TW: sexual assault

Dear Timothée/Mr. Chalamet/Timmy T, 

I’m not usually one to write a fan letter, but exceptional circumstances demand exceptions to the rules. Though you’ll probably never read this, you deserve to know the unique way in which you’ve made the process of healing from one of the most traumatic events of my life a little easier. 

But, before we get into any of that, I want you to know that I’m more than the thing I’m going to tell you about. I’m a loving daughter, friend, and girlfriend. I love what I’m studying (history) so much that when I’m lost in a good reading, I’ll blink and suddenly it’s 5 a.m. I like to run until my lungs burn and to make Impossible Beef chili for dinner. 

In addition to all of these things, I was assaulted on my university campus a little less than two years ago. Because it was so violent, my brain blacked out the memory of the assault itself, and I had to piece together what happened from my injuries and what my friends saw. About a year and a half later, the memory came back after a specific way I was touched triggered it. This led to a complex Title IX case and a very shitty spring of my junior year, as you can imagine, Timothée. 

The worst part of it was that the rapist went to my university, so after I remembered the full details of the assault, I would have a panic attack every time I saw him on campus. I know this is a lot, Timmy T—can I call you that? But if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you are able to empathize with experiences that are not your own (see: your performances in Call Me by Your Name and Beautiful Boy). Both the depth of your ability to embody a completely different character and the statements you have made on these performances are admirable. 

My rapist graduated in the spring. Normally, at this point in a piece of writing, I’d put some autumn-themed metaphor about a new season starting, but describing something like this requires simple, straightforward prose. The violence itself was enough of a spectacle—there’s no need for metaphors and imagery. 

Sorry for getting sidetracked, Timmy. When I returned to campus after the summer to start my senior year, I knew in my head that he wasn’t here. He graduated. He doesn’t go here anymore. I repeated these facts to myself over and over, but my body wouldn’t listen. Whenever I saw someone who looked like him, I’d get nauseous and press my fingers to my neck to see how fast my heart was beating, and decide if I needed to step into a bathroom to have a panic attack or not. 

You’re probably wondering where you fit into all of this. Just wait—I’m getting there. You need to know one more thing: I’ve always had trouble sleeping, and weirdly, something that’s worked recently is to imagine you giving a rambling monologue about my insomnia as Bob Dylan in A Complete Unknown. I’ve tried doing it with the real Bob Dylan, but it only works with you specifically as Bob Dylan. 

To be clear, I don’t have a crush on you. I did in high school, like every Gen Z girl who saw Lady Bird (“What you did was very baller, it was very anarchist.”). It wore off in college, and seeing you in Wonka eliminated any remaining romantic feelings I had. (You were great in that, by the way. Anything Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-related simply eradicates all feelings of lust.)

Anyway, I was obviously really nervous for the first day of school. I felt like a five-year-old in that way, even though I was starting my senior year of college. As I walked onto the main campus (we call it the Main Green), I could feel my throat clenching in anticipation of having to walk through the swarm of students, some of whom would have my rapist’s hair or his eyes or his height or anything else that would make me want to throw up. I tried to think of something calming, and my strange bedtime ritual immediately came to mind. My headphones were already on, so I switched from Virgin by Lorde to the A Complete Unknown soundtrack, specifically “It Ain’t Me Babe.” 

It wasn’t an instant fix, obviously. But it helped. With your (purposefully) nasally Bob Dylan imitation in my ear, I could take my eyes off the ground and wave at friends passing by. I could move from class to class without feeling sick. Whenever I passed a spot where I had seen him last semester, I would just focus on you playing the harmonica, and things would get a little better. 

The healing process is not over, and your performance in A Complete Unknown definitely didn’t singlehandedly fix everything. But it certainly has helped, for now. So thank you, truly. 

I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll wrap things up soon. You have roles to prepare for and awards shows to attend. I also have a mountain of homework and grad school applications to get to. But one last thing. In the apology letter my rapist wrote to me (I went the restorative justice route, much to many people’s chagrin), he said that he hoped we would both learn something from this. Based on the rest of the letter, which was condescending and dismissive, he definitely wrote that with the intention of belittling me even further than he already had through sexual violence. 

Still, I have learned something from this mess. There is nothing beautiful about violence like rape, but the healing process that comes after offers up brief moments of beauty despite it all. Healing is difficult, time-consuming, and frustrating, but sometimes it offers you moments of gorgeous levity like a gift. Realizing that your role as Bob Dylan has played a non-insignificant role in my path to learn how to live after violence has been one of those moments for me.  

As an artist, you can give all the red-carpet interviews about your films that you want, but people are always going to bring their own baggage to the movie theatre and interpret your work how they want or need to. I think that’s the beauty of what you do—you play a famous musician in a biopic to honor his legacy and hopefully get an Oscar, and somehow it ends up helping some random 21-year-old in Providence start to recover from her sexual assault. So keep making art, Mr. Chalamet. You never know what people will do with it. 

With respect and gratitude, 

Indigo