An open letter to my fiance, my friends and family, and the men who raped me.
By: Jessica Day
Tags: Abuse, Sexual Assault, Mental Health, Open Letter, PTSD

In the fall of 2018, I ran into my ex Michael at JFK Airport. (Well, we were never really exclusive, so I’m not sure if I can call him an ex, but that’s neither here nor there.)

In most situations, people would find this awkward, uncomfortable, maybe a little bit stinging (depending on how it all ended). For myself, I panicked. You know that fight, flight, or freeze reaction? Yeah.

I turned on my heel, and I sprinted. Literally. I ran through the entire length of Terminal 4, grabbed my bag, and continued running until I was on the Long Island Rail Road headed east to my shitty, rat-infested apartment outside of Hofstra. That might seem like an exaggerated reaction. I assure you it was necessary.

I was reminded of this event this past weekend. My fiance was with me, and our conversation turned toward serious questions about emotions and past traumas — I blame the wine we had earlier that evening. He asked me a question that has stuck with me for the past few days, and it’s time to open up about it. This is going to be about three individuals who affected me. The original article hid their names. That is no longer. It’s time for them to face the music, too.

So, the question that prompted this piece:

“Why is it that you can acknowledge what Jason and Jesse did to you, but when it comes to Michael— you laugh and act like it was nothing?”

To explain why this question hit me so hard, I should explain what happened with Jason, Jesse, and Michael— the three men who raped me. I should explain to you exactly how this all came about. I feel the need, still, to this day, to justify what happened to me — like I have to prove that the pain I still carry is in fact valid.

Jason first. This guy was my first true, real love. I was certain we were going to be married. He even said so himself. He was the first person who said they wanted to marry me, and when you’re young, you really believe it. The first few months of our relationship were wonderful. I was in love, happy, and missed him terribly while he was away; the majority of our relationship was spent apart, long distance. My family loved him, he was well-liked by all of our friends, and he was the funny one in the group. He could make almost anyone laugh. I think that’s why I was attracted to him.

As our relationship continued, however, he became more and more controlling. It started out innocuously at first, with him asking where I was every day and wanting to check in more. Then, he started growing jealous of my male friends. He said they couldn’t be trusted, that they all wanted to just have sex with me. Then, he said I wasn’t allowed to wear certain clothing — when I showed him a bodycon pencil skirt I had bought, he called me a slut and accused me of wanting to show off my ass to the guys at school. He said I had to show I was committed to him. I had to make a full plan for how we would stay together. I had to promise to marry him as soon as I graduated high school. Yes, high school. I had to give up my dream of going to New York for school because he said it would take me away from him. He said I had to follow him wherever he went, and if I didn’t, then I clearly didn’t love him. During that time, my family just thought that I had decided to throw away my future for a boyfriend. They thought I was being ridiculous. They didn’t know that I had endured a year and a half of emotional, verbal, and at times (when he was actually in the state) physical abuse by this young man they liked so very much.

They didn’t know that when you believe there’s only one person who will ever truly love you enough to marry you, that you’ll finally just give in to everything they ask for — even when every fiber of your being is screaming in protest. They didn’t know that I was exhausted from fighting and being stubborn because — you can only fight so much. They didn’t know any of this because I didn’t know how to tell them and I wasn’t really certain they would ever believe me. I hardly believed myself at the time.

The last time Jason came home before he went halfway around the world, we got in two fights. During the first one, he pushed me up against the wall by my neck. I hit my head, hard. He said he would never touch me like that again. Two days later, during a second fight, he pinned me down on my stomach. He raped me. After that, I no longer had any fight left. I was seventeen, and I began to have panic attacks. I began to self-harm again. I told nobody. I was too afraid to break up with him. I didn’t know what to do or who to go to, so I said nothing. He had dated my best friend, and she had never had this experience to my knowledge, so maybe I had caused it. And we all had the same friends. Who would believe me? They had been his friends first. And my family loved him.

He broke up with me a few months later. Three days after that, my pain culminated. During my writing class at the local university, I cemented my plan to kill myself. I was going to go down route 114, hit 90+ mph in my maroon sentra, and I was going to wrap my fucking car around a tree. I felt alone, betrayed, hopeless, and so full of self-hatred for allowing this all to happen. I couldn’t look at my professor the entire class. I avoided her gaze completely, afraid to betray my intent.

