These days, I hesitate to say much about what exactly happened between John Doe and me. I have been told by people that I’ve made a fuss about nothing, thus compounding the trauma of hurt with the trauma of feeling like a crybaby. I don’t chronicle the rape, because to do so feels like testifying before the reader, who is judge and jury, and I have had enough nightmares about inept and poorly received testimony to try. No one has to believe me when I say that it was bad, but I refuse to give the public that kind of ammunition in the first place. I keep it to myself now: the shine of the
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