How to hold your abuser to account
by Laura Hendy
Photo by Pixabay for Pexels
TW: PTSD, sexual abuse, assault / CW: Strong language
Hi, reader.
If you're here, I presume you have already stumbled across my first great literary masterpiece, the letter entitled 'To the humanitarian who sexually abused me'. Well, now I’m going to explain how I wrote it. And then you’re going to write yours.
Has what happened to you confused you? Has your denial and shame tortured you? Have you been terrified of accepting your truths and of ever admitting them to another person? Have you borne the burden of feeling responsible for everybody else’s feelings, and allowed that to silence you, to isolate you? Have you been exhausted by your entrapment within paralysing fear or seething hatred towards the abuser?
Have you ever wondered how you will ever move on from the injustice of what happened to you? How you will allow yourself to go back to what you enjoyed and cared about before, without feeling like all of this has been for nothing? How you will feel empowered again when the abuser has not been held accountable by our pathetic legal system, or the enablers around them?
Don’t worry, #MeToo.
I was stuck within these questions for far too long. Right up until writing my letter, my entire life was completely dictated by a desperate search for the answers. But looking back, I can see I had no real chance of finding them. Because this is where I made the biggest mistake of my entire recovery journey; I attempted to deny my anger as I was scared to feel the full force of it. I didn't know yet what I know now, that anger is an incredible gift if we know how to use it.
So, I’m going to explain to you how I finally found the courage to feel my anger, and use it to demand the accountability I deserved in my great literary masterpiece. For me, this was the start of answering all of those questions for good, leaving this mess behind me, and handing over any remaining clean-up to the person who is truly responsible for it. I went first, but I reckon you won’t be far behind me.
*
Our lesson starts with the great humanitarian plot twist. Now, you may be expecting that I felt particularly angry at this point. It would certainly have been valid. My therapist was expecting it too, and reminded me that this is how I would protect myself from the frightening memories and torturous self-critical thoughts that were swirling around my head. I knew he was right, and yet I just couldn’t find the strength to do it. Instead, I decided to ‘choose to not be an angry person’, that I was ‘finished’, and ready to ‘move on’. I stopped going to therapy altogether and launched headfirst into a little thing I like to call, rock bottom. And this time I was completely unsupervised by a mental health professional. It was epic.
I began my new unsupervised life by repeatedly telling myself that everybody has their battles and injustices they have to face, this simply happens to be mine, and it was time to ‘be happy’. Funnily enough, this didn’t work. Instead of working through my anger, I was denying my right to feel it in order to avoid the pain I thought it would bring. And so my wounded inner 15-year-old became more desperate to be heard. And to silence her, my thoughts became nastier. I told myself that I was self-absorbed, wallowing, choosing to be miserable, I was stuck in the past and if only I was less stubborn or stupid or better at recovery, I would have moved on by now. I told myself I must be a lost cause if after an entire year of therapy, I had not been ‘fixed’. That I didn’t deserve to afford therapy when other people couldn’t, so my continuing ‘brokenness’ in spite of this unearned privilege must be yet more evidence of my entitlement and my worthlessness to the world.
As per, my nasty inner critic had shown up to protect me from pain, and yet again, it had only added more self-hatred. I was convinced everyone around me thought all of these nasty things about me as well, despite no one ever saying such a thing. Can you see where this is going? The paranoia of this fun new insecurity, mixed with the continuing hypervigilance, and the anger that was desperately trying to break out, did a real number on me. And so the spiral into the darkest months of my life had begun…
We’re talking: new forms of self-destructive behaviour that I hadn’t even seen before, suicidal ideation 24/7, compulsively trauma-dumping onto poor unsuspecting friends, calling the Samaritans every few days, far more crying fits in parks than is socially acceptable. Constant hypervigilance, seeing him everywhere I went. Complete inability to calm myself down enough to sleep more than one hour at a time or to concentrate at work. Boxing until my hands bled, running into innocent bystanders in the park because I couldn’t comprehend the injustice of them not moving out of my way. An all-consuming self-hatred and just an all-round foul mood. All while believing the party line that ‘this is just stress’, that ‘I am not an angry person’.