At the end of class, she stopped me from leaving with a hand on my arm. She said she knew something was going on. I didn’t have to tell her if I didn’t want to, but she said she was there to listen, and the counselors on campus were also available. She entreated me to go talk to someone. It took every ounce of willpower to not cry in front of her. I ran fast-walked out of the classroom and ran to my car. My head resting against the steering wheel, I placed the key in the ignition and started the car. The radio was already on. WCYY, 94.3. And then a song began.

“She may contain the urge to run away But hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks….”

If you don’t know this song, it follows a toxic, abusive relationship. By the end of the song, I was screaming and sobbing and banging my fists against the wheel. It finally hit me that I wasn’t alone. That this had all happened. That it wasn’t in my head. That maybe it wasn’t my fault. That I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to feel safe. I drove home, and I slept until dinnertime. Jason tried contacting me a few years ago through text. It sent me into a full-scale panic attack as I was walking around my university’s campus. I haven’t heard from him since.

“Why is it that you can acknowledge what Jason and Jesse did to you, but when it comes to Michael— you laugh and act like it was nothing?”

Now, Jesse. Jesse came immediately after Jason. I was in an emotionally vulnerable place, and I just wanted to have company. It was a lackluster, casual relationship. Jesse smoked way too much weed for my taste, and he spent most of his income on video games (and weed). Despite my indifference toward the relationship as a whole, we agreed to stay together once I left for college. During my first semester, I had a long weekend in September. I traveled up to Maine and surprised Jesse with a visit for that first night. I told him my parents were expecting me the next day.

So. Jesse and I went to the nearby Walmart to get groceries. While there, he took the promise ring he had given me off of my right hand and refused to give it back. I thought little of it. We bought the groceries and drove back to his apartment. Once in the driveway, he turned off the car and stared at me. Before I knew what else was happening, he had taken my left hand and was asking me if I would marry him. He was about to place the ring on my left hand when I said, “No.” From his response, he didn’t seem to expect that answer. He nodded his head, handed me the ring, and asked me if he had scared me. I said yes, and he said he understood.

We were quiet as we walked inside and unpacked the groceries. His roommates had made themselves scarce — none of them were home. That was when it happened. As I walked up the stairs and down the hallway to his bedroom, he came up behind me and started trying to undress me. I tried to shrug him off, saying I wasn’t in the mood. He said we had to, that this would be the only time we had alone in the apartment. I said no. I struggled to get out of his grasp; he was surprisingly strong despite weighing less than myself. He pushed me down to the ground, and once again I was pinned on my stomach.

Once again, I was raped by someone I trusted. It didn’t matter how many times I said no and tried to push him off. He was clearly upset that I had rejected his proposal, and he decided to punish me for it. I told nobody. It felt like there was no point. I broke up with him three weeks later.

“Why is it that you can acknowledge what Jason and Jesse did to you, but when it comes to Michael — you laugh and act like it was nothing?”

So, Michael. I don’t even know where to begin with Michael. I could tell you that when I first met him in the GameStop right before Christmas where Jesse and I both worked, I immediately despised him. I should have listened to that gut reaction. As I saw him more and more, however, that feeling lessened. Or when, during the fourth of July right before I left for college, we saw each other again at Old Orchard Beach. I saw him coming down the shore, and I had the immediate urge to run at him — so I did. And when he saw me running, he braced for impact, widening his stance and opening his arms. I jumped, and he caught me. And how right as that happened, the fireworks began overhead, just like out of those stupid fucking romance novels. I could tell you later on how when my stepfather was diagnosed with prostate cancer and had to have surgery down in Boston, I was alone immediately after Christmas day. So Michael asked if I wanted to meet up. And that began a very long, very toxic relationship.

We were high and/or drunk every single time we were together, at his behest. He seemed uncomfortable with reality and himself when he was sober. He asked me questions that I wished anyone in my life had asked me. He validated my emotions, and he was understanding and not critical when I told him about my past self-harm and my suicidal urges. He appeared warm and welcoming. And I found myself drawn into him, unable to stop being around him.

For the first time ever in my life — I felt understood. Completely, wholly, understood and accepted for every part of who I was.

