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Because this blog features stories of interpersonal and sexual violence, we offer this *content warning* as a way of caution. We also ask that you do not reproduce any of the content below, as the authors of these personal stories are anonymous, and cannot give consent for their stories to appear anywhere other than this blog or at a Project Dinah-led SpeakOut event.

Friday, October 4, 2013

It happened over a year ago. 

It took another month to realize I had been raped, another 3 months to begin processing it. That’s nothing compared to 8 months before I could talk to anyone about it.


Because my rape wasn’t violent, it wasn’t a stranger. It was a night in a college dorm room where I wasn’t heard when I said no, I was too scared to make noise and attract any attention. To have to explain how I got into this situation, a night where everything happened too fast to react to before it was over.


“You don’t want this to end here, do you?” 


But I did.


I hate that I didn’t say more, louder, fight back. I hate that I kept it to myself for eight months because I was too ashamed to go to anyone, too scared to talk about it, because once it’s aloud, it’s real. I hate that I didn’t have the courage to confront him, to tell him that I consider him a rapist when he probably sees me as “that Bitch that led him on.”


He contacted me for half a year afterwards. That’s half a year to confront him about that night. Six months of chances I didn’t take. It’s a full year for him to do this to someone else. That’s hard to get over, I’m not sure I ever will.


That night in Fall 2012 taught me how dangerous the world is. It’s the night that causes me to walk at night with a can of pepper spray in one hand and my keys Wolverined in the other. Even though if I were really in a serious situation, neither of these will be of much use. At least now I can even walk alone from Morrison to Davis at 8 pm on a well lit street without inducing a full on panic attack.


That night has made me so paranoid about my surroundings that when I had the opportunity to spend 3.5 weeks in Bangkok, the number one tourist destination in the world, I spent a total of 5 nights out of the dorms past 10. Of which only two were spent in the actual city. Because Bangkok might be a tourist hotspot, but it’s also #1 in sex trafficking, a threat that all of a sudden seems much more tangible.


There are nights I wake up in a panic wondering if what I had experienced was really rape or if it’s a sick, desperate, ploy for attention. That the identity that has been forced upon me, the one that I’ve been slaving away to accept is completely artificial. Because no matter how many times I remind myself that mainstream media’s definition of rape is limited, that bruises and scars aren’t necessary to be violated, it doesn’t stick. 


I’ve lost friends because of this. Friends that I loved for years that couldn’t understand what I went through and why all of a sudden I acted so differently. Friends that simply didn’t want to hear it.


But I’ve also become so much closer to many other people. People willing to buy pregnancy tests at 8 on a Wednesday morning to help me deal with my paranoia, Friends that were okay with me showing up at their door unannounced and sitting in their rooms for hours without any explanation. People who still sit me down and remind me constantly that it wasn’t my fault, that I’m worth something, friends that insist on walking me home even though it’ll add an extra twenty minutes to their own commute. 


Many terrible things happened that night in Fall 2012, but I’m sick of obsessing over them. Sick of the nervous ticks that appear every time I try to tell this story, the fear that I’ll be rejected for what has happened to me. 


I’m done with it. I’m done being a victim. I’m tired of living in fear of a memory and an overactive imagination that has constructed each and every way I can be taken advantaged of. I’m fortunate enough to have the support of some of the beautiful people in the world, and this really strange sense of empowerment, the knowledge that I can face anything because I’ve already been through one of the most terrifying things that can happen to a person. I’ve seen evidence of my own healing. The anxiety isn’t nearly as bad as before. I’m learning to control it. Fall 2012 is a sick place to draw strength from, but better me than him. It’s been a year. I’m ready for change. 
I honestly have no idea when the molestation started but I didn't realize what was happening until I was in High School. I remember always noticing something was off, like my closet light being on when I woke up in the morning and knowing that it wasn't on when I went to sleep. Then I would wake up and he would be in my room just staring at me. I would tell my mom about it and she would talk to him about it. I noticed a hole in my shower that could be peered in to. Then one night I woke up to him pulling the covers off of me and I knew. I knew that everything I had been feeling in my gut was right, I finally had the proof I needed. I went to my mom and other people who I felt were supposed to protect me. My mom said that he had denied it so vehemently that I must have dreamed it.
After that I couldn't sleep. I swear that if someone so much as touched my doorknob I would wake up. It got to where I couldn't handle people touching me, even a pat on the arm would freak me out. I would sleep under my sheets with them safety pinned to the bed around me so that there was no way he could touch me. I begged and begged my mom for a new door knob that locked and for my birthday one year I finally got it. I started to feel safe again. I could sleep through the night. Then I noticed the lock pin missing from my door. So I started using the handle of a small paint brush to lock my door. I didn’t realize how good he was at picking locks. I woke up to him grabbing me, I yelled and started crying. 
He tried to comfort me.
I asked him why he did it.
He told me I had a nightmare.
My mom came in. 
The next day I came home from school with a deadbolt on my door. I cried. I cried with a relief that I cannot describe.
And I slept.
Though knowing that I was safe, I feared for future girls, future victims. I wondered at what my responsibility was to these nameless girls who did not yet exist, but could. I felt that I could not get my true justice, being that my own attacker was a member of my family. A family that I was unwilling to test and see on whose side they would stand. My biggest fear is that he would be able to take all that was good from me. 
I am lucky that shortly after I left home my abuser was arrested for a victimless crime and is now a registered sex offender. Now he will be required to let people know who his truly is and what he is capable of wherever he goes. 
So now my work begins on the other parts of me he twisted. I wish I could say he was the only one who twisted me, but that would be a lie as there has been another since. I have to learn to trust people. I have to develop a comfort with my sexuality instead of fear. I have to learn to not be afraid of what is in the dark. But I do know that I never wanted or asked for any abuse I have received, just as no woman ever has. We are not just the victims of these abusers; we are the victims of a society that perpetuates a dialogue that females should be on constant guard from every possible threat, even while sleeping and that if something happens then we didn’t have a good enough guard up. We are victims of a society that perpetuates sex as a valuable rite of passage for manhood and as a woman’s disgrace. 
I pray that one day I can walk down the street without purposefully avoiding groups of men and that one day catcalls won’t make me want to vomit. I pray that one day everyone will truly understand the damage done through sexual abuse. Whether that abuse is violent, brief, seemingly gentle or lasts for years, it is abuse and will take much longer to recover from than the time it took to inflict it.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