I soldiered on for six months, until the suicidal thoughts became so persistent and so vivid that I had to return to a new therapist with my tail between my legs. Luckily for all involved, she saw what was happening within a few sessions. I was…angry! Fucking finally! This elusive emotion that everyone had been telling me about had finally shown up. I felt like I’d gotten my first period. I didn’t know what was going on with my body, and an older, wiser woman had to explain it to me.
I sobbed as I realised she was right, and admitted I was desperately trying to avoid all of my anger; I was convinced that if I leaned into it, it would never subside, and I would become a resentful and miserable person forever. I couldn’t change what had been done to me, and I believed there was no possibility of finding accountability in a society that refuses to prosecute sexual violence, even when it is reported straight away, and even when the victim has far less confusion and self-blame than I had. I believed my anger had nowhere to go and nothing to do; it was making me feel pathetic, helpless, worthless; a real triple threat.
The wise old therapist smiled, and asked if I knew the difference between anger and rage. She explained that ‘anger is an outburst, that you’re not in control of. You can’t use it for anything productive. I understand why this makes you feel powerless. But rage is something different. Rage is when you gather your anger, into a hot, seething force inside of you, that you have control over, that you can use to get what you want. Rage is power.’
*
In my desperation, I decided to humour her. Over the next few weeks, I finally welcomed my anger. Whenever it came, instead of bullying myself out of it, I would sit with it, validate it, and allow myself to express it in words. And one night, while I was in my usual spot, i.e. watching episode after episode of MasterChef from my depression sofa, I felt it. This wasn't anger; I no longer wanted to scream and shout at everyone and everything. Instead I felt a white-hot, burning fire of empowerment within me, and I became eerily quiet. Not calm, but resolved, determined. THIS was rage! I paused Greg and John, rose from the sofa in silence, walked upstairs, closed my bedroom door, and I wrote my literary masterpiece.
This letter doesn't feel powerless or pathetic or 'victimy' or bitter or hopeless as I had feared, but raw, honest, agonizingly open. I admit how hurt, violated, confused and pained I have been. But I also show strength in this letter. I willingly recount and admit and accept every nasty thing he did to me, so that it is all out of my head and down on paper, once and for all. I explain with absolute conviction how all of my pain is the result of his actions. I explain why he needs to atone, not just for me but for himself. There is power in this level of honesty, reader. It commands to be believed. I made sure that nobody was ever going to read this letter and not hold him to account with me.
And, while the letter started off as an incredibly depressing read, something shifted as I kept writing. Once I had admitted how much I needed accountability, and I had won the argument for why I deserved it, you will not believe how strong I became. My inner critic died, and I found my voice.
*
I wrote my letter because I needed to. I truly believe I would have taken my life otherwise. But, this letter did far more than save my life. For the past six months, I have sat back and counted the benefits it has given me.
Initially, I was euphoric, as my paranoia about not being believed completely evaporated. I no longer needed external validation, because I knew in myself what had happened, and that was all the validation I needed. My self-loathing disappeared, and I was finally able to see how fucking fantastic I am.
But as the weeks went on, I dared to dream that the true power in my words lay in their ability to speak to other women like me. So I published it. When I did this, I said goodbye forever to any possibility of doubting myself, of desperately searching though my memories to find a sign that I had gotten this all wrong and I wasn’t a survivor of sexual abuse. I said goodbye to ever ignoring or denying the pain that my 15-year-old self was in. I made a promise to never blame her, to always honour that this did happen, this did matter, I do deserve accountability. To publicly declare that nobody harms me and gets away with it. That I matter and have worth.
Now I had proven to myself that I could face him head on, and (in my mind at least) win, now that I had taken my power back, all of my fear evaporated. A few weeks passed, and I realised I was sleeping again. I wasn’t haunted by seeing his face mapped onto strangers anymore. So I googled him, to see if I could handle it. The last time I’d done this, I had passed out. Well, I’m happy to announce my reaction was very different this time. Now, when I looked at his face, I felt a flash of repulsion. I compared this to the respect and pride I had for myself, and I have never felt so smug in all my life.
This superiority was fleeting, but it morphed into something I had never dared to dream was possible. The agonising fear and injustice that I had been drowning in since the great plot twist had evolved into a genuine pity for this pathetic excuse of a man.
