Audrey
[TRIGGER WARNING: What follows is a detailed brutal account of rape and violence. Please protect yourself accordingly.]
I remember the spit on my face as he screamed, his face just far enough away from mine for our noses not to touch. He pulled away and thumped my forehead, daring me to respond, daring me to stand up to him.
The first time I remember his screaming, I was three years old. I wondered why Daddy hated me so much.
Fast forward one year. With a new baby in the house, we spent our days wading through tension, thick like molasses. The fighting a constant, high-volume drone of screaming, cursing, and begging for mercy, a sad soundtrack to the life of a frightened child. The screaming was unremarkable most days, as I tested the air daily, my insides twisting in fear as the barometer ratcheted up, up, up. When the explosions happened, I spent days wearing extra layers to hide bruises, cringing at the sound of a slammed door, hiding silently in my room, begging God for one more day without a fist falling on my fragile body.
When the baby was still new my parents entered, once more, into their familiar dance of threats, screaming, and rage. Before long, the baby woke and screamed in her fear, still raw and new, still unaware that this was our normal. From down the hall, his voice boomed. ”Shut that fucking baby up, or I will shut her up.” No part of me doubted him. Fearing for her life, desperate to save her, I crawled into her crib and carefully pulled her out with me. I sang to her, my voice cracking, and cradled her in my arms until, by the grace of God, she was quiet. The memories are like snapshots in my mind. Flash, the door slamming. Flash, the shotgun raised, cocked, pointed at her head. Flash, tail lights driving away as my mother left us alone with him. We were dead. I carried my baby sister into the closet with me, sure that we would soon be dead, and for once, relieved. It would be over soon. I prayed that God would take us quickly.
Fast forward four years. Yet another baby, and every day a dance of a different kind, one step forward in prayer, begging for God’s mercy and protection, and two steps back with bruises, insults, and tears. The middle sister was old enough to incur our father’s wrath at this point, and for the next 14 years I stepped in between my father and my sisters and mother on a daily basis. He went after one of us at least once a day. Because I was strong, I would come running when I heard him screaming at someone, and I would step in between the two, pulling his focus and anger to me. I took the hit for them every time I could.
The memories of sexual abuse are seared into my brain, ever present, always painful. An uncle who lived with us made it his habit to rape me, just 6 years old, every time my parents left my 2 year old sister and me alone with him. He locked the baby in the back bedroom and found me hiding in my parents’ closet. Suddenly, a pain in my head, my soft brown hair wrapped, rope-style, around his hand. Then, a hard, soft fall onto my parents’ bed. He tore at my clothes, his open hand falling freely on my face. Shivering, naked, he demanded I spread my legs. “Wider, wider. Don’t make me tell you again.” He pinched my delicate, untouched skin, twisted, pulled, thumped. When he put his fingers in, one at a time, I thought I might vomit from the pain. When he pointed in the direction of the baby’s room and said, “If you don’t sit still, I will do this to her,” my fighting ceased. I lay still throughout the torture, and when I thought it couldn’t get worse, he flipped me onto my stomach, pressed my face into the pillow, and raped me with violent fervor. I don’t know how long it lasted, but I remember being dragged by my hair onto my knees again. He held my nose closed until I opened my mouth, and I tasted blood, my blood, as he came in my mouth. I retched, struggled not to throw up, fully believing that doing so would result in death.
I thought it was over, but his rage ran so deep. On my back again, the torture resumed. He dug his calloused fingers into my cuts and tears. I’d whimper in pain, desperate not to cry out, and when I opened my mouth to gasp, his bloody fingers would be shoved back into my mouth. The taste of my blood haunts me. He told me I was bad and that I had to be punished. The torture ended with me bent over the bed, naked still, as he whipped me from my shoulder blades down to my knees with his belt. I was always so bruised anyway that no one noticed. I don’t know how many times it happened, but he raped me in this fashion many times between the ages of 6 and 8, when he finally disappeared from our lives forever.
In high school: Valedictorian. Student Body President. Volunteer. Mentor. Christian leader. I worked almost full time to help pay our bills. I cooked dinner, helped my sisters with homework, and kept the house clean. None of it mattered. In private, my sisters called me “Mom.” When my parents were away, their eyes looked to me constantly as a source of hope, comfort, and normalcy. When they returned, so did the screaming.
“You’re such a fucking bitch. I’m ashamed to call you my daughter.” My dad would praise me to his friends, but in private, I knew the truth. I was a “worthless bitch.”
When I married my husband, I waited for the day he would hit me or yell at me. I believed that was just how men treated women. We have been married six years now, and he has never once raised his voice. Every day that goes by with his hand gentle on my face and his voice falling softly, like rain, over my life, I learn that men can be good. His kind words and gentle hands have worked steadily over the years, first by placing a ring on my finger, then carrying me across the threshold, then sweetly cradling our babies’ in his strong arms, to heal my wounds. His love for me is a salve that eases the hurt, though the scars remain and will probably always will.
####
Audrey does not have a blog or website. This is her first time speaking out in detail.
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.
####
Nora’s website is I Was Raped at Tufts University, and she tweets as @_waga.
