Page 45 of The Moment You Know

At the end of each person’s therapy, it was common ‘closure’ to confront the abuser in some way (if they knew the abuser and the abuser was still alive). The most common way was in the form of a ‘Fuck You’ letter, since it allowed the victim to confront the abuser in a controlled way while remaining protected. This couldn’t be guaranteed in a face-to-face confrontation, because the potential for further damage to the victim was there if the abuser went on the attack, either verbally or physically.

“How far have you gotten on it?” Lauren wanted to know.

“I, um, actually haven’t even started it.”

Rather than being aghast at Paige’s admission, Lauren regarded her for a long moment, appearing to be debating something. “This is going to seem like a really invasive request—and you can absolutely tell me no—but would you read me more of your journal?”

“Why?”

“I have an idea. But I need to see if it would work.”

Paige considered the request and nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

Lauren suggested Paige bring her journal to the individual session the following week, which had already been booked with her ‘Fuck You’ letter in mind, and Paige could read some more to Lauren at that time.

At the session a week later, Paige read for about fifteen minutes, then waited.

“So,” Lauren began slowly, “I think my idea will work, but you may not like it.”

That didn’t sound very promising to Paige. “What is it?”

“I think your journal is good enough to be published.”

“Wait, what?” Paige hadnotbeen expecting that. “What do you mean, ‘published’?”

“You write really well, Paige.”

“Thank you, but … I’m not a writer.”

“Sure you are. You write in your journal every day.”

“That doesn’t make me a writer. That makes me an out of control … journaler. I’m not sure if that’s a real word, but journalist doesn’t work.”

“Yes, it does make you a writer,” Lauren argued. “Paige, what you’ve written is really good. Raw, but good. It’s powerful. It’s eloquent. And I’m telling you, that this could be published.”

“I’m just … I’m not sure what to think about this. Honestly, I’m wondering if you’ve lost your mind. Which is bad for a therapist.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. No one is going to want to read 250 pages of this.”

“I think you’re wrong. You know the statistics—that one in five women are sexually assaulted in some way, during their lifetime—and I think a lot of those women would like to read your story.”

Paige flipped through a few pages, some of which consisted of late night ramblings, and in many cases, were filled with profanity.

“I’m not saying you wouldn’t have to re-work it and do some editing, because you would,” Lauren continued. “But the end product would make a great memoir. You could add parts showing your life before you uncovered memories of abuse to give the story depth. Details you’d be comfortable sharing, of course, but keep in mind that the more honest you can be, the better the story will be. Write a few chapters about your marriage and your divorce … even your break with your mother, Claire, which was a very pivotal, painful moment for you.”

Paige pondered Lauren’s idea. “You really think this could be done?”

“I really do. And when it’s published, you could send your Uncle Carter a copy of the book as the ultimate ‘Fuck You’ letter.”

Paige’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about ‘Fuck You’ letters.”

Paige’s mind raced; the idea was both evil and fabulous at the same time. “Not that I’m opposed to doing that, but wouldn’t it be sort of over the top?”

“Who cares if it is? Fuck him.”

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