by Anonymous_181009
[Hello, beautiful humans – after speaking at length with the survivor who shared this story, I did some soul-searching and decided to give her space to voice the conflict she felt over the differences in our views. Her story is lengthy, and deeply painful. His actions were disgusting, despicable. And as if the perpetrator himself hadn’t caused enough damage, now she’s being told her voice doesn’t count because her politics don’t fit neatly. How many others are walking in her shoes right now? Do we have to vote a certain way to deserve compassion and support? I don’t have to agree with her to believe her. Neither do you.]
Before I get to my story, I’d like to first state that I’m no feminist. I’m not all that political, but am definitely more on the conservative, right-leaning side. This should have no bearing whatsoever on my story, but these days, I feel like it does.
To me, it seems the “Me Too” movement has sort of backfired on itself. Personally, I find the “believe all women” statement to set a very dangerous precedent. While I understand what it’s meant to be about, I think it’s caused a lot of people to actually believe our stories less. I find myself hesitant to contribute to something that seemingly encourages blind belief of any and all accusations, just because a woman says it’s so.
To those I’ve now possibly offended, please know I’m in no way attempting to discount any of your experiences. My own story boils down to a he said/she said situation – I cannot prove without a doubt that what happened was not consensual. I understand the frustrating, helpless place that puts us in.
For anyone who reads my story, I’d ask that you make up your own mind. Do not “stand in solidarity” with me, just because I’m a woman. I would like to feel validated. I would like to be believed. But I don’t demand it. I know my story to be true. All I want is to have it heard.
.
I met “John Doe” at a meet-and-greet when I was 19. The singer for my favorite band, who I’d been a fan of since I was 14. When I say “fan,” I mean I had a pretty unhealthy obsession. I was the typical angsty teen, the stereotypical girl with daddy issues.
I thought the lyrics John wrote were the soundtrack to my life. I thought he could explain my every thought better than I could myself. What I loved most was his being anything but the stereotypical “famous” musician. He was humble, he was down to earth. He had a beautiful wife that he loved with all his heart. What really sealed in the obsession though, was a song he’d written for his daughter. I thought it was the most beautiful song I’d ever heard. I started joking that John was my dad, he just didn’t know it yet.
I had driven eight hours that August to meet him. I’d spent months making a book, which I would give to him when we met – mostly filled with pictures from previous concerts I’d attended, but there was also a two-page letter in the front. A cringe-filled, horribly pathetic, embarrassing letter explaining what I thought his music had done for me. I ended it telling him that without knowing it, he’d been like a father to me.
Now, let me pause here for a moment. That’s some crazy shit, right? Like that “Stan” song by Eminem? I’m 19 years old at this point – legal adult. You would think the 36-year-old man on the receiving end of this book would be like, “whoa, this one’s batshit crazy,” and that would be the end of it. Turns out, that would’ve been for the best.
Unfortunately, that’s not how it played out. I cried the typical fangirl tears when he made his way over to me. I gave him my book, which he took, but then handed over to the friend who’d come with me. He smiled at me, and then he hugged me. Like a tight, proper hug.
I’m not quite sure how this story gets past me melting into a puddle, because I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I got my pictures with him and the band, and went to see the show. My pathetic life goals were complete. I thought the highlight of the evening had already taken place, but it only got better from there.
A few songs into the show, the band’s photographer came and invited my friend and me to sit side stage – at John’s request. I nearly pissed myself. Between songs, John grabbed my book, held it up to the crowd, and told them about it. I know this sounds so stupid now – because it is – but this was my hero. Not only did he know I existed, not only had he read my book… he’d obviously fucking liked it, and was now telling people about it, onstage, in the middle of his concert. He dedicated their most popular song to me, occasionally looking over and smiling at me as he sang it.
I know. So cheesy. So dumb. But my heart had practically melted away, and as far as I was concerned, I could die happily. Some months later, I received a gift for my 20th birthday. My favorite album, signed by all the members. John had written “I’ll be your dad” across the center. He messaged me, too, on the fan website. He told me my book had made him cry, that it had reminded him of his worth to this world. He said he would be “honored and proud” to be my “fill-in dad.”
The message was signed, “Love, Dad.”
I knowwww, I was now 20 years old. This is just sad. But this had been my life since I was 14. Not only had I met him now, but he’d accepted playing along with the dad thing?? I was living in a complete dream world. If I was crazy obsessed before, this was not helping me come back to reality.
