A rapist and the woman he attacked explore that dark chapter in their lives I don't know how to reply.
I want to call myself sick (but I know I am not), I want to ray ban glasses 2016 say that you are so strong, so strong to be able to write to me and recall the events and my actions. I want to thank you for not hating me, although I'd like you to. It would make it easier for me. Without looking for a scratch of sympathy, I want to tell you that the events and emotions I was party to in Iceland have replayed in lenses ray ban my head many times, usually when I am by myself for any length of time. They flash past me, vividly accurate, and then, shortly after the denial and positive character reinforcement, comes the question: 'Who am I?' It is a dark part of my memory. I've tried to suppress it. My heart beats fast, in sync with the blinking cursor on the computer screen. My fingers tremble slightly as I type the name of my hometown into the empty field: Place radius by location name: Reykjavk, Iceland. Radius: 11,000km. Enter. Without delay, the United States, Europe, and nearly all of Asia are covered in a green layer, along with most of South America and Africa apart from their southernmost peninsulas. Inhaling deeply, I delete Reykjavk from the field. After a moment of hesitation, I write the name of his hometown: Sydney, Australia. Radius: 11,000km. Enter. Another green layer covers the opposite part of the world: the southernmost peninsula of Africa and South America, along with Southeast Asia. Fear gives way to curiosity, and I lean closer to the computer screen, fascinated. I knew we lived worlds apart, but it's still remarkable to have it confirmed this graphically. Between the green layers is a thin strip on the world map, right in the middle between him and me. It nudges the toe of South Africa before arching across the Atlantic and South America where it embraces parts of Uruguay, Argentina, and Chile. Zooming in, I read the names of the cities in question. With clammy hands, I click back to the window with the half written email. I suggest we meet up in Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Santiago After pausing to hold my breath for a second, I add: or Cape Town. THE PAST When I was 16, my idea of sexual assault was of something that took place in dark alleys and was carried out by knife wielding psychopaths. I'd watched enough TV that I didn't question the stereotype. When it came crumbling down in my head later, and I realised that I had indeed been raped, my perpetrator was already on the other side of the planet, leaving me with the only option of bottling up my pain. It came at a cost. At the age of 25, after nine years of keeping up appearances and suffering in silence, I hit rock bottom. I'd struggled with eating disorders, alcohol, and self harm. Despite my shining achievements, I didn't trust my judgment after having it fail so horribly in my first relationship. This led me to doubt everything: my career choices, my romantic choices, my self worth. I was at war with the world, never really sure who the enemy was. As my past was still a secret that I didn't trust anyone with, I found myself increasingly channelling my grievances into writing. Diaries turned into poetry that transformed into plays, and, before long, I was making a name for myself as a playwright. It was nothing short of liberating to make up ray ban pas cher characters that were free to speak all the words that I myself choked on. And everybody respected it as art, so I wasn't bothered with uncomfortable questions, either. Simply put, it was perfect. Or as close to perfect as any profession could be for the deeply divided person that I was at the time. Regardless of my inner turmoil (or rather, because of it), my repertoire grew rapidly and my career started to take off. In May 2005, I received an invitation to attend a distinguished conference in Australia for the world's most promising young playwrights. I went cold. The country of his residence the man who had violated me when I was 16. A wild hope was born. Could this be a chance to step out of my cage and make him own up to his crime? My heart backed into the innermost corner of my chest, scarred from a previous time when I'd tried to word out my past with disastrous results. I collapsed into my office chair and spent days staring at my computer screen, weighing my options. Finally, I mustered the willpower to fire off an email: a short and polite explanation of how I was visiting his homeland in July, followed by the question of whether he'd be available to see me during my stay. Nervously pacing around my apartment, I envisioned everything from his grateful acceptance to his outright rejection, settling for the likeliest possibility of getting no response whatsoever. After all, it'd been almost a decade since he came to Iceland as an exchange student and he could very well have changed his email address. To my relief, his account turned out to be active, but once I clicked on his reply with trembling, nicotine stained fingers, my relief shifted to sharp disappointment. As he was living on the other side of the country and was stuck with work obligations, he ray ban 3190 explained he couldn't see me. The courage and hope came wheezing out of my deflated heart. That was it. I'd have to surrender to the cage. Unbeknownst to me, my subconscious started rattling the bars.
A few weeks later, I wandered into a cafe on a dreary afternoon, sobbing and reeling after a fight with a loved one. I asked the waitress for a pen while digging a small notebook out of my bag, hoping that doodling in it would calm my nerves. To my surprise, I watched the doodles cohere into letters that in turn became sentences, and shaped themselves into the most pivotal letter I've ever written, addressed to my perpetrator.
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