After hearing about his “encounter” at age 14, I wrote this now 71 year old man a letter.  I told him, again, that I was not coming back, and I gave the same reasons: impotence, disability and toothless.  I asked that he reimburse any and all moving expenses and other expenses I’d incurred.  When we talked, he agreed to do so.  As a precaution, I had my mother listen to him promise to reimburse me in full.

We had almost the same circular conversation every night.  He wanted me to come back, I refused to agree to come back, over and over, ad nauseum.  Finally, I told him that I would consider coming back if he’d agree to marriage counseling.  He would have to pay for it, and find a marriage counselor who did not stress religion and was licensed to practice as well as experienced.  After pretending that he’d go along with it, and me calling his bluff, he agreed to do it.

I explained to him that he’d have to agree to take responsibility for abandoning me when I was pregnant at 17.  He had to admit that he coercively raped me when I was 32.  His response to the rape?  “Heh, heh, heh, you were special.”  The tone of his voice sounded unreal, almost like a cackle.  It frightened me.

He had mentioned before that when I was 17, I should have come to him and insisted that he take care of the baby.  I should have had the baby and trusted that he’d provide for it.  It became all my fault that I’d had the abortion, even though he was 24 at the time and legally could be jailed for statutory rape had I had parents who were responsible.  I was again shocked that he took no responsibility for the pregnancy, and for the fact that he’d abandoned me.  I was a child with no means of supporting a baby, living at home, and finishing up my senior year of high school.  I knew nothing about life, but I certainly learned.

He agreed to find a marriage counselor.  But, he began to call me every morning and argue with me.  Argue that he was getting better, argue that the shack could be fixed up, argue that he could take care of me.  I would go to work every morning stressed and confused.  I began to question if I’d been wrong about him.  I began to think that perhaps something was salvageable.  Confusion and fogginess were my friends.  I became uncomfortable in my own skin.

He could be loving one moment, and ugly the next.  I didn’t know who he was.  I was beginning to not know who I was.