On 7 November 2015, I posted an article depicting my life with a pedophile. It was a passage from Broken. At the time that I posted this article, I was confident, scared for the children who were out there possibly being subjected to a known pedophile still on the loose. In confidence, I wrote and posted said article.

Two days later, said pedophile found me. He looked up my account on LinkedIn. He may have read the article. He may be preparing charges against me right at this very moment for slander. He may be doing nothing. What I am certain of, more than ever, is that he is denying all of it. He may be denying that we had any kind of relationship at all. I have countless family members who disagree and at least one family member who witnessed one of the rapes. I even have a photograph of us together in Miami. I was 17 at the time the picture was taken.

So begins the “he said/she said” conflict of hearsay that may—or may not—end in a court of law.

I’ve already had one individual supposedly read Broken and accuse me of lying. I expected some complications with the publication of Broken as I am as honest as I can be in depicting the events best to my memory. I have decided to go through, chapter by chapter with Broken and conduct an author’s commentary, which will be reserved under “The Looking Glass” for those who read Broken.

But in hindsight, and after months of therapy, I can still say this. The rapes, which were depicted in parts two and three were exactly as they happened from my point of view. And the trauma of those events did well to fuse that period of my life into my memory.

So why the self-doubt? Why am I overwhelmed with an urge to put a gun to my head all so “he won’t find me ever again?” Why the urge to run to Ireland and hide away from the world? Why am I right back to where I started six months ago?

My immediate response to all of this was to shut down my emotions. So long as my emotions aren’t active, he can’t hurt me. So I shut down my emotions. Not even my Isaac can protect me from him. For 12 hours now, I am a psychopath. I felt myself reinstating my mania. Write 10,000 words today. Clean house. Stay busy. Don’t think. And so this I have done. In the meantime my new mantra screams back, “but this is destructive!” Oddly enough that is said with the voice of my therapist.

“Yes,” I reply. “It is destructive. And necessary. If I let my guard down, he could catch me off guard.” There is certain truths I can count on. “Scott” does not let things lie. “Scott wholeheartedly believes it is acceptable to have sex with a minor and I wanted everything he did to me.

So now we’re back to him vs. me. I’ll let you decide if it is acceptable for a 45 year old to sleep with a 16 year-old diagnosed with chronic depression, bipolar, BPD, hypersexuality, mania, and PTSD. But I can attest for the other factor. I did not want. I did not consent. He did hit me. And on the rare occasion when I did protest, it didn’t matter.

So pedophile? Maybe. I’ll let you decide.

Rapist? Yes. Most definitely.

Evidence? I have the mental conditions assigned by a specialist to prove it. I have witnesses. I have a plethora of people who will contest, “Yes. He did have sex with a minor. And yes, it was against her will.”

Then why am I so scared?

I’m off to clean the house, paint the hallway, and write a book in between my son’s appointments.