I’ve been thinking about what men I identify as perpetrators of violence against me and what the process of identifying them as such entails. For a long time I identified one man, the most obvious, as my perpetrator, identifying him as such made sense because of the extent of his violence, and it took me just a couple months after breaking up with him to admit to myself in full what he had done and what I had understood was going on for around a year—rape, sexual abuse, emotional abuse, and verbal abuse. The year after leaving him- the only “romantic” partner I’d ever been with- consisted of vulnerable, damaged, lost me trying to find my way, to gain control over my body, to find happiness and myself somewhere. And looking back, to my horror, I am faced with a handful of other men who I met after I left my “main perpetrator” who fit the same category—maybe “perpetrator,” maybe not, but regardless men who have seen my body as a field for conquest ripe for the taking, who have looked at me and seen not a human being with feelings and a history and passion and a hell of a lot of drive, but a little girl who they want to fuck who dare not challenge their right to her body.

I went to a club with a couple girlfriends and a man came up to me and started hitting on me. He was slurring and whispering in my ear. I couldn’t understand him because he was so drunk. He looked like he might have been in his mid 20s. I was 18. He asked me for my number and when I told him I didn’t give it out he got angry and kept insisting, so I gave it to him. He texted me constantly for the next week. He told me I was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and that he loved me. I was mortified and got sick to my stomach. I didn’t know how to make him stop. He sent me pictures of himself masturbating and told me that he wanted to tie me up and masturbate to the sounds of me struggling to get free. He told me to come have a sleepover with him. I told him he sounded like a rapist and that I didn’t want to talk to him. He threatened to drive to me and find me. I was horrified, but I knew he didn’t know where I lived. Finally, when I stopped protesting, when I stopped responding, he stopped contacting me. 

I’ve never told this to anyone. How could I? It was my fault. I gave him my number. I shouldn’t have ever texted him back. I should have told him I was calling the police. But I didn’t. It was all my fault. The amount of shame and guilt I feel by even writing this story down is enough to keep me glued in my bed, to make me cry, to make me wonder how, even after being raped more times than I can remember by a man I trusted, I gave another man access to me who wanted to do the same thing.

Another night, another club, this time in [______]. I’m with another abusive man and his girlfriend. A stranger gives me [a drug] and I take it because he’s with his girlfriend and therefore has no incentive to drug and rape me. I start hanging out with a girl who I think is cute. She’s nice and we talk and stand around and smoke together. Then a man comes up to me and starts hitting on me. He says I’m the most beautiful girl there that night, he says he wants to dance with me. He offers me some white powder he says is molly but I’m skeptical because he’s with his brother and neither of them will leave me alone, keep following me everywhere I walk. I say no thanks and he gets mad, says “How dare you think I’m gonna drug you,” he gets offended but won’t leave me alone. He follows me around all night. The other girl says he’s cute, you should hang out with him. But I don’t want to, and I think she’s cute, not him, but he keeps following me and won’t leave me alone. I am so mad because I want to dance and have fun without this guy bothering me and making me uncomfortable and scared. He asks me for my number, he says that I should go back with him. I say no. He says if I give him my number he will leave me alone to hang out with my friends. I give him my number and he walks away and immediately texts me, he says I’m beautiful and sexy and he wants to take me back to his hotel. He walks by with an opened bottle of something and offers it to me. I don’t drink it because I think he’s probably put the white powder he showed me earlier in it. He gets offended again.


I’m at a party in an apartment on campus. Everyone is really drunk. I’m about at black out level and I’m crying about something or another. A guy I recognize comes up to me and takes my hand. I’m getting ready to leave the party and walk home. He takes my hand and tries to lead me to a bedroom a few feet away. My friend says “She’s too drunk!” and takes me out the door.


