First of all, thank you for reading this book. Writing it was strange and hard and amazing. For months I felt so vulnerable, like all my nerve endings were coming out of my skin, every emotion, no matter how fleeting, bright and fully visible on my face. I stared into space a lot. I had at least three giggle fits. I sang off-key to pop songs in my car. I screamed at a lot of drivers who didn’t signal their goddamn lane changes. I lost my filter for a while and had a few awkward conversations at parties when I got just a little too excited about the science of healing from trauma, or what happens in your intestines when you’re on a first date, or how penises and vaginas really work. I cried at a lot of credit card commercials. I wrote from the gut, from the butterflies in my vagina, sheets of words coming straight from my tender organs. One day after a flurry of writing, I looked up at my lover, sitting on the couch reading a book nearby, and said, “Man. I got some shit to say.” He laughed pretty heartily at that.
In those first drafts, I set aside any fear of what anyone was going to think of my story and what I had to say so that I could say it. I needed time to be in the vulnerability of simply getting the story out. Editing was a different process. I edited with you in the room with me, my reader. I tried to hold your heart and your uniqueness and everything I don’t understand about you and your experience tenderly in my hands. I tried to shape a narrative that could offer hope and sweetness and everything I’ve learned that I thought might help. But that whole time, you were the one helping me. The thought that someone might read my story, care, and even get something out of it kept me willing to keep my nerves all a-jangle while I remembered and analyzed and researched and thought and asked questions and got feedback and worried about what my parents would think and obsessed about the fantastic, harrowing, and often beautiful process of recovering desire after sexual assault. For me, writing this book was Step Nine. I’m sure there will be many more steps to go from here as I encounter new phases in my life, but I feel incredibly fortunate to have the opportunity to take what happened to me and turn it into something that might possibly be helpful to you. I really hope it is. Thank you for being a part of my healing journey. I hope I can be a part of yours.
Thank you to my agent, Robert Lecker, who has believed in me for a long time and pushed me to keep going deeper, to stop hiding from this story, and to find out what was at the heart of what I really wanted to say. I feel incredibly lucky to trust Robert to push me to be brave but also to let me know in no uncertain terms when I can do better. That support is invaluable. Thank you.
Deep thanks to Erin Kirsh, a brilliant writer and fantastic editor who knows just how to ride that fine line between being supportive and encouraging while also being honest about what needs some work. You held a tender story in your hands, and you made it so much better. Thank you.
Thank you to Brenda Knight and the entire team at Mango for the huge amount of support and your belief in the need for a story like this.
Thank you, Kaelyn Elfert, Emilee Nimetz, Nicole Marcia, Megan Laven, Neil Griffith, Ryan Cho, Chris White, Jeremy Radin, and Rahel Claman for your perspectives, the many deep conversations, and your willingness to listen to me bumble through my ideas with you. Thank you to David Hatfield and all the men I’ve had the privilege to encounter at Manology. Thank you to Jess Owen and Katrina Topping for your invaluable emotional support. Thank you to my parents, Jane and Mike, for your absolutely unconditional support. Thank you, Rena Graham, Matt Loeb, Kelsey Savage, Alex Roth, Zack Peters, Ann Robson, and Tanille Geib for your willingness to show up and offer support in all kinds of ways.