Brianne L.
Photography by Aneesa Wermers
Please note: In this letter, the author talks about emotional abuse in relationships, suicidal ideation, as well as sexual assault. If you feel like this will trigger you, please take a look at any of the other letters on IfYoureReadingThis.org. If you find yourself relating to anything in the author’s experience, please also feel free to reach out to her via the Author Contact feature.
If you're reading this, you didn't deserve any of that.
My life is a series of events that I bring upon myself. The emotional abuse and the night of the assault both tell different stories with the same lesson. If I had just been a better person, less rageful and emotional, if I had not gone over to his place that night, and if I could just get it together, none of these things would have happened to me, right?
My parents did their best to raise me as a healthy young woman, strong enough to withstand the abuse thrown at me as a woman of color in America, a child of immigrants. But in that process, did they break me?
He sure seemed to think so. He saw me as a broken individual, no matter how much I tried to tell him that my depression, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm had made me stronger than most. He thought that because I had a mother who was emotionally abusive, he could do the same to me.
I remember when I realized that he had been gaslighting me for eight months. It was three days after the breakup, and it hit me softly at first. Then, all of a sudden, it hit me like a wave. I was struggling to stand up, but the sand was slipping from beneath my feet, being pulled away by the tide. Maybe I wasn’t crazy.
Maybe my therapist was right this whole time when she said that he was incapable of dealing with emotions. But wait. I must be crazy, right? I was a crazy bitch who had no control over her anger, who had uncontrollable rage.
The questions kept flooding in until I went to my research meeting, where I was a research assistant in a study that was trying to find a way to define “gaslighting.” That’s where I realized that I related a little too hard to the woman whose boyfriend convinced her that she had bipolar disorder; just three months ago, had I not called Katie sobbing, telling her that I thought I had borderline personality disorder because I had gotten into yet another fight with him? He had made me hate myself for having the ability to feel emotions and express them. Baby, you didn’t deserve that.
Not even a month after the breakup. December 15th, 2021. I finally was able to go out to bars without feeling guilty or wondering what he was doing. At one of these bars is where I met Alex With the Nice Apartment. The first time was emotionless. I fist-bumped him after. The second time was unexpected, and the third time was when he kept going after I told him “no.”
“It’s finally happening. Just be quiet and wait for it to be over.”
I remember the exact moment I realized it was happening, but I don’t remember anything after that. My brain protected me from the pain I would feel if I remembered exactly what it felt like to be raped, to be turned into a mere statistic. He was so nice to me afterward as if he knew what he had done. That was the first time he and I had a real conversation. And that’s how he fooled me. That’s how he tricked me into forgetting about the rape until 9:52 a.m. the following morning. Hiding in the corner of the library, whispering to Katie on the phone, stifling a sob.
“Katie, I think I was raped last night.” “Katie, if I hadn’t gone over to his place, none of this would have happened.” “Katie, maybe I just didn’t say no loud enough.” “Katie, this is what I get for being a whore.”
Baby, you didn't deserve that. Stop telling yourself that you deserved that.
Brianne L., Boston College
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