In 2001 or 2002, I found a video of another girl engaged in acts with him, filmed from his vantage point. It was filmed in the house of his, the house I was in when I found it. The girl appeared to be about my age, and she had my hair color. He didn’t appear but I heard his voice.
That is why I think there might be video of me out there somewhere.
There were other patterns, with me, back in the day. He interrupted movies we were watching at the oddest times to guide me to his bedroom. He always, always had either the “Sleepless in Seattle” soundtrack or Elton John’s “Love Songs” CD playing when we were together in his bedroom. Usually things went on just long enough for the entire CD to play. The decor of the room, in retrospect, was nonexistent, which would have made the setting unidentifiable. There was literally nothing on the walls, there was no headboard on the bed, there was literally nothing about that room that had any personality at all.
And I had no idea at the time, at age 20, that music could be used for grooming. It worked; for the rest of my life, I will think back to that time whenever I hear any one of those songs. I have spent the past 26 years doing my very own desensitization therapy of sorts, listening to those songs over and over as I am able to handle it, to be able to listen to any of those songs without throwing myself into a melancholic, longing funk.
“The law student had seemed trustworthy and responsible. It seemed like an obvious choice. I had torn my dorm room apart. I still remember the mound of stuff on my bed, including the lamp from my desk whose lamp shade was now all dented and torn up. I still remember having torn most of my favorite wall coverings off the walls, including that gorgeous pastel I’d done my senior year of high school which got destroyed in the process. It was so obvious something was off. And it was a welfare check He was supposed to come see that I was okay and then call the officer back.
I don’t remember exactly how it all went down. Except that it was dark in the room except the TV was on. And I hadn’t let him in the building, this was another example of him managing to let himself in after someone, probably. But it was about 9 PM. One of my pod-mates must have let him into our suite, bevcause he was able to knock right on my room door. He didn’t call to tell me he was coming over.
I was 19. He said he was 26. It was his birthday, so I thought he was turning 27. I was psychotic. There should have been no question about my ability (or lack of ability) to consent to anything sexual in nature. I’d already made clear to him that I was a virgin waiting for marriage for sex. But sex with that man happened to me during that welfare check.
He was there for maybe 15 minutes. He wouldn’t let me leave my room with him when he said it was time for him to go, told me to stay in the room. I assume he called the officer after he left.
I managed to get a withdrawal with hardship due to health reasons from GSU that semester. I got in touch with my psychiatrist from home and got the meds I needed and got back on track to start again in the Spring semester. It was a nightmare. I had to start over from scratch school-wise which included 4 W’s as grades, but I’d gotten a WF in English, which meant my HOPE scholarship was in jeopardy if I didn’t do exceptionally well over the next several semesters. It’s a miracle I managed to graduate in five years— it was really four and a half, given that the first semester didn’t count except to lower my GPA. But I graduated with departmental honors in the end.” “My Me Too,” by me, November 4, 2017
“Also– I have reason to believe you sold that photo I sent you a million years ago. I want whatever proceeds were made from that photo. Every. Last. Single. Dime. Plus any proceeds from any videos you may have made of any of our “escapades.” I don’t have to tell you that that photo was sent under duress, as was every last minute of our entire relationship. Your entire empire is built on a series of lies. I hope you sleep well at night. Every last night. But any proceeds you made off me are mine.”— Me, in writing, to him, May 8, 2023
“Please don’t be mad at me for the things I did.” His words, in person, to me, December 5, 2025
“There will be no absolution, no forgiveness. I never actually responded directly to your statements last December imploring me multiple times desperately to “not be mad at you for the things you did.” I simply wanted to see if I was strong enough to face you last December. And then I did the thing I always do in the aftermath: I retreated into myself, doubting myself, deferring to you all these months after.”— Me, in writing, to him, October 30, 2025
“I don’t want to hate you anymore. Feeling like I am at war with somebody I used to love is exhausting.” Me, in writing, to him, March 2, 2026
I did tell him that relational power is so much better than his transactional power of buying board seats to make himself feel important, too, earlier in February in writing. I couldn’t resist bragging about having a child who was admitted to Grinnell.
Silence since October 30.
I listen to the podcast “We Can Do Hard Things,” and when it came on today, I should have known from the tone exactly what the topic of the day was. It wasn’t the most recent episode but there was the beginning of chat about the Epstein files.
