Rhonda
If I close my eyes I can still feel the treads on the truck floor mat digging into my knees, although it barely registered at the time. I was praying.
Easy to do on a truck’s floorboard when you’re only 9. We were in the parking lot of the motel where his “aunt” lived. If she was home, he’d stay for a chat, then drive us back to his house (I was staying overnight with his daughter). But, if she wasn’t, he’d be back for me.
I fell to my knees and prayed she’d be home as the treads dug into my knees. She wasn’t. I was still on the floor when he opened the door.
How I knew what was going to happen has vanished in the mists of memory, but I KNEW and I was scared shitless.
He led me to the bed, then pulled out a box of Polaroid pictures of various naked women, possibly some men, I can’t recall them all now. There were dozens of them and the images frightened me. These were not the same as the airbrushed beauties I snuck a peek at via my Dad’s Playboys, not by a long shot. These were dirty and smelled funny, just like the room itself. I kept asking him to put them away, which he finally did.
The rape itself only ended because I yelled and screamed that it hurt. Screamed as if my life depended on someone hearing me, which it did. In its own twisted way, I’m glad it happened in a motel where we were surrounded by ears. What if he’d taken me to some cabin in the woods with no one near enough to hear me scream?
It took about 5 years before I talked to my mother about it (and only after she read it in my diary; many years of distrust followed, but we’re solid enough now). The man was a friend of hers, I didn’t want to hurt her. How screwed up is that?! I was also scared I wouldn’t be believed. I was only 9 after all.
After much yelling and accusations of lying (just as I’d feared), my mother took me to a doctor to confirm. She then channeled her anger on him and wanted him prosecuted. I spend so many nights lying awake with visions of my face on the front page of the newspaper. Everyone would know! My friends at school would shun or bully me and I would have to live with the shame for the rest of my life. I talked her into not going through with it. A coward’s stance, maybe, but I was still a teenager and the courtroom drama unfolding in my nightly dreams was indeed a nightmare.
Over the course of my young life, one that many kids envied as I travelled the world with my musician parents, other men touched me, tried to get me to give them blowjobs, so much so that it became almost normal. I started to pick up the signs and avoided being alone with any man. As I became a young adult, though, I lost a lot of weight, gained a great deal of confidence, and started taking control of my sex life.
Or so I thought.
He was drop dead gorgeous. A soccer player celebrating his team’s win at a bar. We danced, we drank, we laughed, we hit it off and the sparks were flying. Going back to his hotel room was the natural course of the evening. Why, of course the whole team’s coming back to the hotel with us, they’re all staying there, not to worry. The rum dulled my senses and I missed the signs my younger and more cautious self would have noticed.
The next three or four hours were a living nightmare. I spent the time completely out of my body. I could almost see myself down there from my vantage point on the ceiling. I counted the tiles over and over again, reciting an endless litany, a silent prayer (something I never did again for real after that first failure).
One at a time they climbed on top of me, laughing and joking at their good fortune. When one finished, the next in line (and there was literally a lineup at the bottom of the bed) would climb on. I could hear some giving each other high-fives as they switched places. More than a few went to the back of the line to give me another shot.
One even tried to force me to shift my head and look him in the eye, but, when it was all over, I wouldn’t be able to identify any of them if I had to. My eyes were transfixed on that ceiling the entire time, quietly crying. The all-encompassing shame meant I’d never report it anyway.
All of that ends right here and right now!
I’ve spent years carrying these (and other) incidents locked up within myself. No, I haven’t seen a therapist, and yes, it would probably be a good idea. I’m 46 now, mother to a wonderful 23-year-old autistic son and living in blissful sin with my man for 8 years now. A good man, too, they are out there. He knows some of my past and loves us both anyway.
This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone about the gang rape. Thank you for being there and listening, hopefully it will help someone else out there to know they’re not alone and they WILL survive. I did; you will, too.
Emma James
I was molested when I was eight years old, maybe nine. My memory is fuzzy like that. What I do recall is that he was fourteen and lived next door. He “taught” me how to French kiss and played “Doctor” with me behind the locked door of his basement bedroom. I told my parents in a vague way. They mentioned something to his parents. I think he got grounded. I, on the other hand, no longer felt safe.
I couldn’t articulate that loss of safety at eight, nor at eighteen. For years, I told the broad strokes of the events as a joke, not acknowledging the damage.
There were other violations, too. Some remain shadowed, articulated in my mind and body as simple, overwhelming distrust of particular men – family friends, family members – with whom I crossed paths as a child. The ones that happened to me as a adult are more distinct, and more complicated.
I gravitate toward violence, you see. Not because I want it, but because it makes it so much easier to be outside my self. Now, I’m not saying that rough sex is bad. In theory, I think it can be a lot of fun – in a loving relationship, where trust is a component. I’ve never had it that way. My experiences with extremely aggressive sex have always required two very different components: 1) substantial amounts of alcohol, and 2) a stranger – either in physical identity or emotional availability.
Almost all the adult violations I’ve experienced were acted out with my permission.
That’s the fucked up, bizarre reality I’m currently processing and sincerely wanting to change.
My recent epiphany was that, during most of my adult relationships, whenever I’ve said yes, I’ve actually meant NO and whenever I’ve said no, I’ve actually meant YES. Not in EVERY SINGLE instance, but far too many times for my peace of mind.
