Kimberly
It has taken me a very long time to tell the details of my rape. Twenty-three years, in fact. My husband is the only one I have ever fully told. But I can not live with the silence anymore. It is eating me up inside.
I was thirteen and babysitting for a family friend. My mom dropped me off that evening. I brought a night gown with me. I was wearing a green turtleneck, and big bulky sweater with jeans that zipped up the left side instead of the front. I definitely was not dressed to draw attention to myself.
When I got there his wife was working in the kitchen, cooking fish and washing dishes. I was holding the baby. HE had been getting ready in the other room. He came into the living room and came over to me and the baby.
He played with the baby while I was holding him and that is when he kissed me. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. I was in shock and worried about upsetting his wife. Then he decided to run out and get gas. He wanted me to ride with him, but I refused. He kept bugging me until finally his wife told him to leave me alone and go get gas. So he left for a little while. She got ready and I continued to play with the baby.
When they left for the concert, I called my Mom and begged her to come and get me when they got back instead of having me spend the night. I didn’t tell her why. She said she was not going to get up in the middle of the night when I could just stay where I was. I am not sure what I thought would happen if I told her, but it doesn’t really matter now.
That night when I got ready for bed I decided not to put on my gown. Instead I slept in my jeans & turtleneck on the couch. I remember lying on the couch and hearing someone in the bathroom. I could see the bathroom light go off and heard him walking towards me. I can still remember my heart pounding in my ears.
He was behind me, touching, kissing, and started searching the front of my jeans for the zipper. He tasted like chewing tobacco. Crying, I rolled away from him onto my left side to try and hide the zipper.
That is when he pulled away. At first I thought that was it, he was going back to bed. But instead he came around the couch and faced me. He found that damned zipper & readjusted my position on the couch. I pleaded with him to stop. I just remember saying over and over, “Please don’t do this, please, no. Please.” I was bawling.
He leaned into my body and again told me to just go along with him and it wouldn’t hurt. Then he kissed me harder than I have ever been kissed and pushed himself between my legs. I felt a searing, ripping pain as he put himself inside of me. I cried out. That is when he put his hand over my mouth.
I tried to push him off, but he was so strong. The more I fought, the rougher he got. So eventually I stopped struggling. Once I stopped fighting he kissed and played and had his way. When he finished he kissed me and said, “See, it wasn’t that bad.” He left me there alone to cry the rest of the night. I don’t know how his wife did not hear what happened, maybe she did. I have no idea.
I never babysat for them again. I have seen him twice. Once when a family friend got killed in a car accident and he was at the funeral, and once when I was out to eat with my husband. I have not spoken to him or had anything other than eye contact with him in all these 23 years.
He tried to contact me through Facebook this past spring. Of course I blocked his ass, but it just brought back all the Hell he put me through.
I am now trying to get past all of it. I am much stronger now than I was when I was 13 and he will not win this battle. I am going to continue to be the extraordinary person I am, despite what he did. He may have stirred up some terrible memories for me, but I will not let him hurt me again.
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Kimberly writes at After Silence, and tweets as @AfterSilence.
Bee
It has been two years, ten months, and nineteen days.
I am incapable sometimes of even thinking that, because there are days when I refuse to acknowledge it at all. Because of the events surrounding it and the way the few people I chose to tell reacted, for a very, very long time I chose to believe the lie that it was my fault. That I asked for it, and that I deserved or in some way caused what happened.
But tonight, I’m stepping out and saying this.
I did NOT deserve it.
I said no.
I begged.
I cried afterward, stared in shock at the blood and knew, simply knew, that what I had held onto for seventeen years, what I had waited so long to give to someone I loved, had been taken from me. I didn’t know what to do.
After that, it didn’t matter anymore. I was so afraid, so ashamed.
I told, finally told, and the person I chose to tell told me it took two to tango, that if he’d actually raped me, he should be in jail and that I hadn’t done anything about it so obviously I was covering up for the fact that I had just given in to my desires.
My desires?
Up until that point in my life, I had done absolutely NOTHING with a boy. I was as innocent as they come. My clothes had never come off. My guilt had been over trifling, embarrassingly prude encounters with the few boyfriends I’d had before. I had never once wanted that. I was almost afraid of that. I was saving it. I understood and I believed that it wasn’t something I wanted to throw away or willingly hold out to any passerby. I wanted very desperately to have something special, to be in love with the person I gave that precious gift to.
