The Final Word
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In April 2022, one month after my 35th birthday, I was raped. My aggressor did not accost me in an alley; he didn’t slip Rohypnol in my drink. He enacted that night a form of sexual violence so intimate, so egregious, so utterly common that until just a few decades ago, marriage rendered it legally invisible.
Before the attack, I was a writer. I don’t know what I became the morning after.
Prior to my rape, I’d published two books and several dozen essays and won numerous awards. My books had app
Before the attack, I was a writer. I don’t know what I became the morning after.
Prior to my rape, I’d published two books and several dozen essays and won numerous awards. My books had app
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