The following January, I went to another show. John invited me to hang out on the bus, and gave me a backstage pass, good for any concert on the tour. My life had surely reached its peak. I couldn’t believe any of this was happening; it was just too good to be true.
While following the band around on their tour, I found myself without transportation to one of the shows. The tour bus was taking off that night, and John suggested I join them. Obviously – though not intelligently – I accepted. John and I hung out in the lounge. He put his arm around me while we sat on the couch watching Superbad.
When the movie ended, he pulled the mattress from his bunk, and put it on the ground in front of the door. He made some joke about keeping the creeps from coming in. Ohhh, what a good “dad” he was, I thought. I slept on the couch, wondering how something so incredible could be happening to me. The next morning, he said something about how we’d had a little sleepover, and it was like being back home with his daughters. My already-melted heart exploded, and then melted again.
One of the last shows I attended on that tour was in [Location A]. The evening before the show, he invited me to come hang out in his hotel room. We sat on the couch, and he watched something on TV about Obama. He put his arm around me, as he had on the tour bus. Politics weren’t my thing, so I just closed my eyes and tried to make the moment last.
His fingers ran through my hair, massaging my scalp. I thought it was weird when they moved to my face, and traced my jawline. Weirder still was when he ran them across my lips. I looked up at him, questioning. He just smiled, and his hand moved back to my shoulder.
(As shit starts to get more serious, and the decisions I make increasingly stupid, I’d like to make a disclaimer; not as an excuse, but just as an explanation of my naiveté. Yes, I was 20 years old at this point; I was also a virgin, and had only ever kissed two guys. There’s no excuse for how stupid it was, spending time in a hotel room with a married man 16 years my senior. Hopefully some can understand my innocence, or rather, the ignorance I had at the time.)
There was a storm that night, bad enough to have shut down the airport. I had a short walk back to my own hotel, but John pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. He said he wasn’t so sure he felt good about having me walk back in such a storm, let alone late at night. “Maybe we could have another sleepover?” he suggested. I readily accepted.
John went into the adjoining bedroom, and I stayed on the couch where I assumed I’d be sleeping. He left the bedroom door open, with the lights turned off. And then he called out, “Are you coming?”
I didn’t understand. There was only one bed in that room. Surely he didn’t mean I should sleep in it, with him. I blurted out a “huh?” and he simply responded, “Are you coming or not?”
I thought I sensed a bit of irritation in his voice. That terrified me. The last thing I wanted was for him to be upset with me. Literally nothing could be worse than that. Besides, John was a good man, who loved his family. He knew I thought of him like a father, and had gone so far as to accept playing the role. If he thought this was okay, it must be. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed, still wearing my jeans and t-shirt. He rolled over and put his arm around me, and I fell asleep.
I don’t know how long I slept before it started, but I woke up to his hands moving over my crotch. Rubbing, and tugging at the waist of my pants. I froze. This was not happening. His hands continued, and I pretended to stay asleep, but rolled over a bit, away from him. He moved with me, and his fingers started to go under my jeans. Without saying a word, I put my hand on his, and moved it away.
I would end up doing this several times throughout the night. Sometimes he would stop for a while, maybe even rolling away from me, and I’d think he’d given up. I’d try to go back to sleep, but he would be back again. Sometimes, his hands pushed mine away, and once again would begin pulling at my pants, trying to get in. Finally, after removing his hands for what felt like the millionth time, he gave my ass an aggressive squeeze, turned over, and didn’t come back.
I laid there silent, still pretending to sleep. I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw up. I was anxious, and a little shaky. Did that really just happen? There was no fucking way. I thought of him like a father, he knew that – I’d made him a goddamn book about it. He had a wife, and children. Obviously, I’d misunderstood something. Maybe I was having some kind of crazy nightmare. Maybe he just moved around a lot in his sleep. Anything but what I thought had just happened. That was impossible.
All night, I tried to convince myself it hadn’t been real, but by morning it was still all I could think about. I went back to my hotel and laid down, feeling sick to my stomach. Since I was 14, this stupid fucking band was my only focus. I could not have wasted all that time. I felt embarrassed, and incredibly stupid.
But I had to be wrong. It couldn’t be possible. He knew what he meant to me, and he wouldn’t betray that. I misunderstood something. I had a bad dream. It could not have happened.
I went to his show that evening, and pretended I wasn’t feeling well – not exactly a lie. My mind just felt fried, melted. I stared off at nothing, thinking about the night before. John seemed normal though. He was laughing and joking with everyone, like nothing had happened. I kept telling myself it hadn’t.
