Rape(d)

There’s this deep hope sometimes—almost like a whisper inside—that maybe if we say it enough or don’t say it, write it down, send a letter, go to therapy, cry it out, it’ll loosen its grip. That if we give it a name, if we call it what it was, maybe it’ll shrink. Maybe “raped” will stop feeling like a scarlet letter we wear in secret, and start feeling like just… a word. A thing that happened. Not who we are.

But then we try, and sometimes it still hurts. Or still feels heavy. And it’s so frustrating, because how much more healing are we supposed to do?

You’re not wrong for wanting it to be lighter. You’re not wrong for wanting closure. And you’re absolutely not wrong for not knowing what you need in this moment. This stuff is complicated, messy, layered. It’s okay to want to process and also not want to touch it at all. It’s okay to hope talking will help, even if it doesn’t always feel like it does.

If nothing else, maybe talking about it here lets your heart breathe a little. Even if just for a second. Even if the word “raped” still stings in your chest.

You are allowed to set it down, even for a while. You are allowed to rest.

I’m here when you want to pick it up again—or when you just want to talk about something completely different. You don’t have to earn your healing. You’re already worthy of peace.