And I crumbled, and I came home, and I wrote this in a one-fell-swoop-stream-of-consciousness after I washed my hair in a crazy frenzy that felt like my life depended on getting this writing out of my head and into my computer.
And most days, most days even looking at the news, I can compartmentalize. I don’t get swept up in the parallels even if I was of-age even though I was definitely in the midst of a psychotic episode in November of 1998. Or the fact that the five years that followed felt definitely like coercion.
He told me on December 5, 2025 that he had been in love with me. He told me everybody in law school thought he was 29— HA he couldn’t even keep track of the age he’d told me he was at the time, given that he’d lied abou this age. And I guess I can sort of buy that on some level, in whatever capacity his narcissistic brain is capable of falling in love with anyone.
The fact that the world is swept up in the sordid details of whatever has gone on in what powerful men thought was their private lives forever and ever, and is now catching up with at least some of them….
I live with the constant that I have indeed come face to face in the last year and a half twice with my own personal verison of the “elite underclass” as I prefer to think of that particular personal demon.
The sort of person who buys board seats and stadium boxes, who collects luxury cars and expendable women, for fun.
And for a time, I was one of those expendable women, even if I never saw a dime at all.
In mid-December 2025, approximately one week after I first tested myself to see if I could face him in person, I collapsed on the very couch I am sitting on right now, as I texted Jared the full story of what had happened a week prior.
And I don’t know exactly what Jared said to that man in the aftermath, but Jared has made it clear that I did nothing wrong, even though my brain says it was all my fault. I know that man wanted to know in October of 2025 if I ever dress up for Jared like a school girl, making it clear exactly what the five years I was an undergrad and in whatever form of relationship I had been in with him, had been exactly about all that time for him.
And yes, the news is triggering. And yes, it doesn’t matter that I don’t even watch the news anymore. There is literally no getting away from the fact that the world— that people— seem to not have enough of their own drama that somehow getting to the bottom of what must be a nightmare for who-knows-how-many women dealing with the public version of their very own private hellscapes…..
I walk around daily myself knowing that someone who never should have graduated from law school is now a multimillionaire and top-grossing partner at an international firm…..that person would never have even graduated had I had the wherewithall to report what happened in November of 1998. The wound is compounded by my school to this day due to his relationship with that institution, and that’s all I care to say about it.
And that person didn’t even have the decency to provide even basic job suggestion assistance despite it being a light task for someone in his particular speciality, last October.
And I am very well aware that my having any modicum of financial independence would not benefit that particular person.
And while I am unlikely to ever act on it because I definitely do not need the headache, that person also gave me the ammunition I really could take to the Bar if I wanted to, last October. That man thinks he’s untouchable enough to take a client call on speakerphone in front of me, giving legal advice right in front of me, just to show off his power. I didn’t ask for identifying information or any questions at all; he gave it in showing off.
And I don’t really know what got into me on the way home from my ACTH test today, listening to that podcast and the tears flowing from other women about the tragedy that is whatever is in the Epstein files. I try not to think about it most days.
But, I do very much know how it feels to have a powerful man walking around free and thriving, squandering his millions on ridiculously frivolous keeping-up-with-the-elite, pretending to be something he is not, and knowing all about exactly what that man is compensating for in his pants. Being celebrated by the very institution that should have protected me and didn’t in 1998.
And, I do actually think there are probably videos somewhere.
The thing is…..he apologized with out acutally apologizing. Imploring me to “not be mad at me for the things I did”— his words— is a non-apology.
But it does raise questions: what things, exactly, did he do? Because the word “things” indicates there is perhaps more than one reason I should be mad at him.
I’m too tired to care anymore about what anyone thinks, him, or anyone else. I sat through an ACTH test today to determine exactly the nature of my low cortisol and the very reaction I had— a zen feeling instead of the expected nausea and anxiety— I just cannot care anymore.
I’ve spent 28 years suppressing my voice on the off-chance that there might be some reason for preserving that relationship, and the very fact that last October’s interaction happened, compounded by the recent lack of decency that man has shown with my medical divulgences…..I’m done.
I’m done worrying about what people think, I’m done worrying about hurting his feelings, I’m done suppressing my truth.
I’m not that 19-year old psychotic girl so desperate to escape the shadow of another abusive relationship that she plunged herself into a drama with that lunatic. I’m a 46-year old woman who has spent 16 years paying her dues getting to know herself, her triggers, and yes, I have faced that man in person twice in the past year and a half and damn it, he is nothing to be afraid of. At all.