(And guys think they have a handle on the caliber of mind fucks and mixed signals they get from women… Ha!)
Before I go on, I must pause to say please, please, PLEASE do not interpret what I’m saying as illicit approval of men ignoring women when they say “no.” IT IS NOT. I’m simply revealing part of a dynamic I’ve discovered in my PERSONAL behavior that may resonate with some folks who discovered as a child that “no” was simply ignored.
So, let me explain (and here’s where it’s gonna get kinda graphic)…
I’ve said “yes” to a lot of behavior with which I really wasn’t okay, in the given circumstances. Or, actually, I’ve said “SURE,” to a lot of men. Not all the scenarios involved aggressive sex, but I meant NO each time.
SURE to him sneaking me into a hotel room.
SURE to him masturbating on my face.
SURE to him grabbing my crotch in front of a group of friends.
SURE to him using that belt on me but not letting me use it on him.
SURE to him being married.
SURE to him not using a condom.
SURE to him leaving bruises on my breasts that took weeks to disappear.
The list of “sures” is seemingly endless. Thirty years worth of yes meaning no.
I’ve said “NO,” too.
NO to him saying I’m beautiful. Whatever.
NO to him immediately responding to a voicemail. Don’t you have a life?
NO to him asking me what feels good. I don’t know.
NO to him asking me what I want. What do YOU want?
NO to him wanting to be with me. How dare you invade my space!
My thinking (if you wanna call it that) has gone something along the lines of, “If I say YES to this, I will die.”
Because YES – a real YES – means vulnerability. It means connection. It means I’ve got to BE THERE, IN THE MOMENT…
Aw, HELL no!
Give me that out-of-body experience. That’s safe. I’ve got control over that. He can’t hurt me. He can’t break my trust. He can’t betray me.
Because I’ve already betrayed myself.
Which doesn’t really matter because at least I’m safe.
HUH?
Yep, it’s taken me all this time to get the following epiphany: my brain comes up with some COCKAMAMIE theorems.
I’m ready to rewrite them.
I’m on the road to a place – just around the corner, please – where yes means YES and no means NO. It feels like I’m about halfway there. I’m no longer a child. I know what I want, need and deserve. I have tools by which to stay SAFE, by which to reconstruct boundaries and rebuild my self.
That’s one of the perks of adulthood.
Now my wish is that anyone – everyone, actually, woman or man – who lives with a similar misalignment of word and definition finds the courage and support to heal.
Be kind. Be honest. Be loving. Be loved.
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Emma James writes at Pleasure Notes.
Lindsay
What do my grandfather, the father of a girl I babysat for, and an employee at undergrad have in common? They all molested or raped me at various points in my life.
Even among family members who have believed me, I have been told to keep silent. This is my story, my life, and silence only breeds fear, isolation, and shame. The silence allows the patriarchal system our society engages in to continue to run rampant; women and men are not equal, therefore men can do what they want with women. This woman says no more!
Most of the molestation and abuse happened when I was young. I was “fortunate” that my grandfather lived far away, so his actions happened infrequently. The last time I saw him at 15, I knew it was okay to fight back. I know it may not have been wise to go see him again but my parents, who did not know what he had done at that time, pressured me to see him because he was “sick.” They meant with cancer. I say he was sick mentally as well. I was proud of myself for being able to stand up to him at that moment and reclaim my body. That felt empowering because with him before, and the father of the girl I babysat for, I did not have the strength or ability to take that same stand.
My grandfather and the father of the girl I babysat for were people I should have been able to trust. I did not know anything different aside from the abuse with my grandfather but that was mixed with a loving, tender, fun side too. With the father, I trusted him so much. In an instant, that vanished. I not only mourn my lost innocence, I also mourn the loss of these relationships and trust.
I was devastated when I was raped again at 20. It was motivated based on hatred for the fact that I was, that I am, an out lesbian; his taunts about my sexuality sometime still haunt me. He threatened me with a gun. I never saw it because he came from behind, but I did not want to find out if he really had one. I blamed myself for a few years after because I “should” have known better. I had been through this before. I was an ardent feminist who took on sexual violence awareness as my pet project in the feminist club I was treasurer and president for. I realize though that I did do the one thing that was important. In that moment, when he came up behind me, I made a split second decision to SURVIVE. I did not consent to what he did by not running, but I did what it took to make sure that I could be here, alive today. He did physically injure in addition to the actual rape, but the important thing is that I did not die.
Since that experience four years ago, I have gone on quite an amazing healing journey. I have gone through extensive therapy and continue that work today in order to be my best possible self and be present in the work that I do. I have incorporated my love of psychology and passion for social justice into a budding career as a social worker. I have a great group of friends whom I can have a fun time with but can also rely on for emotional support.
I am also at a crossroads spiritually and physically. I have made a commitment to an amazing church community that is progressive and spiritually nurturing: the best combination for this lesbian, feminist, Christian survivor. I can bring my whole self, with all my struggles and joys, and find spiritual connection and comfort. This new chapter to my faith journey has spawned my own Lenten journey for this year where I am making a commitment to treat my body with respect and dignity after years of self-injury and eating disorders, as well as to increase my spiritual development. I feel alive now, and I know I have a long journey ahead of me.
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Lindsay writes at A Lenten Beginning–A Lifetime Journey.