Walking down Franklin Street, arms full of grocery bags. Man on the street: “Need any help with that, sugar?” “No, I’m good.” “I bet you are.” Laughter.


None of this is as bad as being raped every couple days. None of this is that bad at all. It should be expected when you’re a girl, and I should know better than to put myself in such dangerous situations. That’s why these men aren’t perpetrators.



Enter the first man I had “consensual” sex with. Looking back, I know that right after coming out of a year of sexual and emotional abuse I was in no way ready or prepared to give full/true consent to sex, but because I did consent, it wasn’t rape (and truly, even though the man turned out to be violent emotionally and verbally, it was nothing like rape). I couldn’t believe this guy liked me. My abusive boyfriend told me I was ugly, that I shouldn’t wear too much makeup because it made me look slutty, that my clothes were outrageous, so I just wore jeans and t-shirts most of the time. But I wasn’t dating him anymore—I had left him because of the abuse—and this new guy, this guy who is actually attractive and has somewhat functional social skills actually likes me?! It was crazy. I couldn’t believe it. So when he made it clear he wanted to have sex, I was game. And that went on for a while, even though he called me a slut, even though he made fun of me and used me and treated me like shit and made rape jokes and treated my history as a rape survivor as nothing serious. But then I found out he had a girlfriend, and when I was honest with her about what he’d been doing (he was sleeping with a bunch of other women too), he lost it. He threatened me. He sent me hundreds of angry text messages, saying the worst things imaginable—things so similar to what my rapist had said to me. Saying I was worthless and a slut and that I was a terrible person, all because I refused to lie about what he had done. Because I dared challenge his power. I dared to defy him. He told me he hoped my rapist found a way to hurt me. 


How could I let it happen to me again? What is it about me? Is there something about me that makes me a target for these men? Am I ugly and therefore an easy target? Am I beautiful and therefore have to deal with men trying to get a piece of me? Or is this normal? Does this happen to every woman and we’re all just afraid to talk about it? Was I a slut, like they said I was? Was I wrong to be honest about the types of men they were—to call them out on what they did? 


I wish I knew the answer.
I've found that people don't enjoy hearing these stories. They don't like hearing that I was molested by my uncle. They don't like hearing that I was drugged and raped upon entering college, and that I vaguely remember the experience. And they certainly don't like hearing that I have flashbacks to those events throughout my daily life, at night, during exams, while talking to friends, while cuddling with boyfriends…

You see, we live in a society where rape is the victims fault. "How many boys have you slept with?" "Were you intoxicated?" or my personal favorite: "Are you sure you said no?"


I was a freshman in high school in March of 2008 when my uncle began touching me. He snuck into my room at night, he pretended to tickle me, and he was doing it to my cousin, too. He would lay beside me and rub his erect penis on my thigh… He would grab and fondle my breast and vaginal areas. This continued until September of 2008. In December of that year, my cousin spoke out about it. Until then, the only people who knew were my best friend and my boyfriend. Nobody else. Long story short, word got back to my father who insisted we press charges. So we did.


Everything after that was a blur. All of the questions. All of the trial dates. All of the appearances. Two things stand out in my mind: the detective saying my uncle was preparing me for rape.. and the judge saying “guilty.”


I testified for over an hour. Question after question. Having to tell every gruesome detail with my grandmother, mother, father, two uncles, two aunts, and three younger cousins all in the courtroom. I had to listen to my uncles and aunts and cousins testify against me. I had to watch my mother silently cry as I recapped how he would touch me. I had to comfort my father as to prevent him from committing a homicide. And I had to watch my uncle walk out of the courtroom after just being found guilty of two counts of sexual battery. You see, the way the law works, since he did not ever make skin to skin contact, he was granted a PJC. Meaning it is no longer on his record, and he suffered no consequences other than a pat on the hand.


He friend requested me on facebook a couple weeks later. He left voicemails on my phone during trial season. He would text my father requesting we drop the charges. And end the end he was granted a PJC because the judge didn’t want me to have to go to a higher level of court. I was diagnosed with chronic PTSD, and quit going to therapy after I asked my pastor for prayers and he responded with “this is something you should be ashamed of. Don’t tell anybody else.” So I didn’t speak of it again. To anybody. Until now. 


He gets to go on with his life and I am left with nightmares and daily reminders of what happened. He won. I don’t feel like a survivor because he killed so much of me with a simple touch. Maybe one day I’ll be able to let my boyfriend tickle me. Maybe one day I’ll be able to cuddle. Maybe one day it won’t freak me out for someone to randomly touch my arm or leg. Maybe one day I will sleep for more than 2 hours without waking up from a nightmare. Maybe one day he will disappear from my memory. Maybe one day I’ll be able to talk to those with the same name as his. Maybe one day I’ll be able to look my mother in the eyes without remembering the pain I caused her. Maybe one day I’ll be able to visit my father’s home again, a place I haven’t been since the abuse because it’s too painful to sleep in that bed and sit on that couch and cuddle under those blankets. Maybe one day…. 

But tonight I will lie down. I will silently cry until I can stay awake no longer. I will again try to convince myself that it wasn’t my fault. I will wake up often, sweaty, crying, trying to escape. I will realize that my nightmares are based off of reality. And tomorrow I will put on a smile and walk around as if nothing is wrong, only to have memories of him touching me pervading through my brain. 

