Rhonda

If I close my eyes I can still feel the treads on the truck floor mat digging into my knees, although it barely registered at the time. I was praying.

Easy to do on a truck’s floorboard when you’re only 9. We were in the parking lot of the motel where his “aunt” lived. If she was home, he’d stay for a chat, then drive us back to his house (I was staying overnight with his daughter). But, if she wasn’t, he’d be back for me.

I fell to my knees and prayed she’d be home as the treads dug into my knees. She wasn’t. I was still on the floor when he opened the door.

How I knew what was going to happen has vanished in the mists of memory, but I KNEW and I was scared shitless.

He led me to the bed, then pulled out a box of Polaroid pictures of various naked women, possibly some men, I can’t recall them all now. There were dozens of them and the images frightened me. These were not the same as the airbrushed beauties I snuck a peek at via my Dad’s Playboys, not by a long shot. These were dirty and smelled funny, just like the room itself. I kept asking him to put them away, which he finally did.

The rape itself only ended because I yelled and screamed that it hurt. Screamed as if my life depended on someone hearing me, which it did. In its own twisted way, I’m glad it happened in a motel where we were surrounded by ears. What if he’d taken me to some cabin in the woods with no one near enough to hear me scream?

It took about 5 years before I talked to my mother about it (and only after she read it in my diary; many years of distrust followed, but we’re solid enough now). The man was a friend of hers, I didn’t want to hurt her. How screwed up is that?! I was also scared I wouldn’t be believed. I was only 9 after all.

After much yelling and accusations of lying (just as I’d feared), my mother took me to a doctor to confirm. She then channeled her anger on him and wanted him prosecuted. I spend so many nights lying awake with visions of my face on the front page of the newspaper. Everyone would know! My friends at school would shun or bully me and I would have to live with the shame for the rest of my life. I talked her into not going through with it. A coward’s stance, maybe, but I was still a teenager and the courtroom drama unfolding in my nightly dreams was indeed a nightmare.

Over the course of my young life, one that many kids envied as I travelled the world with my musician parents, other men touched me, tried to get me to give them blowjobs, so much so that it became almost normal. I started to pick up the signs and avoided being alone with any man. As I became a young adult, though, I lost a lot of weight, gained a great deal of confidence, and started taking control of my sex life.

Or so I thought.

He was drop dead gorgeous. A soccer player celebrating his team’s win at a bar. We danced, we drank, we laughed, we hit it off and the sparks were flying. Going back to his hotel room was the natural course of the evening. Why, of course the whole team’s coming back to the hotel with us, they’re all staying there, not to worry. The rum dulled my senses and I missed the signs my younger and more cautious self would have noticed.

The next three or four hours were a living nightmare. I spent the time completely out of my body. I could almost see myself down there from my vantage point on the ceiling. I counted the tiles over and over again, reciting an endless litany, a silent prayer (something I never did again for real after that first failure).

One at a time they climbed on top of me, laughing and joking at their good fortune. When one finished, the next in line (and there was literally a lineup at the bottom of the bed) would climb on. I could hear some giving each other high-fives as they switched places. More than a few went to the back of the line to give me another shot.

One even tried to force me to shift my head and look him in the eye, but, when it was all over, I wouldn’t be able to identify any of them if I had to. My eyes were transfixed on that ceiling the entire time, quietly crying. The all-encompassing shame meant I’d never report it anyway.

All of that ends right here and right now!

I’ve spent years carrying these (and other) incidents locked up within myself. No, I haven’t seen a therapist, and yes, it would probably be a good idea. I’m 46 now, mother to a wonderful 23-year-old autistic son and living in blissful sin with my man for 8 years now. A good man, too, they are out there. He knows some of my past and loves us both anyway.

This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone about the gang rape. Thank you for being there and listening, hopefully it will help someone else out there to know they’re not alone and they WILL survive. I did; you will, too.

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30 Comments | December 15, 2010 | Filed Under rape, sexual abuse, survivor story