I wrote Hours of Torture, Years of Silence to provide the reader with an accurate account of rape and the aftermath including therapy. I take the reader on an emotional journey through three years of therapy for PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), showing that one cannot only survive but triumph after being raped. My client sat before me, her pain palpable. Only glimpses of her soft, gray eyes were visible as she sat with her chin nearly touching her chest. She was young, 22, and petite, with long, dark hair and I'd grown to like her very much, though we'd only had four sessions together. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, she pressed herself deeper into my couch. "I was, well ... you know, raped ... a couple of years ago," she stammered, "... and, I ... I can't seem to ... I'm falling apart." She looked deep into my eyes now, pleading for help. This was, she went on to tell me, the first time she'd told anyone what happened to her. A tear rolled down her cheek as she lowered her head once again. I looked around my office after my last client left that evening. It was dark and only the small lamp cast a soft glow around the room. I thought about my client; she'd taken an important first step, and I was pleased that she was able to confide in me. Her journey was just beginning, and while I knew my purpose was to help her find her own understanding of what had happened to her, my thoughts were of what I didn't — what I couldn't — tell her.