The first letter in this column is a painful window into a life interrupted by trauma, and the woman who writes it signs herself “Damaged in the East.” Her words carry more than two decades of unresolved pain. She tells Dear Abby that she was sexually assaulted at work by a supervisor about twenty years ago. What followed was not a single bad memory but a slow, confusing, and terrifying cycle of manipulation that lasted for nearly a year. The supervisor used every psychological tactic imaginable to control her. He isolated her from colleagues. He pretended to be her friend. He offered insincere apologies that were designed more to manage her than to make amends. He reminded her that he was considered a pillar of the community and that no one would believe a word she said. Worst of all, he tried to rewrite her own memory by telling her she had not really meant it when she said no. He made her question her own reality, which is one of the cruelest things a person can do to another. At the same time, her personal life was falling apart. Her then-husband began drinking heavily and became abusive toward her as well. So she had no refuge anywhere. She was afraid at work and afraid at home. She stood up to her boss for a long time, as she says, until she reached a place of exhaustion and numbness where she just stopped caring. This is not the story of one woman being overpowered by a single act. It is the story of a woman being systematically dismantled by betrayal, manipulation, and abuse, with no safe place to land. Her courage in writing the letter at all is worth honoring, because survivors often carry shame and silence for years.
After about a year, another incident occurred, and that was finally the breaking point. She left the job, but the company did not hold the supervisor accountable. She describes how the company “swept it under the rug,” which is a familiar and devastating experience for many survivors of workplace harassment and assault. Institutions often protect themselves rather than the people who have been hurt. She moved to another state and lived there for eighteen years, believing she had left all of it behind. In a way, she had—physically. She built a new life, perhaps found new routines, new friends, a new sense of safety. But trauma has a way of waiting. When she moved back to her hometown last year, everything came rushing back with a force that surprised her. The familiar streets, the places that reminded her of the past, the possibility of seeing people who had been part of that old life; all of these triggers became overwhelming. She fell apart all over again. She now says that her life and her children’s lives were destroyed, and that she is once again leaving. She and her current husband have decided to move to another state, partly so that she can escape the memories and perhaps find some peace. She knows she cannot fix the past or change the truth, and she has to live with the fallout every single day. She remembers that she had a good family before it all happened, and that makes the loss even harder to bear. She says no one should ever have to go through something like that. She is planning to get a special form of PTSD therapy after she moves, and that is an important step. But she also knows that she will never be the same person she was before the assault. She asks Abby if she has any ideas, but her real question is about how to live with a wound that will not fully close. Her pain is real, and her struggle is a reminder that healing is not linear.
Abby’s response is compassionate and practical. She tells the woman that she agrees with her completely: no one should ever have to go through such an ordeal. She also reminds her that her story is an important example of how workplace sexual assault is still an ongoing problem in our culture. Abby does not try to offer therapy in a few sentences, because she knows her limits. She says she is glad the woman plans to get professional help, and she wisely notes that a therapist will be much better equipped than an advice columnist to help her navigate the complex layers of PTSD, grief, and anger. But Abby also uses her platform to speak directly to other readers who might be in similar situations. Her advice is urgent and clear. If you are sexually assaulted at work, she says, do not begin by telling the higher-ups in the company or going to the human resources department. As hard as that is to hear, those people will likely prioritize protecting the company over seeking justice for you. Instead, secure as much evidence as you can and go straight to the police. Evidence might seem like a cold word in the middle of an emotional crisis, but it matters. It gives a survivor options later. Abby also advises consulting a lawyer who specializes in sexual abuse, someone who can guide you on when and how to make a report to HR in a way that protects your rights. This is not cynical advice; it is realistic. Many survivors are failed by systems that claim to support them, and Abby wants to give them tools to protect themselves. She then reminds readers of RAINN, the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network, which operates a national hotline at 1-800-656-4673. Anyone with questions about sexual assault can call and speak with trained advocates. In that simple list of instructions, Abby offers something more than practical guidance: she offers respect. She treats survivors as people who deserve to make informed decisions instead of being at the mercy of institutions that may not care about them. Her response is a small act of advocacy, standing alongside this woman and all survivors who have been silenced.