Before going on stage, John hugged me and whispered “sorry.” He looked back at me with a sad, apologetic face as he walked away. So… something did happen, then. Fuck. During the show, I just kept picturing his face as he walked away. He did look truly sorry, and I clung to that.
At the last show on the tour, John was smiling, hugging and laughing with fans at the meet-and-greet. Posing for pictures, cracking jokes. I was still playing sick as a way to hide my sadness. I had to go home tomorrow, and this dream of a trip was ending in a pretty shit place. He signed a picture for me and wrote “Smile!” I forced one.
When everyone else left, he sat down across from me and took my hands in his. He was looking me straight in the eyes, but I quickly stared down at the floor. I wanted to puke. He apologized for the night in [Location A]. He said he was just “a man with a dick,” and I was a “beautiful girl.” He was only human, we all make mistakes.
Tears were welling up in my eyes, and I’m assuming I was the very deepest shade of red. I kept staring at the floor, just nodding my head. He asked me to say something, anything. Yell at him. Punch him in the face. All I could think to ask was, “What about your wife? What about the songs you’ve written for her?”
“All of those things are still true,” he said. I couldn’t see how, but I didn’t argue. He stood, and pulled me up with him. “I’m so sorry. It will never happen again.”
He hugged me and asked if he could still be my “dad.” I sobbed, and hugged him back. “Yes.” I said.
When I got back home, I tried to just delete the messy part of the trip from my mind. He had tried some weird shit, I didn’t go for it, and he’d apologized. He still wanted to be my “dad.” The end, no need to dwell on it.
But as the months went by, I didn’t hear anything from him. He was probably busy, or at home with his family. Or maybe, he didn’t get what he wanted, so I didn’t matter anymore. But then why would he have taken the time to apologize? There was a show coming up near me, so I would just wait to see him then.
When it came, he apologized again for what happened. I assured him it was okay. He asked if I had a boyfriend. I didn’t, never had. He seemed surprised, asking if something had happened when I was young. “No, nothing like that,” I said.
He asked with a grin if I was a virgin. I was.
We chatted a while more, and things seemed to be going back to normal. But then, somewhat randomly, he said, “You know, if you ever change your mind, I could be your teacher.” I didn’t even get it at first, but immediately sensed it was inappropriate. I just turned red and said, “No thanks.”
Back home again, I wasn’t doing well convincing myself everything was okay. I had so many questions, but he had already apologized, and I knew I should just drop it. I just didn’t understand why he would pick me. There had to be so many other willing women. I knew he was only human, but a lot of the respect and love I had for him was based on his family-man image. The perfect husband, the perfect father.
Did he cheat on his wife all the time? Was I the only one? Why had he accepted playing my dad, if this is what he wanted? He had to have known I wasn’t interested, why would he even try?
I started drinking, all the time. I couldn’t take all of the thoughts and questions in my head. I had self-harmed when I was younger, scratching my skin until it was raw. But this was a frustration I had never felt before. I started taking a knife, holding the blade over the flame of a candle. When it was hot, I pressed it into my arm, keeping it there until the pain stopped. Those few moments of intense pain were my only moments of relief.
I went to a show in [Location B] that August, almost a year from when I’d first met him. I brought two water bottles in my bag, filled with apple juice and vodka. I wanted to ask him my questions, I wanted to tell him how bothered I still was by what had happened. With a little alcohol in me, I wouldn’t be so scared to say what I was feeling.
We sat in lawn chairs by the bus. He saw some of the burn marks on my arm. “What the fuck is that?” he asked. He seemed mad. I wanted to tell him they were because of him, but I couldn’t. “I burn myself, you’ve never done anything like that?” I said, trying to be casual. He said he hadn’t, and seemed kind of disgusted with me.
I finished my first bottle. Any time I thought I would bring up what had happened, I took a drink instead. On the bus, I finished the second bottle, and was completely wasted. The room was spinning when it was time for the show to start. John left me a pass in case I decided I could make it, and left. I ran for the bathroom as soon as he was gone, and threw up.
I had fallen asleep when I heard the bus door open. I tried to sit up, but was still feeling a bit dizzy. “You missed the whole show!” John said. I groaned, “Sorry.” He laughed. I watched him go from window to window, pulling the shades down. I remember wondering why.
