Fenna
I got together with my ex when I started at the university. He lived in my old town, and I saw him on weekends and school breaks. The relationship already started forced, because I actually didn’t want to have a relationship with him. I felt that that would not be a good thing for me. But he kept making me feel guilty for not going out with him. So then we began our relationship.
At the beginning I saw the way he acted in bed as passionate and I was attracted to that. But that ‘passion’ was more ‘animalistic’ and knew no boundaries. If he wanted to have sex, he didn’t stop until he got it. He often did that by suddenly jumping on me (while we were watching tv in bed or something), touching me everywhere and laying on me with his full weight. Because this was suffocating and overwhelming, I fought to get out of his grip. After a while he would seem to give up and let me go. But about half a minute later it all started again. This repeated itself until I became so tired I gave up. When that happened, my mind was a little bit separate from my body. Because of that, my memories of things that happened after that are quite vague.
During the rapes there was always something that made me even more uncomfortable than I already was. For example, sometimes he tried to put as many fingers in me as possible (at moments he was supposedly trying to ‘please’ me), so that it felt like I was gonna tear down there. Or he would decide to suddenly choke me. Some things that he did were very humiliating. Of some things, I didn’t even know people did that. A couple of things that happened, I can’t even write here, it’s too shameful. I think no one wants to read that.
I essentially was some kind of doll the whole time, put in all kinds of sexual positions. I tried to stop some things, like pushing his hand away again and again, saying I didn’t wanna do something (anymore), saying something hurt too much. With some things I just let it happen. Mostly because I wasn’t really present when those things happened. There are a lot of memories I lost for a long time. I can also recall some kind of hopelessness, in which I thought: ‘Whether I protest or not, it’s going to happen. So who are you fooling to keep trying?’ And when I felt this hopeless, I let it all happen.
My ex had power over my emotions. He only gave me emotional attention during or after the rapes. I can remember one time in which I could stop him. The consequence was that he completely ignored me. He also had power over my body. At the moment I ‘gave up’, he could pretty much do anything to me. I protested and let him know I didn’t want it, but of course he won. He controlled the whole situation too. He was the one who had decided we were going to be together, and he was the one who decided when he thought it was enough. He dumped me after 10 months. I think he felt like there was nothing left to use.
People don’t understand why I stayed with him, and I didn’t understand it myself for a long time. But it was quite simple, I had no idea what was happening to me. I didn’t see the things he did as sexual abuse. I thought it was my fault, because he said it was (he said I was the one turning him on, even when I did absolutely nothing), but also because I couldn’t deal with the fact that he abused me. So it was easier to put it all on me. Next to that, because I often wasn’t present during the rapes, I didn’t remember what had happened afterwards. And when I did remember, it was somehow quite easy to make myself forget. So I was in major denial, and that’s why I didn’t leave him.
Only after the relationship, when I began a new one, I noticed how weird my reactions to certain situations were. Quickly after that, many things came back and I got depressed.
Now, 4-1/2 years later, I finally feel like I can move on from this. I’m not done healing (are we ever?), but I feel less shame and guilt every day. I know now that HE should feel guilty and ashamed. He did something wrong, I didn’t. I just didn’t react the right way, because I had no idea what the hell was going on.
###
Stephanie
I’m going to call him M in this written down recap. I know this is always anonymous, but you never know.
We met 12 years ago. I was 19, he was 25. He was the sweetest, most caring guy I had ever met. He had a son. We will call him G. He was never violent in the first two years. We never fought. Until he cheated on me. With the mother of G. Hurt and broken emotionally, I left, moved far away to get away from the hurt.
I met other guys, got walked on, my heart broken, tried to forget about M and G. Three years went by….
I moved closer to back home. I got beat on by a guy pretty bad. M came to my rescue. My hero.
Things were different about M. They were subtle at first. He’d get angry and aggressive. Then he’d start hitting things. Walls, doors, pictures. He was drinking a lot, disappearing for hours, not answering his phone. When he did stay home, and G wasn’t there, drinking was always involved. One night after only a few drinks, I felt weird… I went to bed… I have no idea how long had passed, but I woke up to him raping me… in a place I never let him go… I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t believe he was doing this. I passed out. I think my boyfriend drugged me because I wouldn’t give him what he wanted. He denied it. Made it into a joke. Told his friends.
I should have left him then…
I…. Stayed….