My desire was to keep my clothes on. My desire was for the word ‘no’ to hold meaning, to cause a cease-fire. My desire?
My desire was for someone to believe me when I finally told the truth.
My desire was to be comforted, held while I cried.
My desire was for someone to rescue me from him, for someone to take the shaking, terrified little girl I had become since that horrible day and tell her it was alright. Tell her she didn’t deserve it. Tell her that she deserved to be listened to, that when she said no, she should be believed. When she yelled no, when she cried stop, when she pushed and fought back, that anyone, especially someone who claimed to care about her, should have stopped, should have respected her, should have ended the sick, empty stealing of something that wasn’t ever, ever supposed to be theirs.
Two years, ten months, and nineteen days later, I know that the word I’ve been so afraid to put on it is true. He raped me. I did not ask for it. I did not want it. No means no, stop means stop, fighting back signals panic and any man or boy who cannot respect that and continues anyway will forever wear the title, the banner, the name–rapist.
My heart still breaks when I think of what was taken from me that day. When I remember the people I needed most failing me, not believing that he could have done it. Not comforting me, not taking me to get help, not prosecuting him to the fullest extent of the law. Seventeen, so innocent, so incredibly afraid.
But now, I am a survivor.
I have not been destroyed.
I will not remain silent.
I am strong.
Thanks,
Bee, 19 years old.
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Bee writes at The Caged Bird Sings.
Nora
This unfortunately is not my only story of abuse. Somehow what my ex-boyfriend did to me shadows what my other perpetrators did to me. I think it is because I chose to speak and out and report it, but the aftermath of reporting it exacerbated the trauma for me. However, I am slowly starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel to go back on track to recovery and healing.
It started one drunken night my sophomore year of college. I drank too much and I was going in and out of consciousness. I do remember that in efforts to be friendly with another student I had seen around campus last year, I agreed to check out his room at a dorm I had never visited before. I remember going uphill and going to his room and sitting in a big, soft comfy round chair. The next moment, he came to me and kissed me and then pulled me into his bedroom. He did not wait for any signs of consent; I shook my head no as he pulled down my underwear, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was working quickly to get what he wanted. I didn’t feel anything; I think I was too drunk to think anything beyond, “I don’t do this; this isn’t happening.” He finished and then walked me back to my room.
I didn’t know what it was for a long time. We began to date a few weeks after that and had a very volatile relationship. It was very emotionally and mentally abusive. He would often berate me for being stupid, even though we both went to a very high ranking school and I was receiving a scholarship to go there. He would justify treating me badly because *I* always caused it and if I just did things correctly he would never be mean. Once he even called the cops after he tried to attack me and got ME arrested instead of him. Once he saw that the school and police would believe him, he never thought once to hold back the emotional abuse. He made me feel sorry for him that his parents were afraid I’d follow him at night instead of realizing what happened to me was unfair.
At the beginning of junior year, we were temporarily broken up and I tried my best to avoid him. It was Halloween weekend and I was dressed up. My friend and I went to his fraternity house since I was still friendly with most of his brothers. After two drinks there, I started to get sick. Most of my memory for the rest of the night was gone. Suddenly I was upstairs puking in the living room with my ex taking care of me. He offered to walk me home since my friend was too intoxicated to help. I remember trying to run away from him and banging on my suite door to try to get away telling him to leave me alone as I ran to my own room. Then I remember my clothes being changed and being taken to his apartment off campus. I also vaguely remember a few seconds where he was on top of me in the dark.
The next day I had a feeling what he did wasn’t right, but with the police and school on his side what was the point of saying anything? I thought by resuming the relationship I would erase all the bad things and show that I wasn’t a bad person. I was just in love and we were young and made mistakes. The emotional abuse continued until he went abroad and I spent a semester home and an internship in a new city to try to forget what happened.