I am numb… I am broken… But I will not be silent any longer.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

My sophomore year of high school, I was sexually assaulted. The odd thing about this incident is that I didn’t even realize it until I got to college. At a youth group dance in Charlotte, I was dancing with a boy. The things I remember about him are that he was an obnoxious kid and very drunk that night. All of a sudden, he deliberately put both of his hands on my boobs. I immediately moved his hands away but I’m pretty sure I didn’t say anything. At the end of the song, I grabbed my friend’s hand and quickly walked away, commenting how weird and annoying that was. But, I danced with that kid until the end of the song. After he had essentially groped me. 

The reason I didn’t remember this happening wasn’t because my brain blocked it out due to extreme psychological distress. I simply forgot about it because it really didn’t have any major effect on me. 


This is my third time attending SpeakOut, and every year, I debate whether or not to submit this story. I have previously and repeatedly decided against it because it doesn’t even compare to the pain shared by the other survivors of rape and repeated sexual abuse that submit to this blog. However, I finally decided that my story is important. 


Now, as a passion feminist and advocate for survivors of all forms of sexual and interpersonal violence, I wish that I had become angry at this boy. I wish that I had turned around and yelled at him. I wish that I had yelled for everyone to hear, and I wish that he had become so embarrassed that he never touched anyone inappropriately again, and I wish that I had talked to my fellow chapter of girls about it later. 


The reason that these things didn’t happen was because I didn’t know it was that bad. Annoying and inappropriate, yes, but not bad enough to warrant the label “sexual assault.” I didn’t realize that this one incident reflected the power dynamics between men and women, and that observers would probably blame alcohol or my low-cut dress for his inability to control his sexual urges. I am upset at myself that I, as a smart, confident, and educated teenager, didn’t recognize the oppression acting directly upon me. I am upset that high school students, especially in a youth group setting that is highly-educated about topics such as alcohol abuse, HIV/AIDS, homelessness, and body image, are not educated about sexual assault prevention and support for survivors. I am upset that we are socialized to think that behavior like boob-grabbing and cat-calling is okay under the excuse that it’s just “guys being guys.” 


I now realize that it’s important to speak out even against seemingly insignificant incidents like mine, because if they go unnoticed and unacknowledged, violence is perpetuated in our society. If we educate our world, and especially young people, about sexual and interpersonal violence, talk back to individuals who commit these acts, and empower survivors to share their stories, eventually we can stop these incidents from happening.
I wasn't raped -- or at least I don't like to think I was. I have told myself for years that I wasn't. What happened to me was something that I didn't consent to, but I hesitate to call it rape because I feel like what happened to me wasn't worthy of being called rape. Perhaps sexual assault is a better word for what happened (not to say that sexual assault is in any way lesser than rape, but what I mean is that I feel my experience better fits the definition of sexual assault). Continuous, on going, non-consented sexual assault.

He first started paying attention to me during my 8th grade year. I was 13. He was known as one of the most popular boys in school -- he was on the football team, flipped his hair around a lot, and had the most piercing blue eyes I've ever seen. I grew to hate those eyes.


In the spring of my 8th grade year, he asked me to be his girlfriend. He told me that there were lots of girls he could date, but that he "chose me" -- almost as if I had no say in it. I was young, inexperienced -- I had never dated anyone before. I had never kissed anyone before. I had never been touched before. I had never been forced to touch before.


I was told that he was too good for me. He was handsome, popular, everyone wanted him -- I was just the girl who was smart, kind of nerdy, and wasn't "pretty enough" to be with someone like him. And to be honest, I believed most of the things I was told, both by him and by my classmates. I never felt very pretty, or even very smart. I couldn't understand why anyone would ever be interested in me, but I didn't want to say any of this because I was "lucky" to be with a guy like him. I was told to count my blessings while I still had them.


We stayed together for a few years. For the first year or so, he was my backbone. I was a blossoming teenager overwhelmed by hormones and my own conflicting emotions and beliefs. I hated myself, but he never seemed to hate me. At least, he never told me he hated me. I guess I'll never quite know if he did or not.


About a year and a half into our relationship, things started to change. I was 15 and still felt pretty damn lucky to be with a guy like him -- up to this point, he had been the model boyfriend. My friends liked him, my family loved him, and he genuinely seemed to care about me -- or so I thought. I never really questioned his motives for anything he did, because I always felt inferior to him. The cool kid/nerd stereotype dominated our relationship, so I never felt that it was my place to stand up to him. Over anything.


At 15 (he was 16 at the time), he started telling me how attractive I was, but in a way much different than before. Words like "beautiful" and "pretty" turned into "sexy" and "bangable". I noticed this change, but again, I never felt that it was my place to question it. I didn't want to upset him.


