I’m finally in therapy for what you did to me. I spent all 15 of
those years, until now, convinced (by you) that it was my fault, but
the fact remains: I was 12 when it began, and you were well into your
20s. Not long after my therapist and I argued whether or not I am
indeed a victim, I remembered some pretty fucked up things that
occurred. How you were always volunteering for youth-group trips, and
when the bus would get dark at night, you always managed to sit right
next to me. I remembered the graphic sexual acts you used to describe
on the phone to me late at night, that you wanted to do to me. (Most of
the time I had no idea what you were talking about.) Barely 13, I
rolled over to you on your huge bed after losing my virginity to you
and whispered, “I love you,” and you laughed at me and told me not to
confuse love with admiration. I remember everyone commenting every
Sunday on how adorable you and the preacher’s daughter looked together,
and what a great young couple you made. And now I’m a grown woman,
incapable of psychologically separating sex from abandonment, intimacy
from shame, relationships from disaster, and spirituality from
victimization. And you are somewhere in the Midwest, I hear, still
waving your arms to the congregation, keeping perfect time and perfect
pitch for hundreds of faithful souls.