The next year we resumed our relationship once again. He would tell me that we were meant to be together and would spend the rest of our lives together. Then he would say I was too stupid to be with him. We broke up again for the final time. Unfortunately the abuse didn’t end there. One drunken night he was kicked out of a bar for physically threatening me. I somehow felt bad and accompanied him home because he was obviously very intoxicated. That night he said, “I hope you get raped again, you bitch” (he knew of my past attacks) and said, “I hope you fucking die.” He grabbed my arm at one point and then threw my arm. It hurt my shoulder so much that I couldn’t use it for a week.
I was so scared and depressed that I hid in my apartment for the rest of the semester. I only left in the middle of the night to get food, but most of the time I ordered in. Finally, fed up, I called my dad in the middle of the night crying and he drove almost 600 miles round trip to pick me up in the middle of the night and take me back home.
That’s when I finally realized what had happened to me wasn’t okay and I didn’t deserve it. I was looking forward to reporting him and finally showing that he couldn’t get away with treating people this way. Unfortunately, my school quickly burst my bubble. They didn’t properly help me with reporting to the police, so I wrote a statement and somehow it got lost in the system and it wasn’t actually an official report. I went to the school and they promised they’d put him through the judicial process; I never heard from them again. And then when it came to my schooling they had no sympathy. They never accommodated me, never helped me ease back into an environment both triggering and difficult. I didn’t do well and they finally expelled me. When I appealed and explained the situation? They said they had no obligation to help me.
So now all my dreams that I had for my life after the age of 18 have been shattered. I never got to study abroad. I didn’t get my degree from a good school. I have lost or been isolated from all my friends. I live at home with no money and I’m heartbroken that I got expelled because I was abused and the school didn’t understand and refused to help. I have lost my trust in police departments and men. I have an arrest record now.
But I sometimes get enough strength to fight. I made a website about how the school mistreated me. They found it and now are scared of media criticism and loss of reputation. Now they’re trying actively to change the sexual assault policy. While it is so bittersweet that somehow my blog has made my old school realize what they’ve done is wrong and they’re going to fix it, I am so glad that this is happening. I do find some solace in knowing I helped facilitate the start of change at my school that could help thousands of survivors at that school to come. I just hope for my own happy ending.
Thank you so much for reading my story. I just want to say college rape survivors are not alone and something can be done to help bring change. If I can bring change (through one little website) anyone can.
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Nora’s website is I Was Raped at Tufts University, and she tweets as @_waga.
Heather
I have talked about this before, sharing bits and pieces, flashbacks and memories, in my old blog, Singing With My Heart. I wrote in that blog for almost 6 years, my own personal therapy as the words came from my haunted memory, to the virtual page in front of me. Memories of my ex fiancé, Xander, and our toxic, painful, abusive relationship that we had with one another. There are still tons of memories, waiting to be released, but this one. I will never forget this one. And I’ve never shared this one.
I remember it clearly.
It was a gorgeous, sunny day in June. Two days after my 19th birthday. My freshman year of college was over, and I was actually being allowed to spend the day with my best friend. I remember being excited to see her, to catch up. I was never allowed to see her, so this was a special treat.
I was staring in a mirror, carefully checking to make sure the makeup wasn’t smeared, that the angry blues and pale greens weren’t showing through the NW25 foundation that I applied every morning, liberally. It was comforting, applying that foundation every morning. Almost as if I could erase the past night’s transgressions of drugs, alcohol, and abuse; as if I became new, that no one could see through the cracks of the facade that I had been living for almost 7 months.
So there I was, double checking the foundation, when he appeared behind me, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched. I remember smelling the whiskey, as it invaded my nostrils, mingling with the smell of Marlboro Reds. I sat, paralyzed as I knew what was about to happen. It had been happening for 7 long months. My strong-willed personality was too much for him to take, always. I was never right, he was. I was never good enough for him. I was never pretty enough, never skinny enough, I was never enough. At 19 years old, I was the perfect prey for him; vulnerable, full of guilt and low self-esteem and self-worth.
And just like that, his fist slammed through the mirror, shards of glass flying around me. My body being yanked from one end of his room to the bed, being pinned in a split second. The feeling of his body on top of mine, his knees forcing my legs apart, his hand forcing my head to the side as I felt my body being torn in two by him. I remember that. I remember feeling my cheek smashed into a pillow, just enough space to barely breathe, my mouth gaping, while he raped me, as his other fist connected with my rib cage.