Soon after, I noticed he wanted to spend more and more time in his room. "I just want to cuddle", he'd say. He'd always make sure his door was shut and locked because he "didn't want anyone to take a second of time he had with me away from him." Again, I didn't question it. This continued for awhile before he proposed, "maybe we should cuddle naked." I wasn't comfortable with my body, nor was I comfortable with him seeing it. I was 15, and I knew I had no business being naked in front of a boy I didn't want to be naked in front of. For awhile, he listed to my "no's" and "not now's", but this didn't last long. Suddenly, my "no's" weren't nearly enough.


He never saw anything wrong in what he did. To him, it wasn't wrong that he'd pull at my shirt, sometimes popping threads and leaving me fearful that my mother would notice the small tears in the seams of my clothing. He didn't think it was wrong that he'd grab my hands, forcefully holding one over his ever-present erection and holding the other away so I couldn't resist. Sometimes he'd let me have a hand free, but it never did me much good. I told him I didn't want to, but he'd always unzip his pants anyways. "This is what people do when they're in love," he'd say. "You love me, don't you?"


As ashamed as I am to say it, I did love him. He had been so good to me, or so I had convinced myself. I wanted to let it go and forgive him the first time he told me that I should give him a blowjob because "all of his friend's girlfriends gave them to their boyfriends." I tried to forget it when the second time, he held my head down and told me I was "doing so good," as I struggled to catch a breath. I tried to resist time and time again and he broke me down and turned my no's into yes's, convincing me that it was what people did when they were in love.


And I felt that I had to. Because we were in love, right?


This lasted until shortly after my 17th birthday. Even then, it took me quite a while after our breakup to realize that what he was doing wasn't right. Even when it was happening, I knew it wasn't okay, but I felt defenseless. Any "no" I had was protested until I simply couldn't fight any longer. I never consented, but at a certain point, I couldn't fight. I was tired of hearing the seams of my shirts pop, the buttons on my shirts coming loose from all the tugging, the constant "but if you loved me..."'s. At a certain point, one becomes weak. I became weak. And I just couldn't fight anymore.


So really, I don't think what happened to me was rape. At least I don't like to think it was. But I do know that I never consented to what happened. I never asked to have my shirts ripped, to struggle to breath, to have to taste his foul cum as he told me how much he loved me. I can't tell you how many times I've cried over everything that happened. I can't tell you how hard it's been to let myself love again, or to trust that someone actually might love me, and not just want to take advantage of me. I can't tell you how often I've struggled with the concept that sometimes, even saying "no" wasn't enough to stop what happened.


I really don't know how to understand what happened to me. At 19, I still don't feel like I can fully comprehend the depths of why it happened and why my "no"'s never seemed to be enough. 


But what I do know is that I pray it never happens to anyone else.
It’s a strange feeling because I was still pretty intoxicated and extremely exhausted when everything took place. Yet the details of the actual event will never leave my mind. No matter how hard I try I cannot repress them. I am not sure exactly how everything commenced. The only thing I remember is lying on the bed about to fall asleep. My body felt numb and nostalgic. I was lying on my stomach. One of the boys turned over my body and took off my belt. He then continued to remove my pants. I’ll never forget them saying that I was expecting something because I was not wearing undergarments. Little did they know this was a trend I had first tried when I was in ninth grade after seeing that my friends did it and it was something that stuck. It was not intended to be risqué because in my eyes no one was ever going to see me without my pants on anyways. To me it was just one less layer of clothing to ride up my behind. My body instantly went fully numb. It felt like I was a patient in surgery who is under novacane but wakes up midway through the surgery, and is unable to tell anyone that I can feel everything and stop them from continuing on with it. I couldn’t even tell you if he used a condom. All I remember is how badly it hurt and that one of the other boys put his penis in my face and continuously told me to give him Becky. Becky was a term from a song at them time which meant to give him head. I kept turning my head back and forth in order to keep his penis from touching my face, even though it didn’t work. I kept saying no and was grunting in discontent. Sadly, none of this stopped them. 

He flipped me over and continued to have sex with me. I lied there like a corpse, dead and cold. The other two boys sat in the doorway of the closet and watched the whole thing take place. I felt alone, petrified, and disoriented. I’m assuming my friend finally came out of the bathroom because they all left the room. I lay there, unable to move. But my torture wasn’t over. Another one of the boys came back in the room. He flipped me back over so that I was lying on my back and began to have sex with me. I remember him using a plastic grocery bag as a condom. Finally he left the room and I was eventually able to gather the strength to put on my pants and sit up. My whole body had felt numb as if it was entirely asleep. I was in a daze that I couldn’t get out of. One of the boys came back in the room and sat next to me on the bed. He asked me if I was going to tell the police. I was crying but shook my head and said no. He asked me again and after reassuring him that I wasn’t going to tell anyone he left me alone again. 

My friend came back in the room and said that they had hit him and told him that if we told anyone they were going to kill us. He also said that they told him I wanted it. However, he reassured me that they were gone. It was about five minutes after the incident that it hit me as to what had just happened. I immediately fell to the ground in a panic. I began balling crying as if I had just gotten the call that my family member had died. Yet it wasn’t a family member that had died, it was me. 