We had a baby named C. C keeps me alive. C keeps me from running off a cliff. C keeps me here, when all I want to do is run. Things are not better. He disappears a lot now. I work two jobs… I’m not home a lot. I know he’s having an affair. I’ve caught him a few times. He gets so angry when I do. It’s my fault if you didn’t know. I caught him drunk with my roommate after waking up hearing them downstairs.
He denies it. Like he always does. I’m in denial that I can’t leave. I don’t know how. I don’t know where to go. I feel like I deserve this for some reason. I feel like he’ll grow a conscious one day and admit to me everything. I’m in denial that I’ve been abused, and I’m in denial that I’m continually being emotionally abused. I can’t take it much more.
I feel like I had to write this. I wish it had taken some of the hurt away from me. Maybe it will help someone else. Maybe I’ll get the balls and leave him someday. Someday it will be enough. I have had enough.
UPDATE:
Its been many months since I originally wrote this. I have since been able to make him leave, though it hasn’t helped much. I can and will protect my kids… As far as I go, a restraining order will only protect me so much. At 2am when no one is around and my cell phone is slightly out of reach will not stop him.
Every day is a little different than the last. I know I am better off. My friends and most of my family are very supportive. Some people in my family refuse to believe that he is this monster. And that is ok with me, because it was hard for me to believe too. I am optimistic of my future. I am optimistic that I have broken this cycle of abuse so that my daughter does not carry it on. I can and will survive because it isn’t in me not to. I will make sure that I don’t allow myself to continue this pattern….
####
Marta
Over half my life ago I was raped.
It’s surprisingly easy to write that sentence. I’ve been writing and rewriting that sentence for thirteen years.
Beneath every sarcastic comment I’ve ever made, the well timed laugh, the fallen tear, there lies that pain. That hurt. The burden of what I carry with me every day, everywhere. Wear on my heart, a scab that will never heal. Picking at the edges with my nails, reopening the wound, letting the blood slip out. I won’t let it heal. Every other emotion pales in comparison.
For remembering this, for recalling the bottom, I rally to continue in the present. Because reliving this horror reminds me of how much worse it can be, how much I’ve overcome and reviving this pain tells me that I’m still alive.
I am desperate for people, sacrificing myself in order to be the best friend I can be. All in this immense fear of abandonment. I fear being alone because of the thoughts that I know are simmering there. Bubbling. Waiting for me to pay attention to them so they can all consume me. I have survived too much, so much, much more than I should. No. I will not address this. I will not. No.
Breathe.
I can do this. I will write this.
I make jokes. At your expense. At mine.
I let you in to push you out. I hurt those who get too close.
I want desperately to be saved. But I won’t ever let you.
I have come so far in my life. Sometimes I look back and am amazed at what I have been able to become. Amazed at what I have buried so deep and yet I can still see the dirt on my hands.
In every situation I imagine the worst. Every day as I drive, I think of what would happen if I had a car accident and died. I envision the hospital, the phone calls, my children’s crying faces. I plan for my death every day. I feel I need to always be prepared. Because when I wasn’t, when I least expected it, it happened. So now I will always expect it. I will always assume the worst is still coming.
I hate being alone for that reason. I’m increasing the chances. Another reason I am desperate for others because if I’m alone, it will happen again. It can always happen again.
I will tell you the story. I will float above myself as I write it because that’s how I deal with things. I separate. I disassociate. I don’t accept responsibility, accountability. I won’t feel.
I went to Ixtapa, Mexico in 1998 with my parents. We stayed at the Dorado Pacifico. One day we went to an exercise class in the pool. I wore a rainbow striped bikini. I held hands with my mother and a young man as we swam in a circle. I smiled at him. I wonder often, if perhaps I hadn’t… If somehow smiling was wrong. If wearing that swimsuit was wrong. But when you’re 13, when you’ve never kissed a boy, you don’t think of those things.
The way he looked at me made me uncomfortable. Something inside of me sensed something was wrong. The way he held my hand in the pool, his gaze and upturned lips. I left my mother and him talking and went to the slide, watched them from the top. They seemed to be talking too long, looking around as if for me. After they separated I questioned my mother on what they talked about. She mentioned that he was 24 and that when she told him my age, how surprised he was at how young I was. How mature I looked for my age. (Does that mean sexy?) She told me that he knew that we were going to be at Senor Frogs that night for dinner. (Why? Why would she tell him?) I spent the rest of that afternoon in anticipation. What would it be like when we saw each other? What would I wear? There was slight excitement. I didn’t know what to expect. Here this older man was interested in me in a way that excited me as well as made me uncomfortable. I pushed the latter thought aside as nerves. I was just nervous. My friends had kissed boys. I was the only one boyfriend-less still at thirteen. Then, it had seemed like such a lifetime.
