Erin
May 10, 2002. I had just finished college in December and had an 8-month break until I started graduate school. I was working 2nd shift at a residential home for people with mental illness. The schedule was perfect for that time in my life – I got out at 11pm, which was just in time to catch up with my friends at the bars, and could sleep until 1pm the next day after staying up late. Life was good. I had a great group of friends that I was spending almost every evening with. I was friends with almost all of them separately as well as wholly, except for one in particular. We vowed to change that one night when we found out that for a few days, we’d be the only two in the group who would be in town. We made plans for me to call him when I got out of work to find out where he was so we could meet up and hang out.
So I did just that – I called him at 11pm to find out that he was actually only about 10 minutes from where I worked, hanging out with a friend of his from high school at his college apartment. So I drove over there, looking forward to hanging out with my friend, J, and meeting some new people. I was extremely sociable back then – outgoing, loved to meet new people and make people laugh. I was the girl in the bar who was constantly flitting from table to table, catching up with each group of people, and meeting tons of new people in the process. I was never one to shy away from any new experience. So, like I said, I was excited about getting to this party and meeting up with J and his friends.
We got back and all hunkered down in C’s bedroom – C and I sitting on his bed, and J sitting on one of the other bunk beds. Before long, J was asleep, and C and I were just sitting up talking. Eventually, we started to kiss, and then somehow the next thing I knew, he was inside of me. And it hurt. Sex had never been painful for me before, but this time it really hurt. I remember that. I remember saying no, telling him I didn’t want him, trying to push him off of me. He was too heavy, though. Not too strong - it’s not like he was holding me down, or pinning my arms down, or anything like that. My hands and arms were totally free to try to push and pull and do whatever else. He was just too heavy – his body mass was more than I could handle to push off or twist out from underneath. I just remember lying there crying, telling him he was hurting me, begging him to stop. I yelled for J, pleading with him to wake up and save me. He didn’t. Finally, C passed out kind of half on top of me, but it was enough that I could get out from under him. I pulled my pants back on, pulled my bra and shirt down. I couldn’t find my underwear at all, so I left without it. And I almost left without my shoes, but finally found them buried under a pillow that one of us had pushed off the bed. I got in my car and drove home, too shocked to even comprehend what had just happened to me. The drive was about an hour, and by the time I got home, the reality had sunk in and I was hysterical crying. I crawled into bed with my sister and told her, “I think I was raped.” She didn’t say anything; just held me while I cried until I eventually fell asleep.
The next day, my friend L called to see how my night had gone. I told her, “I think J’s friend raped me.” “Does J know?” “No. How am I supposed to tell him that?”
I spent the rest of the summer hiding from the friends I’d been spending every waking minute with. I stayed in my room, watching rented movies on my computer, in the dark. I listened to sad music. When I did go out, I cowered in the corner of the table. I barely spoke, and looking back, it feels like I never laughed. Over the course of that summer, I went to visit my friend D up at our college (my alma mater). I told him what happened. He was a fellow social work major, so I knew that I could trust him and that he would just do what I needed him to do – listen. He did, and then he encouraged me to see a counselor. Or tell my mom. I couldn’t face the idea of telling my mom, so I sought out a counselor. I went and told her my story, and do you what her first question was? “What were you wearing?” I knew at that moment that this was the last time I’d see her. So I dropped the counseling idea, and just went on with my life, masking my fear and depression.
I went to graduate school – moved to a city 300 miles from home, from my comfort zone. I didn’t know a soul. I was shopping one day at Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and had a massive panic attack. I knew then that I couldn’t keep hiding from this. I scheduled an appointment at the University Counseling Center and met with a fantastic counselor who really helped me work through the fear, anxiety, anger, and sadness I was feeling. By the end of my 14 months in grad school I wasn’t the same girl I had been before I was raped, but I was definitely closer to being her than I’d been for months.
I did eventually tell my mom. And J. And our other friends. J was shocked. He stopped answering calls from C, and would ignore him when he saw him. Three years after I was raped, I saw C out at a local bar. I totally froze…and then burst into tears in the arms of the man who is now my fiancee. We’d only been casually dating for three months, but he knew what had happened to me. I think it took everything in him to stay with me and not go after C.
I felt betrayed. I felt betrayed by my own body, somehow. For a long time, I was racked with feelings of guilt. I felt guilty calling what happened to me a “rape.” I wasn’t held down, there was no weapon involved, it wasn’t a total stranger, no one was completely wasted, there was no real fighting going on…it didn’t fit the classic depictions of a “rape scene.” I felt like I was taking something away from the women who’d actually experienced a “real” rape.
I still have nightmares sometimes, but they are increasingly more few and far between. My fiancee is an incredibly supportive, patient, and kind person, and knows exactly what to say and do when I have a breakdown. For years following the rape, I was very aware of the anniversary date. But the last two years, it hasn’t even occurred to me until after the fact that the date had passed. I feel like I’m approaching normalcy again. But still, every now and then, when we go out back home, I get anxious about the idea that he might be there. I’ve definitely never been that girl again – the outgoing, social butterfly I’d been before I was raped. People who’ve known me for a long time can tell. To anyone else, I’m still outgoing and fun, but… I know that I’m holding back.
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Aubrey
I am safe.
I am rooming with a friend from a while back. I like my job (except for the little crappy bits) and don’t hate going to work. In fact, I like it a little. I have gotten two or three paychecks, which means I have 18 dollars, but I’m fed and safe. But today I’m sick-ish, and I hate sick because it reminds me…
(All delicate ears stop reading now. I’m not joking.)
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Casey
I was molested when I was fourteen years old. I was at a renaissance faire, that I am still a regular at. It was my first time going. My sister, who I’m very close to, had gone before and was excited to show me around.
For some background knowledge, I had an extremely low self esteem. I had just gotten out of middle school, where I was teased daily by several boys. I found a diary from that time where I wrote that one of them told me that I should just kill myself and put the rest of the world out of its misery. That’s the kind of thing I heard every day for two years.
That’s when we met him. He was a big flirt. He was a boost to my self esteem.