Then it happened. One day, we drank quite a bit. I ended up naked in his bed. I didn’t want to have sex, but I didn’t know how to say no. I was uncomfortable and confused, and I couldn’t think straight due to the five cans of beer I had had (I’m a lightweight). I was dating someone else at the time. I didn’t want to cheat. I didn’t want to be unfaithful. I didn’t want this with him. He penetrated me. I dissociated and sent my mind elsewhere. Afterward, he held me and kissed me. And I thought, “Well, maybe that was okay. Maybe that wasn’t bad.” Later that night, after attending the musicals Les Miserables, he showered me with affection and said he wanted to make me dinner. He bought two bottles of wine that he had let me pick out. Because I was young and stupid and didn’t fully know my limits when it came to alcohol, I drank quite a bit. Every time I finished my glass, he poured more in. And that’s how I blacked out. When I regained consciousness, I was somehow naked on his couch, he was thrusting painfully into me, and I was screaming at the top of my lungs. And I remember his saying, “Paper thin walls, Jess” in reference to his neighbors in this dilapidated East Village apartment.

The next day, I told him I had blacked out and I didn’t remember much at all. He laughed and said that I kept stealing his wine from him and he had tried to hold me back, but I wouldn’t let him. That wasn’t how I remembered it at all. I distinctly recalled him filling up my glass regularly. But if he said that was what happened, maybe it was. I was drunk, after all. And I had cheated on my partner. I was a cheater. I was a drunk. This was all my fault. I deserved any pain that came my way. I couldn’t trust my own mind. I had to trust what he was saying. And after all, he understood me, and he showed me he cared. I had to trust him.

Months passed, and I tried to put both physical and emotional distance between us. I knew something was wrong; I wasn’t the person to cheat on a partner, and I certainly wasn’t the person to drink and smoke constantly. I spoke to him less. I told him I couldn’t come into the city as much. I told him we couldn’t get too close, and we should have set boundaries. Then it happened. Shortly after my nineteenth birthday around midnight, Michael called me. He said it was an emergency. He had gone down to Chile, and while there, he had gone on a total drug bender. Alcohol turned to weed turned to cocaine turned to heroin. Heroin. He told me he didn’t trust being alone. He told me I was “the only person he trusted himself to be around.”

That line was what killed me. I felt I had an obligation to make sure he was okay. It was, in my mind, my duty to make sure he would be okay. Thus, I spent six weeks on and off making the two-hour commute (one way) to his apartment and then back to Hofstra for classes. During that time, he went through a series of ups and downs as he struggled with withdrawal. His psychiatrist put him on at least four or five different pills, which he occasionally refused to take or took with alcohol and weed. He would tell me I couldn’t be trusted and how I was lying about everything and that Jesse was right about me (he never explained this). He brought me to tears dozens of times as I tried to defend myself to him, explaining that I cared about him and that was why I was there. Then there would be nights when he would keep me up until four in the morning, telling me about his fears and why he couldn’t trust anyone. One night, he told me he loved me. I was struck with the same dread and panic as I had been when Jesse had proposed to me only a year prior.

During a particularly good day, we were roughhousing in his apartment. I was trying to get him to smile, so I tickled him, thinking I could elicit a laugh or two, and that would be that. He immediately got angry and grabbed my wrists. He pulled me close to his face, all signs of good nature gone and now replaced with rage. His eyes bore into mine and he said, “Cut it out.” His grip on my wrists had tightened painfully, and all I could think to do was chuckle nervously. Five minutes later, he acted as though the event had never happened. By that night, I had ring-formed bruises around my wrist bones.

The friends close to me noticed changes in my behavior and mood. I continued to excel in my classes, but my social life dropped, and my hobbies no longer held the enjoyment they once did. I cried frequently. I was too exhausted to speak. I stopped eating as much. In trying to save him from himself, I was killing myself. It came to a head a few weeks before the semester ended. I was waiting for the train to come so I could head back into the city to see him. As one approached the station, blaring its horn to signal it wasn’t stopping, I considered throwing myself in front of it rather than go in to face Michael again.

