Jessica
A friend suggested I share this with other survivors when I’m ready. I considered that for a few days, until I realized I might never feel ready. I’ve spent almost 25 years feeling unprepared to share this. Every time I’ve disclosed, I’ve worried what the other person will think. I’ve tried to figure out what I should do to convince people not to worry about me. I’m not going to do that anymore.
My friend wanted me to share with other survivors, but I think it’s more important to share with the rest of the world. We know how damaging silence is. We live it every day. It’s the rest of the world that needs to stop living with the belief that if they don’t mention it we’ll forget.
I’m done downplaying the importance of what I have to say. I’m sick of feeling like people will break if they know the details of my rape. I’ve lived with the details and survived. I haven’t broken, and I realize now that I don’t have to protect anyone. I’m done worrying that people will like me less if they know.
I’ve been wanting to write this for years. I was worried people would see weaknesses, ways to hurt me. I worried that people would want to find him, to double check my story. I worried that someone would track him down and hurt him… a thought that has been verbalized to me in the past. I’m done protecting him. I finally wrote my story. The breaks are gaps in my memory, not omissions.
I remember sitting next to him in my dad’s van, at the pond we used to swim in. We were comparing the size of our legs. His seemed huge next to mine. I remember looking up to him, thinking we were friends. I remember trusting him. I trusted the world. I was only five years old. I didn’t know a person could be hurt by anything more than name calling.
My parents were going on a boat ride with friends, his parents. They told me he would babysit me. I was upset. I wanted to go with them.
We were at his parents’ house. He said he wanted me to put on his mom’s pants. I knew they wouldn’t fit so I told him no. He wanted me to try but it seemed so ridiculous. How could a five year old fit into a grown woman’s clothes? I wouldn’t do it.
My mom used to have the game Life in her closet. I had always wanted to play it but she said I was too young. I wouldn’t understand the rules. I sat on a bed in a little room in his house. When he pulled out Life and said we could play, I was excited. I got to pick out my little car, my peg driver, and spin the wheel. The sound of that wheel makes me cringe now. After a while, he started packing up the game. I wanted to keep playing, but he told me we’d finish it later. We never did.
He sat me down on the end of the bed. He started to take my shorts off. I thought he was again trying to get me to put his mom’s pants on. I told him they wouldn’t fit. He said that wasn’t why he was taking my shorts off. I didn’t understand but he told me I’d find out why he was doing it. I stopped asking him questions. I don’t remember him actually removing my clothes.
I remember him standing by the end of the bed, in front of the doorway. I was still waiting to find out what he wanted to show me. I remember seeing him hovering above me. He started to rape me. I asked him to stop. I told him he’d get in trouble.
Our parents came back to the house for lunch. I wanted to tell my mom what he did, but I didn’t know how. I was scared. I felt gross. I wanted to be away from him, but I didn’t want to have to tell what he did to me. They decided to go back out, and I was terrified. I begged them not to go. I begged them to let me go with them. I don’t remember them leaving, but I know they did.
I remember lying on the living room floor. He was hovering over me again. I knew what he wanted to do. I tried to bargain with him. I told him I wouldn’t tell if he didn’t do it again. For a moment, I thought he’d accept. It seemed like a good deal to me. I didn’t want to have to tell anybody. I didn’t want anybody to know. I didn’t want to get my friend in trouble.
I don’t remember him taking my clothes off the second time. I don’t remember him touching me again. All I remember is fear. I was scared of what he would do. I was scared because I knew I’d have to tell my parents. I remember feeling horribly defeated. There’s nothing after that. I don’t remember the second rape, but I know it happened.
I only remember how I felt after that point. I’ve got snapshots. Walking to the car with my mom, dreading having to tell her. Sitting in the car, staring at my feet. The words came out somehow, but I don’t remember them.
The next day, police were at our house. They wanted me to tell them what he did, but I didn’t want them to know. I didn’t want him to get in trouble, and this was way more trouble than I could have ever imagined. I still thought he was my friend. I hid in the back yard. I waited behind the fence, watching for them to leave so I could come back out.
He denied raping me. The police said there wasn’t enough evidence. I never saw him again. Days, maybe weeks later, I knew his mom had been over to visit. I was mad that nobody had told me they’d been over to visit. I missed seeing them. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to see my friend. It was almost ten years later before it made sense.
I wish someone had taken the time to explain what happened. They let me hide. They encouraged me to keep quiet. I’ve been hiding in silence ever since. I’ve worried more about protecting others than I have about helping myself. It’s okay if people are shocked or sad or angry. I’m no longer taking responsibility for shielding the world from the effects of violence. I won’t hide it any longer.
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