I was reading my book. What book? I don’t remember. I took the room key from my parents and wanted to go to the bathroom.
I saw him at the pool on my way up to the elevators. I smiled at him. Perhaps I even blushed. Maybe there was lushness to my face, a youthful encouragement I portrayed. I sensed that he was following me, though he was further away. There were people around. I didn’t want to look back, but I felt his presence looming.
At least in my memory I did. So many times I wonder, did this happen that way? Do I remember it correctly? It’s all so fuzzy. So far away in my memories. I have to work hard to remember and when I do I tend to shut it down as soon as it surfaces.
How did we get there? To that room? Was it an alcove? A hallway? Where were we? How it could be so dark if it was daytime? There was a smell, but was it the room? Was it the smell of his sweat and chlorine? The salty ocean?
The acidity and saltiness mixed on my face, blurring in with my tears.
The silence was deafening.
I wish I had screamed. All I could hear was his heavy breaths amongst the ringing in my ears. I shut down my mind as much as I could. Did I make this happen? Did I somehow unknowingly will this occurrence? Did I deserve this? What would happen if I were to scream? Did he mistake my tears for joy or did he not notice the silent wetness that fell?
My head hurt smashed against the wall, he was so heavy against me. He didn’t seem so large, but against my lithe figure it felt like overwhelming heaviness against me. My lungs contracted unable to breathe. He pinned me up as he pushed his face further down my body. His slick thumbs pushing deep inside my palms. I kept thinking this wasn’t what I wanted. This was nothing that I wanted.
Then my face was pushed up against his chest and pushed down. The weight on my shoulders, the sweat, the tears, the chlorine, his body hair all mangled up in my eyelashes, my lips. How could I have even screamed? The noise would have been stifled by his body. He groaned. I gagged.
He kissed my neck. His tongue licking me. Tasting my sunscreen and sweat. His hands grabbed at my chest, pulling me up, gasping for air. With his sudden excitement and impatience, he scratched me. Unknowingly. I sensed his fumbling, his slight trepidation. He was pulling down my swim suit bottom and his thumb nail scratched a layer of skin of my stomach. The scar is still there. It’s always there. It will always be there. I bled so much, the drips falling down my stomach onto his hands, the floor. It frightened him. He mumbled words in Spanish I didn’t understand and I thanked God for that blood.
He apologized and left me.
I picked my towel up, the fragments of my psyche, and wrapped myself in it. Rearranged my swimsuit, pushed the tears and hair off my face and walked to my hotel room. I tended to the wound that would not stop. I scrubbed the hotel bathroom as best as I could so my parents would never know what happened, then I hid the bloody towel in a maid cart in the hallway.
I went back to the beach with his saliva and sweat still stuck to my body and pretended as though nothing ever happened.
I’ve been pretending ever since.
###
Amber
College was hard for me. I never felt challenged. I had learned that professors didn’t care one way or another if I showed up for class, and so I didn’t. I maintained a high GPA by showing up to turn in homework or take tests. I only showed up for my art studios, which were un-fulfilling to say the least. I felt like life was too easy. That I hadn’t had any adventures. I grew up in a small town, I graduated with highest honors, I got into college on scholarships. I wanted a challenge. I counted up the money I had, got in contact with a friend of mine who lived in Virginia Beach (we’ll call him K) and made plans to move down there, completely on the fly – so I did. I found that my heart beat with excitement at each bus transfer. It was long, scary, and physically exhausting but I was enjoying it.
I moved in with K and his friend J and J’s sister, C. K and I got along fantastic – we’d known each other for years. J never warmed up to me. C couldn’t care less if I was there or not.
I slept on a moderately comfortable couch, worked a menial job at shop, and for a few months, it was okay.
J’s birthday was coming up. He was going to be 21. J and C planned a big party. They invited their work friends over and the party dominated the living room – the room where I slept. By the time 9:30pm rolled around, I found myself tired. I worked at 4:00am the day prior, so I nursed a mixed drink in the corner, leaning back to rest my eyes. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t even tipsy. What I was, though, was tired, overheated, and my head hurt. I set down my drink and crumpled into the corner. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember is K shaking me.