I was bleeding profusely and crying hysterically. At some point I fell asleep and woke up within the next couple of hours. I called my best friends too many times to even count. I was scared, upset and I didn’t know what to do. My friend awoke and said that he had watched me until I had fallen asleep, which was comforting. But it couldn’t make up for the events that had happened just hours prior. I waited until my best friend responded to my calls and texts telling me that I could come over to her house. I threw my two rings on the floor and left my friend’s apartment. 
There was a house party across the street when I was staying at my cousin's house. I was 17 years old. A guy five years older than me started a conversation, and he seemed nice enough. He charmed me with lines like "you're the prettiest girl here" and "I could've gotten with any of these girls, but I didn't," but to tell you the truth, the whole thing made me uncomfortable. I wasn't used to the attention. I didn't know how to say no. The alcohol I had barely masked my discomfort, but he didn't seem to notice. 

Ten minutes later, I was in his truck, his friend driving. His kisses felt strange. I felt no attraction to him at all, and all I could think about was that I was technically cheating on the only boyfriend I ever had in high school. I spoke up, finally, about my boyfriend. "He doesn't have to know." 

In the parking lot of his apartment, I told him I didn't want to do anything, and he said it was okay. I was afraid he would leave me stranded at 2 in the morning. I kept saying I didn't want to do anything, before he lifted me onto his bed, before he pulled my skirt up, before he peeled my ratty underwear off, before the haze in my memory in which I only remember feeling pain. I don't fully remember what happened in the seconds before my rape. It is the only memory I have successfully been able to block out of my mind. But I remember afterwards I stumbled over the bed, confused, and probably made a ruckus tripping over the guitar on the floor. I politely asked him to drive me back, and through the whole ride, he tried to convince me to change my mind by rubbing my thigh and touching me. I felt like I was less than a person. It was 4 am when I got back. I woke up three hours later emotionally numb with this weird tunnel vision, and stayed that way for a month. And even though everyone, including my boyfriend, told me it wasn't my fault that I had been violated, I felt like I shouldn't have been rebellious, I shouldn't have ended up at that party, I should've been more assertive, and all the "should haves" and "shouldn't haves" stayed in the back of my mind while I spent the entire summer before college wishing someone could've taken away the pain. Eventually, I stopped having spontaneous flashes of that memory. I covered it up, in a place that I try not to touch. Maybe one day I can forget the entire thing instead of just the few split seconds that I can no longer remember.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

The day after graduation, every high school senior in my county went to Myrtle Beach. It was the first night there and possibly my third time ever getting drunk. A friend and I showed up at the house of some of our other "friends" and were quickly led into the basement with two guys. The girl I was there with disappeared and I was left alone in the nastiest, darkest basement I could have imagined in a beach house with "a guy from one of my classes." 

Despite repeatedly saying no, asking him to get off of me, asking why people were watching--I couldn't get him to stop and I was too confused to really understand what was going on. He offered to get me high, which I thought would make him fall asleep and get the fuck off me, but it only encouraged him more. I thought I was a bitch for not making him happier-for denying him the right to just use my fucking body.

I finally gave in, thinking that I was just being a cunt, and when someone walked in on us I had a panic attack. As I groped around on the disgusting floor crying, unable to breath, desperately trying to find my clothes and get out, he continually kept telling me that I wasn't being fun, that I came to beach week to have a good time, and he didn't understand why I wouldn't want to fuck him. He took my clothes, threw me back on the bed, and proceeded to fight with me. I don't remember how, but we ended up fighting for the doorway. Each time I grabbed the knob, he would just slam it shut and continue him "fun" speech, seemingly unaware that I falling apart. It wasn't until my friend started looking for me at the door that he let me leave and we immediately walked outside and began our walk up a busy road at 2 in the morning. He had the audacity to text me "hey" the next day.

I let this get to me for two years. I came to college completely unable to cope and failed multiple classes (partially because I just never wanted to get out of bed). I couldn't explain the gravity to anyone and I thought it was my fault for giving in, for the way that I let it affect my grades, and for the few people who made me feel like I wasn't truly raped. 

This semester marks the beginning of a new life for me and I want to encourage everyone that I can to get past their pain. We're more than the things that have happened to us.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

I was seventeen, naïve and inexperienced—he was almost twenty. I felt the warning signs early on, but ignored them. He would tell me lavish stories, seemingly too good to be true. He would find bizarre reasonings for events that occurred, bizarre religious phenomenons, numerical answers, twisting words to find alternative answers. I started to feel strange a few weeks in, but I persisted, like a detective unraveling a mystery plot, oddly attracted to what I could not understand. At the time I thought he was a little strange, but he was really nice to me. In the end, I realized he was completely delusional, and dangerous—I didn't have a clue.

We dated for less than a month, but the experience still haunts me. I had taken the train out to visit him one day, we decided to hike in the snow and explore an abandoned factory. He took me to his house nearby aferwards—I was unaware that no one was home before we arrived. He fell asleep in his room tired from the hike, and I nodded off shortly after. I woke up to him tearing at my clothing, sinking lower and lower until my pants were gone, his jaw aligned with my hips and shoving his fingers inside of me. I didn't want this, I told him things were moving too fast. No comment. I spoke again and no answer. I lifted my voice a third time, squirming away and telling him no, and his reply still sits with me today,

"Just shut up and enjoy this."

