The woman who sexually abused me as a child sent me an envelope sealed with gold tape in the mail. In the living room, I opened it. A letter and eight photographs spilled out. Photographs of me, and her, and my sister, when she used to take care of me. Photographs of her with her arm around me at DisneyLand, Photographs of her with her hands on my shoulders a family picnic. I felt nauseous. I laced my hands behind my head and sat on the sofa. On the wallpaper in front of me, roses appeared to drift, rotate, swap places. I went out the backdoor, into the forest and trudged through ice and snow. I pressed my forehead against the trunk of a tree, and the memories came: her holding me down on my bed, her hands on my throat, on my wrists, on my privates; her hands on my mouth when I cried too loudly; my little hands pushing at her chin, pushing her face away from me, trying to get up off the bed, and her violently forcing me back down. In the forest, I slumped onto the ground and hyperventilated. I pulled at my hair, then hugged myself to keep my hands from hurting myself. I trembled and trembled. I can't keep living like this. I need help. I need a restraining order. But I'm afraid of the police, afraid of the questions they'll ask me. I cannot stay in the past, and I cannot move forward.