“Hey,” he said over the music. “You don’t look so hot.” “Just tired.”
“You should take my bed for the night.”
“Your bed? I couldn’t.”
“No, I insist. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I reluctantly agreed as my head throbbed. I hated the idea of sending such a nice guy to sleep on the floor of his own room.
Climbing the steps proved to be more of a challenge than I expected. I stumbled like I was drunk. We reached the bedroom doorway, and I turned to thank K before he went back downstairs. He went into the bedroom with me. He closed the door behind him.
“You okay?” He asked, guiding me toward the bed.
“Yeah, I just need to sleep. You can go back downstairs, I can get settled in on my own.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay. Okay?”
“Okay…”
“You’re not going to sleep in your jeans, are you?”
“My PJs are somewhere downstairs,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
“You can take them off. Here, let me help you.” His hands moved to my hips and tugged at the jeans. He pulled them down with one swift movement. I was honestly shocked at what took place, barely able to recoil. “You know,” he said, “I really care about you.”
“Please don’t. I just want to go to bed.” I moved to get up, and he firmly pushed me down. K was a larger guy, standing about 6’5 and weighed around 275lbs.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?”
“No, stop.” I whined. Why did I feel so heavy and tired? Why wasn’t I yelling? Would anyone hear me over the music if I did? I weakly pushed him, but he grabbed my hands and held them firmly.
“I could fall in love with you.” He leaned in and kissed me. I tried to pull back, but it seemed futile. He was just too strong. I finally managed to turn my head.
“Please, no.” I whispered, “Not like this.”
“I just want to show you how beautiful you are.” His hand reached my panties and rubbed me through them, and then under them.
I was crying by that point, tears rolling down my cheeks. I was a virgin, and his large and somewhat clumsy fingers hurt. I wasn’t aroused, but it didn’t stop him. With his free hand, he unbuttoned his pants and removed them and I could see that he was erect. I went to scream, but nothing came out.
My voice had simply stopped working. My muscles stopped working. Everything stopped working.
He reached into a drawer, put on a condom, and knelt on the bed. He spread my legs. I made a weak attempt at closing them, but they barely moved. After a few clumsy movements, he was inside of me. The pain was searing hot, and he was thrusting instantly – no letting me adjust even though I knew I wouldn’t. It hurt.
He kissed me, caressed me, tried to be genuinely romantic about it – a strange thought, trying to be romantic about rape.
I remember watching him for a few minutes before I finally looked up to the TV. All of the noise in the room seemed to fade out, I heard no party downstairs, I heard no grunting beast on top of me, I heard no TV. I simply stared up at the TV and waited. He would be done and I could go to sleep. It would be over.
When he finished, he collapsed on top of me.
Heavy.
Crushing me.
He whispered that he loved me and I gagged. It was the first thing I had heard when the sound faded back in.
He pulled out, and I looked at him. He was covered in blood. I was covered in blood. Thanks to my virginal tightness and my lack of arousal, my first time looked like something out of a horror film. He left the room to take a shower, and I pulled on my jeans and closed my eyes.
I was numb.
I left Virginia Beach a few days later.
Somehow I never thought to call it a rape. I always felt responsible. I was the one who went up to his bedroom, right? I was the one who didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I virtually did nothing to stop him, right? And for almost six years, I said nothing. I never kept it secret that I had sex. I made sure that it was known that it wasn’t rape, though.
I felt like people would be mad. That they would judge me. Maybe I felt like they thought I deserved it for putting myself in that situation.
Maybe I secretly felt like I deserved it for putting myself in that situation.
The first few months back in Pennsylvania were hard. I found that I had lost interest in artistic endeavors. I quit painting and drawing. I put my guitar in a case where it stayed for months. I only ever took it out a few times to impress a guy I liked. I stopped shortly after due to lack of interest.
K took my tenacity. He took my vigor for art. He took my fearless feeling and love of challenges.
Almost six years later, and I’m finally ready to talk about it. I finally told someone about what happened late one night. I cried. They cried. I apologized to the strain that I knew it would put on our relationship. I apologized for being so broken. Saying it opened up a lot of pain that I had put away. But at the same time, I felt less alone.
I wish I would have been stronger and told someone sooner. I hurt a lot of people by being cold and distant. Good people. I hope that they can forgive me.
It’s 1:40am on Christmas. This year, at 25 years old, I’m giving myself the gift of healing.
###