He got me a granola bar, and some water. He knelt down in front of me, and took off my shoes. Then he sat by me. And then he kissed me. I kissed him back, initially. He took off my shirt, and was on top of me. He grabbed at my chest while he continued to make out with me. A hand moved towards my crotch, his fingers once again trying to slip underneath my jeans. I didn’t let him. He said he just wanted to see how wet I was. I didn’t even know what that meant at the time.
At some point, I started to cry. He stopped and asked why. He seemed concerned, saying he hadn’t meant to upset me. I pointed to his wedding ring, and mumbled something about how this shouldn’t be happening. I don’t remember his response, but know it wasn’t long before he resumed groping me.
I drove back to my hotel that night, still a little buzzed. I got into my room, fell to the floor, and cried harder than I ever had. How could I have let this happen? The really sick part was that I didn’t actually hate it. But he was married, and I was disgusted with myself. Disgusted, embarrassed, and so deeply ashamed. What kind of person was I? And what kind of person was he? There was no doubt that he knew I didn’t want it – I’d already denied him once. He had apologized. He had said it would never happen again. He had seemed so sincere. Why would he do this to me?
The next few months are hard to remember. I drank a lot, and added in weed to my daily routine. Burning myself with the knife happened almost nightly. I would spend hours in the bath, crying like an imbecile, bong in one hand, and my knife in the other. One night while very drunk, I sent a message to his profile on the band’s website. I asked him why he had done this to me, said he had to know how it was affecting me. That I had already loved him so much, and the type of attention he was giving me was fucking with me in a major way. I told him that the marks on my arm were because of him.
I checked my messages in the morning. Nothing. I re-read the message I sent. It was embarrassingly dramatic, but said a lot of the things I wanted to say, so maybe it was good. I’d finally gotten it out. We’d have a real talk about all of this, it would all get better.
The day went on, and there was no response. I texted and said I’d sent a drunk message that he might want to read. He texted back almost right away, and just the sound of his ringtone calmed me down. But the message seemed angry. “I don’t know who reads that shit,” he said. Fuck. I should’ve known better. I was going to get him in trouble, and he was going to hate me forever.
That night, he finally texted back saying he’d read my message. “And…?” I asked. “You’re so cute,” he responded, with a bunch of smiley faces.
I was so relieved he didn’t hate me, I didn’t even consider bringing up the things I’d written. As long as he still loved me, and he said he did.
Still, I frequently texted him when drunk. Angrily asking why he would put me in this position. He would always respond by saying he didn’t know what I meant. Or that he never meant to upset me. His only intention was to make my time with him special. To give back the love I had shown him. He didn’t know I’d have such a hard time with it. He promised, “That line will NEVER be crossed again.”
The last show I ever attended was in [Location C]. It was January, and I brought him fudge and a bag of lighters – late Christmas gifts. It had been almost a year from the night in [Location A], and a year and a half since first meeting him. The night before, we hung out in his hotel room. We smoked pot, and watched one of the Saw movies.
When it ended, he asked if we were having another “sleepover.” My heart leapt to my throat. I knew that I shouldn’t. But he had promised. He had told me that line would never be crossed again. My arm was currently a raw, oozing mess. He knew it was this whole situation that had caused it, I’d told him in that drunken message. He would have to be truly evil to try something again, and the smile on his face was anything but evil. Once again, I made the mistake of trusting him.
I climbed into bed like I had in [Location A], still wearing my jeans and t-shirt. He offered me one of his shirts to sleep in. I said I was fine in the clothes I was in. He said he didn’t want me to be uncomfortable. Please, wouldn’t I just wear the shirt? I gave in, and went to change in the bathroom. The shirt was like a dress on me, but I still hopped into bed and hid my legs under the covers as quickly as I could. He laughed at me for keeping my socks on.
I laid down, and he laid behind me, putting his arm around me. Almost immediately, his hand moved toward my crotch. Rubbing, and pulling at my underwear. I was devastated. This was not going to happen again, not this time. I sat up. I was terrified, but I tried to stand my ground. I told him this wasn’t going to happen. He asked why. I mentioned his wife. He said I shouldn’t be the one to worry about her. It was his problem, not mine. I would never cross paths with his wife, he said, it wasn’t a big deal.
I asked if I should leave. “Please don’t,” he said. “That would make me so sad.” I was sitting with my knees to my chest, the shirt pulled over them.
He smiled at me, and asked if I’d at least sleep naked.