The second letter in the column offers a welcome shift in tone. It is not about trauma or abuse, but about the funny little frustrations of family life. A reader who signs herself “‘Feline’ It’s Too Much” writes about her son-in-law, who lives downstairs with his wife. This family has a number of cats in their household, and everyone knows how much the reader loves cats. Her son-in-law clearly adores her and wants to share that love in a playful way. His chosen method, however, has become overwhelming. He sends her funny pictures of cats via text message two or three times a day, every single day. At first, those pictures probably made her smile. She loves cats, after all. But two or three times a day adds up to a lot of interruptions. The phone buzzes while she is cooking, while she is reading, while she is resting, while she is in the middle of something. The pictures may be cute, but the constant reminders become a kind of sweet irritation. She begins to feel that her routine is being interrupted, and she feels a little trapped. She does not want to hurt his feelings, because she knows he is trying to be kind. She knows this is his way of staying connected, of showing that he thinks about her, of being part of her daily life. But she needs relief. Her question to Dear Abby is a delicate one: how do you ask someone to stop doing something that is well-intentioned without making them feel rejected? This is a problem almost everyone can relate to. We have all received too many messages, too many phone calls, too many small gestures that are meant as love but begin to feel like clutter. The challenge is that we want to preserve the relationship while also protecting our own peace.
Abby’s answer is a quiet little masterpiece of boundary-setting. She tells the reader to ask her son-in-law to save the pictures and send them all at once, once a week, at a time when she can actually sit down and enjoy them. This response is brilliant because it honors both people. It does not tell the son-in-law that his gestures are unwanted. It does not tell the reader to just put up with it. Instead, it finds a middle path. The son-in-law can still express his affection, still share his love of cats, still feel that he is making his mother-in-law happy. But the receiver is no longer interrupted at random moments throughout the day. She can choose a comfortable time, pour a cup of tea, and enjoy a collection of funny cat photos all at once. The message is not “stop caring about me” but rather “show me you care in a way I can fully receive.” This is the essence of healthy communication in any relationship, whether between spouses, parents, children, or in-laws. We are allowed to have preferences even within acts of love. We can love someone and still want less of something. We can appreciate the thought behind a text message and still need space. The reader’s concern for her son-in-law’s feelings shows that she cares about him. The fact that she asked for advice instead of snapping at him shows that she values the relationship. Abby simply gives her the words and the approach to make that relationship stronger while also making her own life a little calmer. It is a lovely reminder that boundaries are not walls. They are actually bridges that allow people to continue caring for each other without losing themselves.
Taken together, these two letters represent the full range of human experience. The first is about deep trauma, survival, and the long road to healing. The second is about the small daily annoyances that come with loving someone who expresses affection in a way that does not quite work for us. In both cases, the person writing is looking for the same thing: to be heard, understood, and given permission to protect their own emotional well-being. The traumatized woman needs permission to seek help, to leave her hometown, to accept that she will never be the same and still have a life worth living. The cat-loving reader needs permission to say “I need something different” without feeling guilty. Dear Abby, in both responses, treats the writers with dignity. She does not minimize the pain of assault, and she does not mock the annoyance of too many cat pictures. She meets each person where they are. That is the secret of the advice column, which has been a part of American life for generations. It gives strangers a place to confess their worries and receive a thoughtful, humane answer. The column was founded by Abigail Van Buren, originally Pauline Phillips, in 1956. For nearly four decades, her daughter Jeanne Phillips has carried on the tradition under the same pen name. Readers can contact Dear Abby through the website or by mail at P.O. Box 270135, Kansas City, MO 64127. But the real contact between hearts and minds happens through these letters. When a woman writes that she is “damaged in the East,” and another writes that she is “‘Feline’ It’s Too Much,” they are both saying: I matter, my feelings matter, and I need help finding a way through. In a world that often feels loud and divided, that is something worth cherishing. We can all learn from Abby’s example: listen carefully, speak kindly, give practical help when possible, and always remember that behind every letter is a real person with a real life.