It’s 1:07 PM and Jared and I are just getting breakfast. This morning was rough. It is the kind of morning where I move slow and everything hurts and I am not steady on my feet and I fall into Jared when he hugs me in the kitchen.
I’ve resisted writing for a long time recently. I don’t just sit to write. I don’t journal; I rarely do my gratitude list and when I do it feels like platitudes, not the real thing.
I didn’t sleep well last night; I woke up three times.
Since the whole “analytics ate the timestamp on one of my first emails to Jared” night a couple of weeks ago, Jared has slept in the living room.
I knew it was different that night because when he went to the living room, he packed up his CPAP and took it with him. That has been a months-long fight: he goes to the living room to sleep because I am scared for whatever reason, but he will absolutely NOT take his CPAP with him.
Except, now he does. Every night.
And generally, I do sleep better when he’s out here (where I am now writing). Knowing he is the first line of defense in case the random things-I-think-are-going-to-get-in-the-house-but-never-do really does make a difference.
One night in the last couple of weeks I woke up at 4:02 AM. I was sure I’d heard a knock on our bedroom door. I called out my reflex “JARED!” as I always do immediately upon waking when it’s his cue to go investigate the mystery noises that are never there. Jared was already out in the living room. That noise had been so real though.
“I hate my life.”
In those moments there, lying on my side under at least five blankets which include at least a comforter and two heavy fleece-type blankets, it hardly seems worth being grateful.
Facebook does not help.
This morning’s memories included the lovely photo walk Jared and I went on at Hobbs Farm exactly a year ago today. The featured photo is a photo I took on that walk. I thought I’d like to go on another photo walk today…except I sold the 100-200mm lens I used in that walk last year. None of my current lenses are ideal for wildlife photography.
“I wish I’d never gotten into photography,” I wailed at Jared at some point this morning.
I don’t always see the bits I wouldn’t have otherwise seen if I look back at my photos later.
The blog gets random weird bot analytics.
The boys are grown and prefer the company of themselves in their own rooms over spending time out in the main areas of the house.
I feel aimless, unanchored.
And always, always, always…I lament not having a job, not having the prestige of a career, not having substantive income of my own both so that I can help support us and also so I could buy the things I want without guilt.
People I know are not always helpful; just yesterday my own mother said, “Caroline, you should just make yourself do it,” when I was lamenting the state of our dirty house that I am unable to keep up with.
As if it were that easy, proving my family has zero clue as I’ve always known.
I am up now. I have had breakfast, or lunch or snack, or whatever: a protein bar, a tiny cup of walnuts, a very small section of brie, and six fruity jellies from Trader Joe’s.
I won’t allow myself my coffee until I’ve had the entirety of my full water bottle first.
And later, it won’t be so bad. My legs won’t feel shaky when I walk.
Jared says the PTSD is like this. I never remember.
I won’t feel as though I will wilt. I will get a shower for the first time in two days.
But for now, I write, because that’s one of the few things I can do in moments like this.
Sometimes, that’s how I wake up.
It’s 1:07 PM and Jared and I are just getting breakfast. This morning was rough. It is the kind of morning where I move slow and everything hurts and I am not steady on my feet and I fall into Jared when he hugs me in the kitchen.
I’ve resisted writing for a long time recently. I don’t just sit to write. I don’t journal; I rarely do my gratitude list and when I do it feels like platitudes, not the real thing.
I didn’t sleep well last night; I woke up three times.
Since the whole “analytics ate the timestamp on one of my first emails to Jared” night a couple of weeks ago, Jared has slept in the living room.
I knew it was different that night because when he went to the living room, he packed up his CPAP and took it with him. That has been a months-long fight: he goes to the living room to sleep because I am scared for whatever reason, but he will absolutely NOT take his CPAP with him.
Except, now he does. Every night.
And generally, I do sleep better when he’s out here (where I am now writing). Knowing he is the first line of defense in case the random things-I-think-are-going-to-get-in-the-house-but-never-do really does make a difference.
One night in the last couple of weeks I woke up at 4:02 AM. I was sure I’d heard a knock on our bedroom door. I called out my reflex “JARED!” as I always do immediately upon waking when it’s his cue to go investigate the mystery noises that are never there. Jared was already out in the living room. That noise had been so real though.
“I hate my life.”