Inside, I was panicking, but I tried to laugh it off as I declined. He looked me in the eyes with a face I hadn’t seen before, but will remember forever. It was serious, intense. Kind of mean. His finger grazed my ass.
“Don’t you think you owe me at least that?”
I honestly don’t know what my response was. It would be weeks later before I would even remember him asking that question. I just blocked it out. I don’t remember if the conversation continued, or ended with that.
What I know is that I stayed. And if there’s anything in my life that I could go back and change – aside from ever meeting him in the first place – it would be not leaving his room that night. I go back to that night so many times. I tell him what a disgusting question that was. I tell him I don’t owe him anything. I get up, and I leave.
But I don’t have a time machine, and I didn’t leave. Instead, I remember trying to lighten the mood by laying back down, dramatically scooting all the way to the edge of the bed. He laughed, pulled me back against him, and put his arm around me. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt proud. Now, it was finally over.
My feelings had been all over the place. This whole situation had caused a lot of confusion in me. I’d begun to feel attracted to him, which was disgusting. More important than anything, he was married. I had allowed a horrible thing to happen, that drunken night in [Location B]. But not again. I had stood up for myself this time. I had stopped it from happening. I had told him “no.” Even when he tried to barter with me, I refused to cave. He hadn’t kicked me out, and he wasn’t upset. He knew where I stood, and he still wanted me around. I fell asleep overwhelmed with happiness, and relief.
Unfortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. I woke up to his hands on me, again. This time my underwear was already pulled back, and there was nothing separating his hands from my skin. I went to move his hands away, but they wouldn’t budge this time. I went to sit up, but instead he got on top of me. He pulled my underwear off the rest of the way, and went down on me. I laid back, frozen. What the fuck was happening?
I tried to push his head away, but his hands gripped my thighs tightly. It was at this point that I gave up. I laid there silently, letting it happen.
When he finished, he leaned over me. “You wanna try?” he asked.
Weakly, I whispered “no.” Without hesitation, he did it anyway. Again, I didn’t fight it. I just laid there. I just let him do it. It was kind of rough, but I had never had sex before. I didn’t know what I was supposed to expect. I don’t know how long it went on for, but it felt like an eternity. It was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, I told him he had to stop, I was too tired. He flipped me on my stomach.
Terrified, I thought he was going to put it up my ass. To my relief, he came on my back, and it was over. I was still wearing the shirt he’d had me borrow. He took it off of me, crumpled it up and tossed it on the ground. I just laid there, completely naked aside from my bra. He came and laid next to me. He ran his finger along my body. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked. I didn’t say anything. “And you look so good naked,” he said. I forced a smile.
The next morning, he laughed at me as I tried to stay wrapped up in the covers while getting dressed. “Oh, being all modest now, are we?” “Yep,” I said.
He went out to get us coffees from the hotel lobby. I laid on the couch, staring at whatever was on the TV. There wasn’t a thought in my head. I couldn’t even register what had happened. When he returned, John came up next to me, and grabbed at my crotch through my jeans. While he groped me, he said something about how he couldn’t wait for “round two.” That if it was up to him, we’d be doing it right now. After all, I’d been a virgin, and there had been no blood.
He joked that his dick was too small (perhaps the truest words he ever spoke). “We’ll get it next time,” he said. I didn’t know who it was “up to” at the moment, but I was glad it wasn’t him. I certainly wasn’t ready to do that again, or ever. I hadn’t wanted it in the first place. He kissed me before I left his room, his tongue in my mouth. I tried, awkwardly, to kiss him back. I’d let this happen, and all I could do now was pretend I was okay with it.
I went back to my own room and took a shower. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, with my eyes closed. I felt something run down my legs, and looked to see a large clot of blood go down the drain. Blood continued to streak down my legs. I started sobbing, and spent the rest of the day trying to sleep, feeling sick to my stomach.
At the meet-and-greet, John smiled big when he saw me. I smiled back. We hugged, and took a picture. The show was incredible; I was sure it was the best he’d ever done. His voice was more beautiful than it’d ever been. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.
But as always, reality set in after being home for a while. The bleeding that had started in the shower that morning lasted for a week. My actual period came late, but not before I took my first pregnancy test, which was thankfully negative. I burned myself constantly. I was never sober. I didn’t talk at work, to anyone. I spent my time there thinking of ways I could kill myself when I got home. I thought I was in love with him, which was sickening. I had allowed him to sleep with me.