And as for my sense of self? Well, that all changed, too. I found a new perspective, where I feel proud of myself for what I have learnt and overcome instead of aggrieved and ashamed for what I have endured, and where I feel empowered over the perpetrator, rather than their victim. And in this perspective, I simply don’t need to waste my time hating or feeling anger towards him anymore. Whether he has atoned or changed or deserves forgiveness is nothing to do with me, it’s his business and his problem. I’m too busy thinking about how great I am and enjoying my fantastic life that I have carved out using the strength that I developed to overcome him.
And I no longer feel bitter; as much as I know that I was dealt some pretty horrific luck early in life, I am also grateful for the privileges that have enabled me to heal from it. I have incredibly supportive friends and family, I am living in a time and place where therapy is normalised, and I can afford to access it privately while the NHS waitlists are fucking insane. Any grievance that I now feel comes from my fear that other women are out here, feeling like I used to but without these privileges to save them. And so I appear to be embarking on a rather ambitious rebrand as a self-help guru (I’m as shocked as you are). How’s that for an improved sense of self?
*
Of course, none of these thoughts that make up my new perspective were new to me. Friends had suggested them in their desperation to help me out of my violent head storm of agonising self-pity. And for months, I’d tried to force myself to think them. But as much as I repeated these thoughts as a mantra, it was only once I had been able to feel, express and use my anger, that I was able to believe any of them. So, the moral of this story is that instead of skipping our anger stage, we have to work through it. And that, as painful as this is, my god it is worth it.
I used to long for the day when I would never think about him again, when I would move on forever, and ‘cross the finish line’. These days I’m learning to accept that this is just a fantasy. Instead I now take comfort in my faith that for the rest of my life, whenever he pops into my head, I will know how to respond. I won't feel frightened or disgusted anymore. I will feel a brief flash of pity, and then I will remind myself he has no power over me, and of the pride I have discovered in myself as I recovered from what he did, and I will return to my day with my head held a little higher. I have acceptance of the past and hope for the future; if this is the finish line then it’s good enough for me.
*
So, reader, now it's your turn.
I want you to join me. I want you to feel your anger, turn it into rage, hold him to account within yourself for what he has done, find your strength, and feel the euphoria that I felt when I found mine.
When you get to the stage of feeling your anger, you will be ready. I want you to do the following: Write a first letter, addressed to the perpetrator. A letter that is so angry, so full of expletives, that it frightens you. Be as aggressive and threatening and go into as much excruciating and punishing detail as you can think of. Take every ounce of pain that you have felt, and project it back onto the person that caused it. Take lines from Fantine in Les Misérables. From Olivia Pope in Scandal. You can even borrow from Ian on Come Dine With Me - whatever works. Borrow from your favourite songs and speeches and books. Be as dramatic as you can. Don’t think about how anybody else might judge your words, or even how you will feel to read them back. Tell that nasty inner critic to go fuck themselves. Tell them to take the shame and doubt and confusion and guilt that they have been entrapping you within, and shove it. Just write. Write and write and write.
When you are finished, close your laptop or your notepad and go for a run, go spinning, go boxing, smash plates, scream into a pillow. And breathe. Read your letter. Add to it.
Rest. Come back. Keep going.
Know that all of your anger is valid, and it is true. Of COURSE you deserve revenge, of course they deserve to hear it. What they did to you was beyond unjust, there is no amount of anger that is ever too much. There are no words that they don’t deserve to hear. Know that I know this, that everybody else reading this letter knows this. That there are millions of us out here, Who. Know. This. And anybody who doesn’t know this? They are wrong. They haven’t caught up yet.
Yes, this anger stage is hard. It is excruciating and scary and new. But it doesn’t need to almost destroy you, like mine did. Don’t fight against your anger. Accept it, listen to it, work through it. I promise it will be worth it.
Remember that there is nothing wrong with feeling anger. As a society we often deride anger as an ugly emotion. Angry men are aggressive, and angry women are hysterical, over-emotional, over-reacting. But anger is a normal, healthy, IMPORTANT emotion. It is what fuels our instinct for self-protection, it is what drives us to right all of the wrongs in the world. It is how we maintain our sense of self-worth when somebody is trying to destroy it.