Shortly after that, I blocked him on all social media. I went complete no-contact, or so I thought. He texted me after a few weeks, accusing me of being emotionally manipulative and immature. I explained to him as calmly as I could what he had done to me and why I could no longer speak to him. He attempted to rile me up a few times after that, sending passive-aggressive texts and trying to maneuver around my social media blocks. I ignored all of it. To be clear, I questioned this decision every single day. And I mean every day. I wondered if I had abandoned him. Maybe I had been too hard on him. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe I was overthinking it. Would anyone ever understand me the way he had? Would he be okay? Would he survive? Would he accidentally or intentionally kill himself? Should I have stayed?

After two and a half years, I finally broke and contacted him again. He apologized, calling our relationship parasitic and that he was to blame. He said he knew he had hurt me, and he understood now why I left. He said he was healthier, and he’d love to have me in his life again. I believed him, but I told him we needed to have boundaries and move slowly with our friendship.

During this time, I was misdiagnosed with uterine cancer. He showered me with attention and offered to provide rides to the doctor and emotional support. When we learned it wasn’t cancer, he showed genuine happiness and took me out to celebrate. It felt good being with him. It felt like he had changed. I wondered if maybe it had just been the drugs all along. I admitted to him that I had been afraid he was going to come after me in retribution of leaving him for a long time. He laughed and asked if I really thought that. I began to question if maybe I was being too paranoid about his behavior.

Then I learned more about him that he hadn’t previously shared with me. That his therapist and psychiatrist had diagnosed him with sociopathic and narcissistic tendencies. That in an act of revenge after being rejected, he sent nudes he had received from a girl in his high school to other people. That he had literally poisoned a woman with bleach after she called the cops on him for selling her daughter weed — and that he had made sure it would be enough to only make her sick, and not kill her.

He became more controlling again. One night, after meeting his friends earlier, he initiated sex — it was painful and harsh and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from screaming. We were staying at his friends’ house that night, and he told me he wanted them to hear that I was his, that they should hear the bed hitting the wall and my screams so they would know to stay away from me. That I was his. That I was his. That I was his.

The next day, he accused me of flirting with the two friends, and he refused to listen to me when I told him that had never been my intention, and I thought I was just being friendly. He glared at me and didn’t respond. Not an hour later, we were at a restaurant and he was all smiles again, encouraging me to drink the whiskey he had bought because he realized he didn’t want it. A week later, he said he wanted to try out certain things in sex that I wasn’t comfortable with after my relationship with Jason. He forced me into it, anyway. Then he once again showered me with love. This happened frequently.

I found myself afraid of his bad moods and his temper. He would come in saying he had punched a guy on the street, and he had the bruised knuckles to show it. Or he would say that he threatened to kill a telemarketer because they wouldn’t stop calling. I realized I was becoming afraid, depressed, and anxious again the longer I was with him, but I had no idea what to do.

Finally, an event transpired that caused me to realize I needed to leave him and to never look back. I waited until he was gone for the weekend, then I went to his apartment, had his roommate let me in, and I cleaned his room of the belongings I had left there. I was afraid that if I told him I was leaving him, he might hurt me. I didn’t speak to him again. That was almost exactly three years ago, and I still haven’t spoken to him, even when I saw him staring at me in the airport, walking towards me.

“Why is it that you can acknowledge what Jason and Jesse did to you, but when it comes to Michael— you laugh and act like it was nothing?”

I laugh about those instances with Michael. I act like they’re some big joke. My fiance isn’t the first person to ask me this question, but he is the first to ask it in such a direct way. So, this will hopefully answer everyone’s question: why do I keep blaming myself, why do I keep forgiving him, why do I continue to feel guilty, why why why when with everyone else, I can see who was at fault and that I did nothing to cause the pain I suffered?

I think it’s because I loved him. We created a codependent, trauma bond where he repeatedly abused me and then turned around and gave me attention. He would leave bruises on my body and then kiss me. He would accuse me of being a whore and then in the next breath call me a “contemporary Venus.” And I fell for all of it. I fell in love with an unhealthy, narcissistic, abusive person — and I became addicted to him much like he was addicted to heroin. He made me question everything, especially myself. And so now, even three years later, I still don’t know exactly how to feel about it all. I wonder if I deserved it all because I cheated on a partner with him. I wonder if I’m misremembering it all because I was high and/or drunk most of the time. I wonder if maybe it’s all in my head, maybe I’m crazy. I wonder if I’m overreacting.

