in november 2007 i was raped. I did not want to call it that at first, did not think it was as serious as an anonymous man jumping out at me in the dark. It was not anonymous. i was raped by a guy i knew from high school. from my hometown. I was drunk and said "no" on the P2P to going home with him. My "no" was not respected. he kept asking and pushing and pressuring. I went home with him. We had sex and even though in everyday life i am outspoken and assertive, in this situation of terror, i was mute. Outwardly mute. Inside i was screaming and my head was spinning. i could not say anything as he breathed on me and clawed at my back with his nails. I could not say anything as he suggested i "finish him off". i want to throw up anything inside me that remembers that feeling. Then, as if we were lovers he wanted me to stay and spend the night cuddling. He did not see, as most perpetrators in a society that supports perpetration, that he had raped me and was not a lover but a terrorist. A terrorist invading my body and numbing my voice. It took me a year to get help. I thought my story was not rape because i said yes. I ignored all the times i had said no- just like he had.

I am a woman, and I am a survivor, but I want to point out that women are not the only ones who suffer through this.

My brother was raped when he was a kid. So was my dad.

I can see the struggle in their eyes, and they fight and suffer too. The voice of men survivors is very limited on this blog... and I just wanted to let people like my father and my brother get heard. Rape doesn't just effect women; it touches us all.

I was 17. I thought I was so old, I thought I could take care of myself. I was a virgin and believed in the goodness of people. I look back and see a girl. A naive, hopeful, innocent girl. Who, possibly, did not deserve what happened to her that night. I was not saving myself for marriage - I just wanted a choice in the matter of losing my virginity. I didn't get one.

He was a senior in college, I was a freshman. I met him 2 days earlier. I was quite the "party girl", and though one drink got me drunk, I pounded back at least 6-8 beers in an hour and a half or so. We went up to his frat room. I told him to lock the door, because I didn't want anyone to walk in on us. Did I want to have sex? No, I just thought we'd hook up. I was completely wasted. We were kissing, his breath filling my lungs, his lips tasting like beer. His hands were everywhere; I remember those the most. My body will never be clean of those handprints.

We were on his couch, and he shifted his weight on top of me. Things were in slow-motion but on fast-forward at the same time. All the beer was kicking in, and that night is filled with snapshots of memories, not all of them linear. The room was dark, but light streamed in between the blinds. I sank into the cushions, and my arms and legs were like dead weight. I couldn't - didn't - say anything. Nothing. I never said no. The word never even got stuck in my throat. There was nothing. Even then, I didn't really expect him to rape me. That happened to OTHER girls, not me, not here at my small, Northeastern private college that looked like a J.Crew catalog come to life.

I know he was wearing plaid flannel boxers. I heard his belt buckle unclasping. I remember looking up at the ceiling, at the upper right corner, and felt him push the waistband of my pants down. I still said nothing. I couldn't move. Everything just sank into the couch. He shoved his fingers inside me, again and again and again. That was the moment everything changed. That was when I thought, "oh. so THIS is how it's gonna go down." I knew then what was going to happen.

After that, my memories are not linear. I have flashes of clarity, of him raping me, and they are violent in their nonviolence. I just laid there, saying nothing.

And here I am, 10 years later, still fighting to wipe his handprints off, still trying to have a normal, healthy relationship. Still trying to forgive myself for not saying no. It has only been recently that I was able to admit - out loud - that he hurt me. Because he did. What he did hurt physically. Emotionally. Psychologically. I will never be the same honest, open, trusting girl. I have turned into a guarded, scared, wounded woman. Fear has snuck into my bones and crippled me. I don't know how other survivors have normal sexual relationships. I don't know how other women who've lost their virginity to violence manage to enjoy and appreciate their bodies again.

I've never told the whole story out loud. I am afraid to hear my voice say the words, I am not sure my voice could handle that much honesty or vulnerability. I am afraid to see the reaction on the person's face when I describe what he did. I am afraid my voice will falter, that I will crumble under the shame.

I am afraid I will never heal. That my body will always be broken, along with my spirit. I struggle every day - looking at me, you'd never know - but if you look hard enough, you'll see it in the outline of my bones and the scars on my arm. So I write, in my journal, on this blog, on pages of lined paper that I throw away. Maybe one day I will be able to give voice to these words.

Rape knows no color—
but red.

the stink of stains
and war widows who must be purified.

Rape knows no language—
but silence.

the screams we put back inside—
after,
embarrassed they were so loud.

Rape knows no shape—
but x’s.

the way they draw cartoon character’s eyes
to show they are dead—
but we’re still alive,
carrying crosses in our vision:
the shape of Christ
who says he’ll share our pain.

I've been trying to tell someone for years. But who? It's hard enough admitting it aloud to myself. I was raped. Even that was difficult.

It's not so much the sympathy I can expect (that I am not looking for, thank you very much) as much as it is the fact that when I tell someone I am afraid it will change their perception of me. I am not necessarily afraid that they won't like me any more or will think that I am weak...it's that, well...

I am afraid that they will think to themselves, "Well that explains a lot."

Like my personality is solely based on the fact that I was raped when I was a kid! That I am sarcastic and sometimes even mean because of what was done to me. It's not true. I know it's not. I'd be just as much of a smartass if I were never raped.

I repressed the memory of my childhood assault until 8th grade. By that time my personality was well over-developed.

So when I tell you, if I tell you, please don't jump to conclusions. I just need you to listen. So please listen, because I have something I need to get off my chest.