It was useless to tell him no, completely useless to fight him as he’d just take what he wanted anyway. I was at the point where I didn’t even fight, I just lay there, lifeless as the tears rolled down my cheek, silently, while he laughed at me, mocking me. The sound of fabric ripping brought me to life, and I knew I was going to fight this one. I was going to take this one and try my damnedest to fight. I started kicking, starting screaming, starting punching, until I hit hard enough to make him stop. He sat back on his heels, and laughed.
“You will not make it out alive from this one, bitch,” he said, sneering, as I shivered beneath him.
“Go,” he said, taunting me.
I got up, running to the door, trying desperately to break free, feeling the blood trip down my legs, a tangible reminder of just how rough he had been. I remember being scared, truly scared. I remember the fear, swirling around me, wondering if I could actually live through this, again. I fumbled with the door knob, trying desperately to open the door to the stairs, trying to get out. The door broke free, just as I saw the stairs, felt a fist to the back of my head, and it all went dark.
I woke up 18 hours later, to the beep of a heart rate monitor to my left, and my mother staring at me, her brow furrowed, on my right.
As of June 21st, it’s been 2,577 days since I was shoved down 27 stairs by the bastard that I was in love with for 9 horrific months.
Two thousand, five hundred and seventy seven days since I broke nine ribs, my left wrist, received 96 total stitches and chipped my right cheek bone on the night that my ex-fiance tried to kill me.
And on July 23, 2003, he killed himself, and left a long letter full of blame towards me.
I went back to college in the fall, as a sophomore. I started drinking even more, sometimes I’d drink a fifth of vodka just to make it through half of my morning classes. Then I’d go back to my dorm, crawl into my bed, and cry myself through a nap. When I’d wake up, I’d drink another fifth of vodka, swallow some pills, smoke a joint, snort a line of coke. I spent most of my time self destructing, and finally, after being there for almost 7 months, I left college. I continued to abuse myself, continued to abuse my relationships with those who truly cared about me, and it wasn’t until I hit rock bottom one night, that I realized that I had completely stopped dealing with what had happened to me.
Not only had I lost someone I loved, but I had been sexually and physically abused to the point that, honestly, I didn’t even look at my body as mine anymore. It was as if anyone could own me. I shut it out by drinking, by getting high, by having sex with random strangers… anything to numb the pain. I hit rock bottom by offering a $20 bill and a blow job to my drug dealer for one joint. The next day, I checked myself into therapy, and moved into my parents house.
Therapy was no a cakewalk. Therapy hurts. It works, but it’s not easy. I’m still, almost 7 years after his suicide, learning how to deal with some of the nightmares that haunt me in my sleep. There are certain smells that take me back to an exact moment when he hit me, or raped me. Certain songs cause me to hit the floor and curl into a ball. The month of July is a long, and emotionally challenging month, even now. I quit. I started again. I quit. I started again. And on April 5th, 2010, I had my very last therapy session regarding this trauma that has caused irreparable damage to my life.
How do I cope? Even now, music and writing have healed me the most. I listen to all different types, and just write. I started my first online blog, Singing With My Heart, almost 6 years ago to deal with the pain that I felt in losing Xander, and as I started to remember more and more about what happened to me with him, it evolved into a blog where I could write, and heal. Let’s face it, as a survivor of sexual abuse & domestic violence, sometimes, it’s a lot for people to take. My friends didn’t know what to say—They were 19, 20 years old, and enjoying themselves at college, partying, and living their lives. My parents were completely unavailable for me, emotionally & physically, and I had no one. So I just started writing, as a means to just let it out. And it worked. 6 years later, I have started to tell my story to many more people. I am not healed, but I am certainly not where I was almost 7 years ago. I don’t pop pills, though there are some times I am tempted. I haven’t snorted a line in over 3 years, or rolled in over 4 years.
I got married in January to the most incredible man I’ve ever met in my 26 years of life, a man who loves me unconditionally, a man that I am not afraid to trust, to love back and I cannot wait to start a family with him, to truly start over and have a new beginning with this new me that I have met through all of my hard work & dedication in therapy.
Speaking out is what frees me.
I no longer ask why.
Now, I say, never again.
My new blog is at Soft Skies or you can find me on twitter here.
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