An Open Letter to my Assailant, Once Known as Friend
June 27, 2015, 8:53 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized


I cannot imagine a more mundane way to begin this expression. It has been almost 13 years since the night that you violated significantly more than the body I know as my home; you violated my trust, the sacred grace extended to you from one being to another. It has done damage to extents that my mind cannot conceive of, but then again, the dimensions this damage exists in is the not the territory of the mind, but of the heart, soul, spirit, whatever word you might wish to use to indicate the essential magic of creation, of Being. The antithesis of this, the violation of your own body’s creative forces to reach out in violence to mine- burning my skin with your seeds- is what hurts the most, the poison spread of some pain you could not contend with and in your defeat to accept it succeeded only in scarring me with it.

I am prideful, something you might know from having once worn the mantle of friend, and as such I am loathe to admit the amount of sorrow, pain, grief, torment, terror and abject despair that has been the physiological reaction of my system to your action. I have wished you were dead more times than I would ever care to remember. I hate it wishing such a thing. I hate even more knowing you are alive in the world somewhere; and that’s why I’m writing this now: you are not only alive in the world some-where, you are alive in Oakland, in my community, something that has only recently been revealed to me.

I read your staff bio, the one where you are celebrated in the place that gave you access to me, an access you abused, and got chills thinking you were around other young women now the same age as I was then, only now you’re not an awkward teenager, you’re an adult with authority. I now know Hell. I cannot imagine what might make you return, here, there. I have to wonder if it is an act of repentance or of indulgence, a return to restore or to ravage. I cannot know and this is what the pain feeds on, not knowing if you ever believed you did anything wrong that night, not knowing if you are out there, here, even now, doing it again. I want to hope that you are not but, unfortunately, that part of me died on your parent’s couch when you shoved your dick in my mouth, when not even my teeth got through to some kind of goodness in you.

I want to blame you, as an individual, but then I would not be being very fair to myself; it is not who I am to be so short-sighted. You are a product, no less than I, of a world that has little love of brown girls. You knew it and I knew it, the equation I’d have to compute of the costs vs. the benefits of calling the police to the Berkeley hills where you, a white appearing, cis, male would be in the company of me, an obviously black, gender ambivalent person, both incredibly drunk and under scrutiny. The costs vs. the benefits of bringing the school we both attended and where you are now employed into it as a space of homogenous privilege which I no longer occupied and only ever tenuously “belonged”, a feeling of mine you knew all too well as someone with whom I’d shared my reality with.

You are a product of internalized hate & disgust, of fear and violence; and you are no victim. YOU ARE ACCOUNTABLE. It was your choice to act as violence; and you are no victim. YOU ARE ACCOUNTABLE. It was your choice to act as you did, no one else’s; I need you to know that. I need you to know that I know what you’re up against and I know that you failed to be better than it. YOU ARE ACCOUNTABLE. I know your shame, and self-loathing, and confusion, and anger, and frailty, and fear; I know all of these things because I am human and a loving enough one to understand you as such, despite the evidence to the contrary. This does nothing to change the fact that YOU ARE ACCOUNTABLE for supplying me with that evidence.

At home that night I cried. I cried more than I think I’ve ever cried for anything, the deaths of friends, the witnessing of tragedy. I cried for my dreams of loving relationship, cried for the desperate desire I had to step out of my skin so I could clean it thoroughly before using it again, cried for the years of recovery I knew would come, cried for all the people who knew my pain because it was theirs too. And I cried for you. Cried for the part of you that had been so disfigured, so tortured and devoid of life that you would do what you did. I didn’t believe and still do not believe that anyone would act as such without unfathomable destruction having visited their Being. I cried because although I was hurt I was alive, and you were not, and until that point you had been someone I cared about and so I mourned YOU, mourned and dirged for the death of humanity in you.

When I stopped crying I didn’t cry again for a very long time, a very long time. See, you aren’t special, the poison you carry doesn’t care about its host, it cares only about itself. I was infected by it and the love in me began to isolate and freeze, my compassion congealing as all my internal efforts went into the maintenance of a failing empire of innocence that was no longer viable. I could no longer enjoy intimacy as it seemed merely a tool for hunters to find their prey.  I could no longer relax in friendship for what does it mean when its terms can be violated without a backwards glance? I could no longer enjoy transparency because that poison is everywhere and I am wise enough to know it would take any chance it could to attack me again, to rally its forces from both inside and out in the form of victim blaming, character inquisition, and the destruction of my privacy.

My pride again wants me to say that these things are all past tense, but that would not be truthful, just like saying anything other than both that I was attracted to you and wasn’t interested in sexual contact with you because I was in a relationship and would have been out of integrity with my beliefs in human loyalty. The truth is that I still struggle almost every day to feel the things that froze in me; its hard, harder than you will ever be. You’re not the only sick person in the world, most of us are too well adjusted to this sick society and I have many places in myself that need care and attention for healing. What I hope is that you are more like me than my brain wants to consider in being that you have done your work because I’ve sure as shit done mine.

There are no methods for quantifying the amount of effort I’ve put into healing. None. The human mind is conditioned to not consider things of such an infinite nature, it is conditioned to stop at what it can control. The time, the money, the energy, the faith, none of these things can be quantified for easy containment within the consciousness of another, and ultimately, at least as far as the purposes of this expression are concerned, that fact is irrelevant; what is is that I’ve done it. And this is where and what I will leave you with, a question: what have You done?

It’s an inquiry of many dimensions and stands on its own three feet in all of them, what have YOU done? Past: what do you understand of the impacts of sexually assaulting a friend, a human, a creation of God? Present: what are you doing now; denying from it, avoiding it, owning it, working for peace? Future: what have you done to do better, to Be better? My own masochism and never ending desire for understanding and truth in the human experience feeds a morbid curiosity to want to know how you would answer these questions were we face to face. Another me knows we might not be face to face for long for I’d be liable to rip yours off and offer it to maggots in a gesture of radical solidarity. It is better this way, to use words to cut away whatever remaining karmic bonds that may tie us, that have brought the ghost named You back into my awareness.

In the present-progressive I know you, or better said your intent, as instrument, unintentional ally, shadow which illuminates my brilliance. As a force in my world you are held as deadness, an expired thing, no longer of service, somatic rot that will continue to be broken down and re-purposed. You, person- presumably-, do not exist. What avatar of yours I encountered and felt feelings for as a young person has been deleted; I will be no horcrux for the lost pieces of your soul. The most I can offer- and I must offer something for we live in a cause and effect universe, and for there to be no return of impact is to violate the laws of Nature- is Nothing, absolutely No-Thing-ness.

I will not pity, scorn, violate, accept, condemn, or consider you, or even the idea of you. You will be no thing deserving of any energies from me; you Are no thing deserving of any energies from me. You never were. “Oh, but obviously you’re angry to say such things!” you might retort; and oh yes, I am. But my anger isn’t for you, it’s for me for having ever cast my pearls before swine.

Here, now, is where I leave you to find fecundity in the shit pile you know as Self.



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