There was no fixing it now. I had no self-worth – maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just be one of those groupies you hear about. Maybe it didn’t matter that he was married. He obviously was going to cheat either way. Why not be selfish, why not take whatever “love” he was willing to offer me?
I knew I couldn’t do it though. Anytime I tried to tell myself I could, I couldn’t stop thinking about his wife. I wrote letter after letter to her, apologizing for what I had done. I never sent them. Maybe it was better that she didn’t know. But I felt so guilty. I still feel so guilty. How could I have done that to her? I didn’t deserve to be happy. I didn’t deserve to live. I was a walking pile of human filth.
I would keep in touch with John for almost a year, through random text fights. I’d let it build up, and then I’d text him, telling him how disgusted I was. That he had promised it wouldn’t happen again. He would assure me it wasn’t his intention. He thought I wanted it. I had kissed him back. He only wanted to show me how loved and cherished I was. He told me about things that had happened to him when he was a child; that he would never want to put someone else through those things. We were both adults. This was nothing like that.
I could tell he was angry I’d even suggest that he’d done anything wrong. He would talk me down every time, and I always forgave him. But I never went to see him again. I still wasn’t sure what had happened, but I knew I couldn’t trust his saying it wouldn’t happen again. I didn’t know if it was his fault or mine. I didn’t know who to blame for the anguish I was feeling. But I couldn’t lie to myself anymore that it would ever get better. Everything I had ever loved was gone. It had all been for nothing. I was such an idiot.
I started waking up in the middle of the night, freezing, but dripping with sweat. All my dreams were nightmares, and in all of them, I was being raped. I would end up seeing a psychiatrist to try and cope with whatever it was I’d been through. I was on medication for a couple years. One for anxiety, one to stabilize my mood, one for sleep. There were other pills along the way, which I don’t remember the purpose of. I didn’t care, I took whatever I was given.
I felt raped in my mind, and in my heart. But I didn’t have a gun to my head. I didn’t fight it. I had just laid there. Was this just regret? Was this just a terrible mistake I’d made, and didn’t want to take responsibility for?
I stated over and over I had no interest in what he was offering. But I kept coming back. What counts more, my words, or my actions?
I tried to accept the blame, but I kept hearing him ask me to sleep naked, telling me I owed it to him. Straight to his face, I’d told him I was not okay with what he was trying to do. But he had laid there, waiting for me to fall asleep, so he could do it anyway. I remembered him asking me if I wanted to “try,” and knowing for a fact that I said “no.”
When I look back on the situation now, I feel like he knew – from the moment he saw me – that I would make for an easy target, that I was the perfect fool to play with. I think he picked me, because he knew he could trust me not to tell. I think he picked me, because he knew I couldn’t say “no” to him.
Of course, even when I did say it, it made no difference.
It’s been almost a decade since I last saw him. I don’t think about it every day like I used to, I’m as over it as I can be. But sometimes, one of his songs will come on the radio at work. If I can leave the room before he starts singing, I do. If not, I hold back the tears. I feel shaky, I get clammy, sometimes nauseated. I get incredibly angry. I want to scream. I hate that fucking man with everything I have.
I started writing this because I wanted to expose him. I wanted everyone to know what a true piece of shit he is. But in writing it, in reliving it, I still feel like I should carry most of the responsibility for what happened. To out him would be to out myself, and I’m too ashamed of the idiotic, irresponsible, and foolish choices I made to end up where I did. I had every opportunity to put an end to it, and I didn’t until it was too late. I don’t believe that frees him of any wrongdoing, but I don’t feel I have the right to claim I was nothing but a helpless victim. I think I was a stupid girl, who made stupid choices, and learned a very difficult lesson. Was such a harsh lesson deserved? I don’t know. But I know I’ll certainly never end up in such a situation again.
I now have a wonderful husband, who is everything I once believed John to be. The perfect husband, and the perfect father. I feel undeserving, at times, given my past. I don’t know how I could’ve allowed such awful things to happen, and then be given the life I live now. At the very least, I think it’s taught me to appreciate what I have, much more than I would’ve had none of this happened.
And that’s pretty much where this story ends. No point, no lesson, no justice. Just my pathetic self, still as confused as ever. For me, the story really has no end. It just viciously repeats itself over and over in my head, begging for some kind of closure. I guess I’m hoping sharing this will give me a sense of that, even if I’m not sure why.
So, that’s it, I guess.
Published as written, with light proofreading and line break adjustment.
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