Your anger and your words are the truth. Don’t avoid them because they are overwhelming, or frightening, because you fear they won’t be heard or they won’t achieve anything. Don’t force yourself to be gracious and forgiving if that isn’t how you feel. There is no obligation to be a saint. Welcome your anger and your words. You are cooking the rage that is going to propel you over the finish line.
Accept them. Honour them. Feel them. Use them.
Write.
*
Now, this is important. Don’t send that first letter. Wait a while. But, reader, don’t worry that this anger you worked so hard to find will never be heard. Because you are going to write a much more powerful letter.
Read my letter again. I want you to highlight any words that you can borrow, to see if any of your own truth is reflected. And when you’ve absorbed all that you can, go for a run. Not to burn off your anger, not to alleviate it. To build it. Let my words swirl around your head. Mix them with your own. Let the anger fuel you as you keep running. You’re getting ready to hold them to account.
Rest. And when you’re ready, come back. You’re almost there.
You will know when it is time. You will feel a hot, seething fire of empowerment inside of you, and you will be in control of it. You will believe you can do anything you set your mind to. The rest of the world will disappear, as you realise what you have to do. You will sit at your desk, and you will write your second letter. This is the letter where you will get every part of your journey down on one page. Demand accountability for everything you have endured and overcome, systematically take down any excuses for his behaviour that he or your inner critic could possibly come up with. Command the reader to believe you. Be open and vulnerable, admit where you have had confusion and pain. And then explain how that confusion and pain is all their fault. Give all of your shame back to the person that it belongs to. Equally, don’t shy away from admitting where you have shown strength. Don’t be British about it, give yourself the credit you deserve. Explain how you got over what he did to you. Delight in how you have grown, in what you can you offer the world. List every piece of knowledge, empathy, connection, resilience, achievement, coping strategy, passion, that you have found during any part of your journey. Be resolute in all of the truths that you have worked so hard to discover and accept about yourself. Make yourself proud of how far you have come. Fall in love with your story. You have earned this.
Your letter will drip with vulnerability and strength. Nobody will be able to deny the truth running through it.
Write like your life depends on it. Address it to whoever you want to. You can address it to the abuser, you can address it to their parents, their employer, their God, the teacher that didn’t protect you, the jury members that let the abuser off the hook, a random defence lawyer on TV, a journalist who scoffed at the need for consent classes during fresher’s week while having absolutely no clue what they were talking about. Find someone who should hold the abuser accountable for you, or who has been responsible for condoning and perpetuating their behaviour, and tell them why. Be creative! It’s your chance to shine.
And if you need to send it, you send it. If this helps you to honour and stand up for your younger self who is screaming out in pain, if this helps you to take your power back – send it. You have every right to talk about what somebody else did to you. This happened, this is real, and you owe it to no-one to pretend otherwise if you want to talk about it. You are the one who was hurt, and you have permission to put yourself first.
And if you want to send it, but the person who deserves to receive it might threaten you, or has died? Publish it. I will read it and I will hear you and I will believe every word.
I will despise what they did to you, I will always hold them accountable, I will never forgive or forget. I will never absolve them of responsibility for what they have done. I will hold that anger for you. But I will also pity them, because they can try all they like to improve themselves, to atone for their sins, to stop this behaviour, to make amends. But whatever they do, they will never remove what they did from their character record, and this means they will never be truly free of guilt or the fear of consequence, and they can never take authentic pride in who they are. No amount of good that they do will ever undo what they have already done. And I know that to have done this to you, they most likely don’t have access to genuine human connection, vulnerability, love and compassion like we do. They must live in anger and shame and fear. I will see how pathetic and miserable they are. I will pity this pathetic person that could only placate their ego by harming somebody else.
But I will spend FAR more of my time thinking about you. I am far more interested in the pride that I will feel in how far you have come. You are so much more important and interesting in this story. You have so much strength and wisdom and you have so much to teach us! Write your letter. Publish your letter. Get your words out there. We’re all waiting to hear from you.
If you have been affected by the issues explored in this piece, contact Rape Crisis or your local sexual abuse support services.
Laura Hendy
Laura (she/her) lives in London, where she works for a charity. Her other published writing has been exclusively about climate change adaptation...so she hopes that this ridiculously personal debut onto the literary scene is a moment of personal triumph rather than of complete madness.
She can be found on Instagram