I froze, unmoving and silent, fearful of this strange character that I had trusted with too much. What the hell was going on. I sat there, eyes brimming with tears, until he broke away dissatisfied. I sprang up, swept my clothes off the floor, and locked myself in the bathroom. Ten minutes later, his mother arrived back with his sister, and I asked to be driven to the train.

I cried on the way back home, confused as to what had just taken place, denying that it did. I hadn't spoken to him for a few days, but that next weekend he confessed to sleeping with another woman in the city. I was so relieved that I didn’t have to explain why I wanted out, but as I tried to break up with him he threatened suicide. He admitted that he owned a gun, and told me that I was his perfect match, that I was his Lilith and he was the Devil.

The next few days were a nightmare; I was terrified, I couldn’t believe how I had gotten into this mess in the first place. I cut all contact, and a few days later he messaged me--he was at the subway closest to my house, and he was coming for me. That we were going to run away together have the best night of our lives. I didn’t sleep that night, checked the locks on our doors about a thousand times, huddled at the window hoping he wouldn’t come for me.

The next day, I met him in a public place—he had slept in an ATM enclosure that night. I just had to do it, to stop the stalking, the madness. I didn’t want to tell my parents about this mess, that I wanted a restraining order. I made it clear to him that I never wanted to see him again, and he finally accepted my refusal. HE accepted, as if I had no say in the matter. After we broke up, he called me a few times from a mental hospital. Every couple or so months up until a year and a half later, I would receive an email from him wanting me back. He went from apologetic, to irate by the end of his unanswered communication—and then finally stopped.

What bothers me the most, is the fact that years later I still live in confusion, asking myself: Was it assault? I feel guilt for asking myself that question, guilty that I had wound up with someone like that in the first place. The thoughts race, was anything that he said true? Was he lying about the fact that he believed he was the devil, did he really own a gun? And did he hurt her too…was it my fault that I didn’t speak up?

All I know, is that he was manipulative and was emotionally abusive, an angry pathological liar. All I know, is that I was seventeen, and I did not consent. All I know, is that I said no.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

A Bag of Ketamine

I lost my virginity to a bag of ketamine
Back in high school, when snorting shit was my scene
I was with a friend 
In a room on a bed
He chopped up a long skinny line and said,
“Babe, you go right ahead”

Five minutes later,
My body fell into the sheets
Like a limp dishrag in a pile of laundry
I never saw it coming 
Until he locked the door that led
To me lying on that bed
Then, I heard him say to me
“Good shit like this isn’t free”

It came on real fast, that long line of K
It melted my legs and weighed me down
It snatched my sight away
I was no longer in that room lying on a bed,
No longer with a friend
But everything he did, 
I could see happening in my head
And I heard every word he said

He put my rag hand on his cock
But my fingers couldn’t grip 
Then he tried to put it in my mouth
And my tongue was numb
And the smell of his dick made me sick
He said he could tell by the way I fucked
That I must be new at this

As soon as he was in me
For just a moment, my eyes cried
“Please don’t…”
Whispered words 
Trapped inside my mind
But the ketamine held my mouth
Those words never made it out
Just the exhale of my breath
When the K floated me to the ceiling 
Up to the very top
I saw me lying on my back
Lifeless on a bed
And his body on me, humping like a dog

When he finished I was alone
A limp dishrag covered in cum
“Put your clothes back on; I’m done,”
Before he left the room, zipping his jeans he said,
“You weren’t such a bad lay;
I hope we can still be friends”
No one noticed when I left the party,
In my sticky cum-covered shirt, 
No one told me that my sweatpants 
Were on backwards and inside out

I don’t remember how I got home 
Oh, I hope I didn’t drive
But I got there and felt a little surprised
That the kitchen looked the same
The dinner dishes still in the sink
Under the soft nightlight, they remained
The papers-clutter-books 
Were still strewn on my bedroom floor
None of it had changed

In the bathroom, I peeled off
The cum-stuck shirt from my chest
And looking in the mirror at myself
I noticed 
My pants were on backwards-inside-out
“You stupid wasted slut—can’t even dress yourself!”

Even after I showered 
Until my skin turned red
My body felt like an old dishrag
The kind that never washes clean,
That outa be thrown out
So I tucked my body into bed
My scrubbed-dirty-dishrag self

I never told him I didn’t want to
I never said no or put up a fight
Or stop! This isn’t right
I said yes to snorting lines that night
With a friend in a room on a bed
Back in high school, when snorting shit was my scene

I guess that means
I agreed 
To give up my virginity
For a bag of ketamine 
Because good shit like that isn’t free

Yeah, good shit like that 
Isn’t free.