In those moments there, lying on my side under at least five blankets which include at least a comforter and two heavy fleece-type blankets, it hardly seems worth being grateful.
Facebook does not help.
This morning’s memories included the lovely photo walk Jared and I went on at Hobbs Farm exactly a year ago today. The featured photo is a photo I took on that walk. I thought I’d like to go on another photo walk today…except I sold the 100-200mm lens I used in that walk last year. None of my current lenses are ideal for wildlife photography.
“I wish I’d never gotten into photography,” I wailed at Jared at some point this morning.
I don’t always see the bits I wouldn’t have otherwise seen if I look back at my photos later.
The blog gets random weird bot analytics.
The boys are grown and prefer the company of themselves in their own rooms over spending time out in the main areas of the house.
I feel aimless, unanchored.
And always, always, always…I lament not having a job, not having the prestige of a career, not having substantive income of my own both so that I can help support us and also so I could buy the things I want without guilt.
People I know are not always helpful; just yesterday my own mother said, “Caroline, you should just make yourself do it,” when I was lamenting the state of our dirty house that I am unable to keep up with.
As if it were that easy, proving my family has zero clue as I’ve always known.
I am up now. I have had breakfast, or lunch or snack, or whatever: a protein bar, a tiny cup of walnuts, a very small section of brie, and six fruity jellies from Trader Joe’s.
I won’t allow myself my coffee until I’ve had the entirety of my full water bottle first.
And later, it won’t be so bad. My legs won’t feel shaky when I walk.
Jared says the PTSD is like this. I never remember.
I won’t feel as though I will wilt. I will get a shower for the first time in two days.
But for now, I write, because that’s one of the few things I can do in moments like this.
I had a great time during our chat as well; the time really went by too fast! I did have a good visit with my grandparents; though I’ve only lived an hour or so away for most of my life, they love having me ten minutes down the road, and I go several times a week to have dinner with them.
I look forward to hearing anything you’re willing to share about Jerusalem .I think the most intriguing thing I’ve heard from other people is visiting the Western Wall; the social dynamics of how strict they are about keeping the men and women separate fascinate me. But I’ve only heard the Jewish perspective on that; How does it work with the other faiths?
My absolute favorite song in the entire world is Josh Groban and Charlotte Church’s version of “The Prayer”… :) Their voices make an incredible combination.
Well, I’m calling it a short day at work today; during the week I do data entry, and I just can’t stare at the computer screen to edit our database anymore! It’s pretty deserted because lots of people are still on vacation. I love my job and the fact that it’s a flexible schedule, but the downside to that is that sometimes there’s little motivation to make myself stay all day!
You know, I abandoned my Yahoo email account probably about 2007, maybe earlier than that. I’ve long wondered what fragments of thoughts might be hanging out in those old archives.
But I don’t wonder enough to hunt down wherever Yahoo data breaches have ended up to see if anyone was willing to fish around for it for me.
Not that interesting.
And anyway, I have a sizable amount of my old emails printed out. For instance, the one quoted above that I sent my now husband.
But, I figure someone out there has access to my old cosettecie@yahoo.com archives, because someone in China pinged my Google Analytics yesterday with the precise time stamp as if they were trying to access a post like this on my blog.
So since someone was so interested, or maybe even had read it already: here it is for the rest of the world.
There’s other interesting tidbits in my Google Analytics; lots of nonsensical links that would naturally take someone to the search field on my 404 page. Which is why my 404 page is now customized with a photo of myself in my ex Chris’s foyer, holding Muffin, the cat that I gave him at some point in probably early 2003 after she nearly destroyed some very sentimental family items and scraped up my face and hands with a scar that I still have on my left hand, in fact.
And, actually, someone or some bot simultaneously from Coshocton, Ohio, and Lake City, Florida, looked for /7-July-2003/ on my blog earlier today, as well. In fact, the Lake City, Florida visitor remained on my 404 page for three minutes and three seconds.
So, whoever you are, if you have access to my old cosettecie@yahoo.com archives, good for you. I’m sure there’s a lot of heartache and happiness and just general drama around in those old archives, as that was one of my college emails. I feel really bad for you if you are stuck sorting through that melodrama on behalf of anyone.
While you’re at it, you might as well hunt down my old Hotmail archives as well, I’m sure caroline_gsu@hotmail.com archives would be a read of melodramatic young adult drama, as well.
