Dear ex boyfriends, lovers, et al,

I have some things to say that might be hard for you to hear, but I can’t hold them and not speak about them anymore. 

Your lack of listening hurt me. And it bothers me that you let the words “calm down,” “too emotional,” and “not logical,” negate my communications with you because I wouldn’t practice the inhumanity of suppressing my feelings. 

In our many fits of passion together you asked me what I liked, how did I want to be touched? When I told you, you humored me for a minute or two but quickly went back to whatever it was you thought I should want because it got you what you wanted. It’s not that I allowed this behavior from you or that your actions were somehow my fault. You did what you wanted on top of my requests. 

I’m angry that our sexual life together skewed to favor your body and disregard mine. Together we mowed over my requests and needs because, as the person with the vulva, I was taught that anything yours mattered more. 

To those of you who have claimed that you want to “protect women,” I don’t need your protection or your projection. I need you to look within and ask why you think “women” need “protecting” in the first place? Stop putting that on us please. 

To the young college classmate who laid on my bed, unzipped your pants and begged me to kiss it, please kiss it, come on, and when I refused asked me to at least touch it with my hand, I hope you’ve since learned how to pleasure yourself. 

To the supposed friend who whipped your dick out while we were watching a movie, we were friends, not lovers. I never wanted to see your penis and I still regret that I did. You violated me and our friendship. 

To the several guys who agreed when I said I only wanted friendship but who nonetheless crawled into my bed anyway, I hope you’ve learned how to read a room and respect boundaries. 

To the coworker at the restaurant who ran up behind me and slapped my ass with a serving tray and then made fun of me in front of everyone and laughed when I yelled at you and told you never to do that again, it wasn’t funny and I’m not the one who can’t take a joke. Violation and disregard aren’t funny, I hope you’ve learned this. 

To the ex who wasn’t attracted to me unless I was wearing sexy panties and who called me selfish when I requested we change it up sometimes so my skin wouldn’t chafe while we had sex, choosing your fetish over my well-being erased my humanity and was crushing to survive. 

To all of my friends’ husbands who have raped your wives in the middle of the night when you come home drunk, I see you and I know what you did. My friend shouldn’t have to call surviving ongoing rape her “marriage.” The staggering number of you that I know fills me with contempt for all of you and I can barely look you in the eye you piece of shit assholes. I keep the peace because your wife isn’t ready to leave her marriage yet but I want you to know I am unabashedly on her side in every way, no matter the circumstance. I also want you to know that the best I hope for you is that your wife leaves her marriage. And please understand, that if you ran full speed into a cast iron frying pan that was, for some strange reason, floating in your kitchen at the height of your skull because she just couldn’t take the gaslighting and surviving anymore, I wouldn’t be sad. Because I am kind, I would hope that in your life review after your death that you got to understand the harm left by your actions and that you took this learning with you into your next life. But also, fuck you for raping my friends over and over and over again. 

To the guy who held your hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream when you climbed on top of me to make out in the tent when we were teens, fuck you. Me not screaming wasn’t me consenting. 

To the guy whose bed I passed out drunk in and woke up being penetrated by, fuck you. You raped me. And though it took me years to find this memory and I can’t remember your name, and I blamed myself for getting drunk and “falling asleep” in your bed, you didn’t have to do it. You could’ve chosen to not rape me. 

And finally, to the spiritual and meditating elderly man I knew who told me that people with vulvas were more primed for enlightenment and should therefore delay their own spiritual advancement to help the men around them become enlightened, to help them carry the burden of being a man, FUCK YOU. Fuck your enlightenment and fuck your subsequent subject change to my telling you to do better. Just fuck you. 

My culture taught me that my interactions with all of you could’ve been mitigated if I’d just been a better referee. But my job has never been to manage the education or ignorance of every single person with a penis who happens to be in my orbit, be it intimate or peripheral. Do you know what’s strange? There’s still a voice in my head that says if I just could’vewould’veshould’ve had more compassion for you all and sat in the fire with you longer, educated you, helped you, etc that things would be different. I don’t know whose voice is saying those stupid things and I no longer care because I can finally hear the sound of my own voice inside me. 

Now that I’m in my fifth decade of life, established in my sexuality, in love with the person I’ve become, I have a request. I request that you take these big heartbreaks I’ve shared deep inside you and hold them there, maybe even caress them with your insides, even if you can only handle it for a few minutes. Even if all you can take is just the tip of them at the entrance of yourself, that would be okay with me, as long as what I’ve shared penetrates and you do something with it. I held your shit for so long this seems like the next step towards repair, doesn’t it? I smoothed over our experiences together and forgave you so that I could live my life and we could remain friends and now it’s your turn. Let my words and my stories break your heart as they’ve broken mine, please. Maybe once this happens we can all heal. And maybe then we can begin to give a good death to our rape culture. 

To my younger selves who were told over and over again that reality wasn’t reality, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t affirm you or rescue you sooner. I’m sorry that his rolling over and falling asleep deflated our own passion and that it never occurred to us to jerk off in bed next to him or go to the bathroom to finish. I’m sorry I couldn’t name the assaults and rape when they happened. I’m sorry we had to survive those experiences. I’m sorry I didn’t catch every single time you knew the truth but it didn’t end up mattering. I failed you but I didn’t fail you on purpose. 

Now that I’ve found you, my younger selves, I want you to know that I believe you, all of you. I promise I will never shut down your emotions or wisdom again. I’m here to hold the space for you to cry and feel your level-headed and logical rage, and together we can go as deep as we need to into our ocean of feeling. 

If it helps, I brought you some matches and gasoline, so that you can set fire to all the things that need to burn. I also have this cast iron skillet here that I’ve been saving for some occasion or other if you need to swing it and hit some things. And I will be here when you’re finished to hold you, comfort you, and cherish you. I understand that your actions weren’t bad and that you didn’t “get yourself into tricky situations” but that you were determined to create a life worth living, a life worth adventuring within. I celebrate you for not wanting to merely survive but to live.

I’m sorry for all the ways I denied you. I won’t do it again. Please forgive me. And if you can’t forgive me I understand. I will be here anyway, cheering you on for creating the life I get to live in now. And I will continue to be more and more madly in love with you. I love you. 

In love,

Emily 

Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash

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