a letter to jane, a letter i won't send, writing letters for therapy, this stuff is golden, scottish blogger, uk blogger, mental health blogger, sexual abuse survivor,

A Letter To Jane

trigger warning: sexual assault, rape


Jane, Jane, Jane.

I saw your profile on LinkedIn, immediately felt uneasy. Removed and blocked, to stop the temptation of contacting you. It would only end in more pain and upset.

My counsellor suggested that I do this, write to you. Not to send it necessarily, but to get a bit of closure.

We stood by each other for so long Jane. So long. I know it was a somewhat toxic friendship but I put that aside. We did have some good times. I cried when you moved away for university. I missed you a tonne.

I cried almost equal amounts about the destruction of our friendship and about the fact that I was raped. I’m still shocked at your behaviour that night and the following few days. You asked me if I was sure I had said “no”. How fucking dare you. I called you out on it because guess what Jane, I was too drunk to give consent, and when I say I was raped, I’m not fucking lying. What could I possibly gain from lying?

I ignored your texts and calls whilst I was spending an exhausting and arduous 20 hours with police officers and medical professionals, being prodded physically and mentally. And you had the audacity, the fucking audacity, to tell me a week later that I had “ruined your holiday” for saying that you victim-blamed me (which you did).

And then you blocked me.

That was guilt, Jane. Pure guilt. You had done so much wrong to me that you couldn’t face it. I don’t blame you for what happened, but I could never forgive you for how you treated me afterwards.

But you weren’t there for me Jane. You left. You left that pub. You said you searched for me, but honestly I don’t believe you. He hadn’t taken me that far. 5 minutes walk at most from the pub (I remember because the next day I had to walk around the area whilst accompanied by two police officers, trying to identify where the crime had taken place).

Your fucking phone was off! Fucking off! I was alone, in a part of London unfamiliar to me, and you just left me to it. You assumed I had gone off to have sex with this man who had been talking to us for less than an hour. You assumed that that was normal behaviour of me? As if I would ever leave a place without telling the person I was with first. As if, Jane. As fucking if.

I was sat, outside that pub, my black-out just clearing, and shock hit me so hard. So hard I was wailing, absolutely petrified. Couldn’t make sense of what had just happened to me, didn’t understand why you weren’t there, no idea how I was going to make it home.

And guess what? I was the one that called you the next day.

You were just a lazy, self-absorbed, selfish fake-friend. I should never have held onto our friendship for so long.

Fuck you for getting the last word. Fuck you for leaving me. Fuck you for not being there for me.

*= name changed

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this stuff is golden, this stuff is golden blog, mental health blogger, scottish blogger,
trigger warning: sexual abuse, assault, rape

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