Amy
Scene: Athens, near the OU campus, some random apartment complex silly enough to rent to a freshman (freshman were and probably are still required to live in – or at least pay for in some manner – a dorm room). My freshman year (’98-’99ish).
Long story (hopefully) short, I thought I was too cool for a dorm. Or at least, why not have an option? Especially with an older boyfriend leftover from high school willing to follow me to middle-of-nowhere? (First clue – missed.) I had saved a few thousand dollars from my job in high school and had enough scholarship and best-dad-ever money to not be strapped for textbook cash, so I could get us started, and he would find a job and pay the most of the rent, right? Ah, isn’t being young and stupid fun? (Yes, usually.) We played house for a quarter, thoroughly living “there’s a time and a place for everything, and that’s college.” Sooner than later, the reality of the situation set in: no jobs in a college town, let alone any good ones for a dude with little education and not much else. We couldn’t pay all the bills, we fought (verbally) about stupid shit and serious shit. I had myself convinced we’d make it no matter what.
Toward the end of January, my grandma died. I felt horridly guilty, because I had opted out of the family Christmas the previous month, even though my dad had somehow presciently waved his finger at me that it might be my last chance to have Christmas with one or both of my fairly elderly grandparents. Truthfully, I was a rotten teenager/young adult, more worried about my social life than most other things and people. The one silver lining I still have is that her birthday was in November, and though I of course didn’t actually know that at the time, I had happened to call her – which I rarely did unprompted by my dad – by dumb luck, on that very day. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t realize it was her birthday, but she didn’t care at all, she was just so tickled that I’d called. It will always be one of my favorite memories of her.
Anyhow, back to the point: either my boyfriend actually had some job that wouldn’t let him off without losing said job, or I actually had enough sense to not bring him to my grandma’s funeral. Don’t remember, doesn’t really matter. While I was away from school, he was hanging out with my girlfriends from and living near the dorm. Aaaand, action. Girl actually confessed to me, I went off on him (verbally), on and on and on. My grandma had just died (whoa, I glossed right over how scummy that was – to cheat on a girl while she goes to her grandmother’s funeral? Classy. Oh, wait. I guess I didn’t gloss over it), my sister was dealing with serious health issues of her own that I had let make me feel like a lousy sister with only the wrong answers, I was not doing as well academically as I knew I should be, I was already stuck with bills I couldn’t pay that I incurred because I wanted to be with this guy, because I thought he loved me, respected me…so I was pissed. Highly pissed. I smacked him across the face, which I realize now is my own responsibility, and I do take responsibility for starting the physical violence. I knew better, yet I lost control. Argued very unfairly even before I hit him. I slapped him several times…at least. I don’t know why he didn’t restrain me, he could have, but I guess he kind of felt like he deserved it. Eventually he smacked me back. Just once, but it rang my bell. Like, my ears were ringing. I assume it was a slap upside the head, but I couldn’t really even say for sure if it was an open or closed fist, and it really doesn’t matter.
I walked out. I don’t remember if we had been drinking at all that night or not. I wasn’t drunk, but I was really upset. I took off walking toward campus, it was dark…I walked quite a ways and then just said fuck it again. I walked back and told him to leave. The lease was in my name, I’m sure someone heard us yelling, want me to call the cops? He left, but the next day I went back to my dorm room.
I wish I could say that I never spoke to or saw him again after that, but I can’t. I remember sitting in my dorm room, wondering if I should tell my roommate. She was and still is a very cool woman that I respect, but I didn’t want to tell her…though I didn’t quite know why. I was just acting cranky and bitchy instead, and she was annoyed that all of a sudden her roommate she thought had all but moved out was back in her space. Totally understandable. I ended up telling her after some version of ‘okay, so what the hell is really wrong with you?’ and while I can’t remember her exact reaction, I know I felt stupid. Not that she thought I deserved it, necessarily – especially given that I hit him first, multiple times – but that she would think I was stupid if I went back to him or let him come back to me. I knew rationally that it would be a stupid thing to do, but I did have other things to consider: I had to get out of that lease. I had to pay off bills that were in my name, and I didn’t have a job. I had to move my stuff out of that apartment. I had to not fail chemistry! To say the least, I was incredibly distracted.
I don’t know if we technically ever got back together as a couple, but I did see him again, and I tried to convince myself it was something we could work past, that I loved him, but I just couldn’t trust him anymore. I didn’t trust myself around him. He wasn’t faithful, let alone safe. Too much anger between us. I thought he smelled differently than before. It was very strange. I still loved him, but I was DONE. I muddled through the rest of the quarter at school as best I could, applied plenty of self-medication, and eventually realized and told my parents that I wanted to come home, though I didn’t go into any real detail.
Funnily enough, I found him on Facebook very recently. I realized that I don’t really carry a lot of animosity toward him anymore. It wasn’t just his fault. I’ve learned so much since then about mutual respect and the warning signs of abuse and how to avoid that cycle. There isn’t just the “we don’t hit girls” rule, there is the “we don’t hit, period” rule. And some rules are not meant to be broken.
###
Amy writes at Not Undecided.
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.
####