Friday, September 20, 2013

I was a sophomore in high school-a 15 year old mess of emotions, low self esteem, and insecurities. I went to a party with a friend, and he came up to me with an easy smile and the words, "Wanna dance, beautiful?" Of course I did, he called me beautiful, and for someone that hated themselves as much as I did, that was a quasi-religious experience. We exchanged numbers, and the next day, he texted me and asked if I wanted to hang out. On our first date, he kissed me forcefully. I was surprised and happy, but somewhere deep down, it didn't feel right. He needed to know who I was around, how long I would be gone, why it was taking so long to text him back. One time, I didn't text him back, and every time I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket, I felt a trill of inexplicable fear in the pit of my stomach. The next time I saw him after I didn't answer, he snapped. He pushed me against a wall and told me he would come find me if I did that again. I told him it was over. He pushed me onto the ground and got up in my face and said,"If it's over, my life is over. You want it to be over? Fine, I'll blow my brains out tonight." I sobbed apologies and begged him not to do it. He agreed, and just like that, he was back to his normal, easy self. I left scared and confused.

It got worse and worse. On one date, I refused to take off my shirt. He ripped it off and pinned me down and hurt me. He hurt me so badly yet so carefully, every bruise and cut was easily covered by my clothes. He got more and more violent, and suddenly, apologetic. He told me he was a terrible person and that without me, he would die. "Will you please stay with me-make my life worth living?" Of course, I had to. He would be sweet and apologetic and NORMAL for a while, but then the violence and sexual abuse would start small and build back up, culminating in a huge blowout and tearful threats of suicide on his part, and unwilling acceptance on mine.

I had nowhere to turn, and thought of suicide myself. Eventually, through the help of a close friend, I got to a safe place. I'll never forget the look on her face when she asked, "So, you weren't ACTUALLY raped?" I said no, and she looked...disappointed, almost. As if my pain suddenly wasn't worth the effort she was putting forth. I wasn't raped, but I was sexually abused and traumatized, and that will never be enough for my family and friends. My panic attacks are seen as overreactions and I am told, "Just get over it."

A week ago, he texted me and said he was going to "pay me a visit." He said he knew what part of campus I lived on, and that he would find me. I learned fairly quickly that that wasn't true and he was just trying to intimidate me, but the fear I felt when I received that text was unrivaled.

Will I ever be free from this?
I was so excited to go out on a date with a college boy. I was still in high school and he invited me out to a movie. Halfway through the film, he put his arm around my shoulder, and I felt a giddy schoolgirl rush of having someone take notice of you. He grabbed my hand, and I though the night was going to be perfect.

Until he put my hand on his jeans, right where his erection was. I was so uncomfortable, and put my hand back in my lap. After a few more attempts, the movie ended. He pushed me against the side of his car and started to kiss me furiously, like he was angry. I was terrified of what to do, knowing he was my ride home. I asked if he’d take me home, and he did. We sat in uncomfortable silence, and he kept looking up at me, as angry as he seemed when he kissed me.

Within the next three days, he called me seven times and texted me even more. On the fourth day, he showed up at my job and demanded to know why I hadn’t responded to him. I felt so small, and mumbled that I’d really rather not hear from him again. 

The next few days were terrifying, until it popped up on Facebook that he was “in a new relationship” with another girl. I was relieved, but terrified for his new girlfriend. I am still terrified for any person he encounters, because my experience with him makes me believe he could do so much worse, and that he thinks it’s okay.

Friday, March 29, 2013

Forty-six years ago I was 18, a freshman, away from home for the first time at college. I went with a group of girls to our first party given by an upper classman. I was drugged and raped. I tried to push him off and yelled NO, NO, NO... In those days there was a curfew at the dorm and serious repercussions if you were late. I ended up staying up all night in the bushes crying. I could not tell anyone and felt a tremendous amount of shame guilt,and pain all these years. I knew I would be blamed for the rape. I ended up leaving school and getting married the end of the semester only out of fear and shame. I just wanted to be safe. I was terrified that it could happen again. I could never tell anyone all these years. The memory of that night is forever etched in my mind and the incident permanently changed my life. It robbed me of more than just my virginity. 

I grew up in an era where rape victims were always blamed. I knew a coed that was gang raped and the defense attorney said she asked for it since she was wearing black rubber rain boots and a skirt. The boys were found innocent. She ended up in a mental institution. 


Do not let this happen to women ever again. It seems as though nothing has changed. Ignoring this issue continues to sentence innocent victims to a lifetime of pain, shame and humiliation. 

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The night started off innocent. Just talking at a party. He seemed nice enough. The alcohol made me bolder, more assertive, and made him more attractive. Talking turned into dancing, turned into me bringing him back to my room. Next thing I know, theres a boy in my bed, and I'm saying no. But the thing is, he keeps hearing yes. I say no when he shoves his fingers inside me so forcefully that it causes me to cry out in pain. I say no as he pushes down on my head, like he's dunking me underwater, and forces his penis into my mouth. I say no as he starts to put a condom on. I say no as I try to push him off, try to keep him from pulling my underwear down, but he's stronger than me. I say no as he forces himself inside me. Immediately after he stops and I breath a sigh of relief as I realize he's finally given up. "Ok" he says. "We can stop." But only on his terms. I hate myself for going against my better judgement. I hate myself for bringing him back. I hate myself for not saying something to my roommate, who was 10 feet away in our common room, on the other side of the closed door. I hate myself for not fighting him harder. I just hope someday I'll be able to stop hating myself.