So why do I act like it was nothing? Because I don’t know how to cope with everything that I witnessed and felt and saw and experienced. Because I’m so confused still. Because how the hell do I explain to anyone, especially myself, that I was raped by more than one person? And do I call what Michael did to me rape? Is it rape? I don’t know — really, I don’t. And if it was rape, then that means I was raped three times. And what kind of world lets someone be raped at all, ever, much less three separate times by three separate people? And do I want to live in a world that lets that happen? Will I ever be safe? And I keep wondering — what did I do to cause all of this? Because this doesn’t just happen — does it? And if it does — when is it going to happen again? Who’s going to hurt me next? How can I trust any man, any person? And is it my fault if these three people hurt someone else like they hurt me — because I didn’t speak up when I had time? What do I do here? Do I remain silent because it’s been years? Do I speak anonymously about these experiences? Do I decide to just now press charges over something that cannot be proven at this point?

I don’t know.

So I laugh. I shrug it off. I act like it’s one big joke. The framing is the universe. The punchline is me.

I guess I wonder if by talking about all of this, by admitting it all happened, maybe I’ll miraculously heal. Maybe the nightmares will stop, the guilt will vanish, and I’ll stop being afraid — of who might attack me next, of what will happen if I upset someone, of walking around areas where I might run into these three individuals. I don’t think it will. But one can hope. If nothing else, it feels necessary. It’s like when you’ve shaken up a bottle of soda and then put it outside in the freezing cold. Eventually, it’s going to burst. So I need to open the tab up just a little at a time to let some of the pressure release, or I might explode myself.

I have PTSD now. Neither my psychiatrist nor my therapist can figure out exactly when and where it began. They both believe it’s a culmination of these experiences that just expounded upon each other until finally, I broke. I’m on Zoloft for my depression and anxiety, and I have panic attacks less frequently now. It’s only once every couple of weeks instead of three or four times a week. I’ve been prescribed Xanax for those times when it gets too out of control; that’s what they give you when your panic attacks can lead to suicide attempts. I have nightmares most nights. If I feel anxious before nodding off, I self-medicate with either alcohol, CBD oil, or melatonin — all depending on the severity of my anxiety. I still suffer from suicidal ideation, and I occasionally feel the urge to self-harm again. When things get really rough, I stop eating again and quickly drop to an unhealthy weight. I feel like a failure many days, no matter how much I accomplish. I’m quick to distance myself from others, out of fear that they’ll hurt me, too. I’ll go weeks without talking to friends or family because I feel too emotionally drained to speak to anyone. I have difficulty controlling my emotions, especially if I’ve been drinking. There are a lot of days when I feel completely bored with life. There are some days when I just want to die.

I still worry people won’t believe me when I tell them. I wonder if I caused it all. I wonder if I deserved to be hurt in these ways. I feel inferior to other women who haven’t had these experiences. Like I’m lesser than, now. Like who could love me, much less marry me, after what my body has gone through?

I try to ward off all of these experiences, thoughts, and bad feelings through healthy activities: socializing, exercising, dance, yoga, writing, reading, playing guitar, practicing gratitude, meditating, reminding myself to eat (and to eat healthily), going on small adventures. But there are days when it’s too much, when I feel overwhelmed, or when I’ve been kept up all night by bad dreams of being attacked repeatedly.

So this is my open letter. It’s an explanation to my loved ones. It’s a plea to everyone who reads it to not hurt others, to understand consent, to engage in healthy relationships. And it’s hopefully a way for me to understand a little more what I went through.

To my fiance, to my friends, to my family: thank you for what you’ve done to support me and show you care. I’m sorry I’m not always as sane or healthy as we’d all like me to be. I promise, I’m trying. I will never stop trying to heal, recover, and move past all of this.

And if one of the three men who betrayed me read this, know this: I forgive you for what you did to me and how much pain you caused me. I forgive you for my own sake so that I may move forward and live a healthy, full life without guilt and fear. Should you ever attempt to contact me, I will make your full identity known. I’m not afraid of you anymore, and I’m sure as hell not worried about any backlash anymore. You three, combined, have made my life a living hell. You have negatively impacted my relationships with friends, romantic partners, and family. You have made me want to die. It’s time for you to be the ones who take responsibility. If I ever find out you’ve hurt another woman in the same way you did me, I will do everything in my power to make sure you suffer the full consequences of your actions.