn’t care to get mine, mostly out of fear, partly due to the fact that we have several mutual friends (who all still think he’s great and are friendly with him, which to me is a tacit acceptance of sexual assault).

    But man, if I had the guts you do, I’d write an open letter to Will Martinez too. Maybe one day.

    You are an inspiration to me. You’re amazing, brave and resilient.

  2. Wow!! What a powerful & brave piece of writing! Eloquent & to the point! I hope composing it & posting it has given you some of the release or relief that you justly need. Bravo!!

  3. I’m so sorry this happened to you. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been to have him stay the night and do it again in the morning. I had to stay on the couch at the house of my rapist after he raped me. It was torture. You are incredibly brave for writing this.

    My rapist is named Tim Campbell.

  4. I read this when you initially posted and wanted to comment then, but couldn’t from my phone. Bravo to you, my friend. I’m glad you managed to write this, but I know it’s taken a toll on you as well.

    hugs and much love.

  5. I’m so sorry this happened to you. You are so strong and brave.

    I was in love with my rapist, and he betrayed my trust and my love. I’m sure I’m not the first, and I know I won’t be the last.

    I’m inspired that you spoke out and named your rapist publicly. I’ve been too afraid to do that. But here it goes.

    Andrew Bost raped me.

  6. Pingback: One year later… « Pluie et vent sur Aurore

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