ZM
I was just a few months out of high school. Barely legal. Book-smart and street-stupid.
My girlfriend’s fiancé was in the Marines. While he was waiting to be shipped off somewhere, he was putting in time at the local recruitment office. That night, she begged me to go with her to the office to play poker with him and his Marine buddies.
“Puh-lease? I don’t want to be the only girl there!”
So, I went. I played poker – badly. Did some tequila shots. Drank some beer. Flirted with one of the Marines. My girlfriend pulled a designated-driver FAIL and got drunk. So she curled up on a couch in the front room with her boyfriend and went to sleep.
Leaving me alone with three drunk Marines.
I have no idea how many drinks I’d had at that point – or whether or not there was more than just alcohol in any of them.
I just know that I was dizzy and nauseous and so, so tired. So, with a final disgusted look at my girlfriend happily sleeping it off, I excused myself to the small conference room in the back, closed the door and claimed a couch there for myself.
And proceeded to have Very. Bad. Dreams.
All I can see are the dingy ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights so far above me. The cold conference table is hard on my back. I want to roll on my side, to go back to sleep. But rough hands flip me back over. Strong fingers are pulling my jeans down over my legs, forcing my thighs apart. There’s a weight on my stomach and sour breath in my face. I push ineffectively at the hands pinning my shoulders down. The too-bright lights are blocked from my view by a face. Faces.
My girlfriend woke me up early the next morning, telling me to hurry up, because she wanted to go find some coffee and a cigarette.
I felt… not right. My bra was on the floor between the couch and the conference table … How did that happen? And my jeans …
“Why are my pants undone,” I croaked groggily. My throat was dry, scratchy. My head hurt. And … other places.
“Oh, Sarge said they had to help you to the bathroom last night. You were so drunk,” she laughed.
“Okaaaay…. I don’t remember that. I … Wait … Was there someone else in here? I think … I mean … I remember … someone … the table … Oh. Ohmygod.”
I told her what I remembered. That I thought I’d been raped. By at least one and maybe all three of the men who were right that moment in the very next room.
And my dear, sweet, good friend who had dragged me with her to this place … totally blew me off.
“No way … You were drunk … It was just a dream … They would never … ”
Yeah … Actually, I liked that answer better. It was just a dream. Never Happened. Lalalala.
A few days later, the dark bruises showed up on my inner thighs.
But by then I had securely locked the whole thing away in a little box in the back of my mind labeled, “Never Happened.”
But, apparently, that box was not as secure as I thought. It leaked. Just a little. Just enough.
Before the Never Happened, I had “normal” issues, like so many teen girls do: I’d left 8th grade as the girl all the boys teased for being flat-chested. And I entered 9th grade as the curvy girl with the Double-D’s who all the boys wanted to feel up. I remember literally having to fend off groping, slobbering underclassmen in the hallways. Not to mention the seniors guys who were openly taking bets on which one would nail the hot, stacked frosh. And you don’t want to get me started about the leering adult men.
So, yeah, I already had the roots of some sexuality issues before I ever left high school. Being raped – and burying the memory – was like pouring gas on the fire.
Looking back on it now – feeling so far removed from that 18-year-old girl – it’s obvious.
But I couldn’t see how it was driving me. Wouldn’t have accepted it if someone tried to explain it to me. Because it Never Happened. And if it Never Happened, it couldn’t affect me, couldn’t hurt me. Right?
I thought I was in control. I desperately needed to be in control. And I guess there are two ways a person can “control” their sexuality. One way would be by withholding it.
That’s not the way I went.
Instead, I tried to “control” my sexuality by choosing all the wrong men, by having “just sex” with one emotionally unavailable user after another. I was the ultimate cliché of desperately looking for love in all the wrong places.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t love I was looking for at all. Maybe it was the pain, the punishment, that I really wanted. Because, as much as I wanted to be loved: I didn’t think I deserved it.
Finally, almost three years after my downward spiral began in that store-front recruiter’s office, I hit rock bottom. That day, I sat in another office – quiet on the outside, screaming on the inside – as the man I thought I loved casually discarded me like damaged goods.
Because that’s what you are.
And the box that held the Never Happened burst open, ripping away any last shred of self-esteem I might have had left.
That day, I finally cried. Not just for the lover who had broken my heart, but for the girl I’d left behind in that conference room and for the sad, broken thing I’d become.
I cried on the drive home. Cried in the shower until there was no more hot water. Then cried under the cold water. Cried until my eyes were dry. Cried some more. I screamed. I threw things. I’m pretty sure I threw up.
The guilt and shame of the rape were as fresh and raw as if it had happened just three days before instead of three years. And those feelings were compounded by all of the stupid, self-destructive decisions I’d made in the wake of my denial.
It was too overwhelming. I still couldn’t deal with it. The Never Happened went back into its box. I could no longer deny it HAD happened. But I still couldn’t drag it out of the darkness and look at it in the light. I still couldn’t admit how much of an affect it really had on me.
Okay, fine. It happened. Whatever. No big deal. Lalalala.
I went numb. Shut down. I went on with my day-to-day life, but I was just going through the motions. Emotionally, I was hiding under my bed in the fetal position. But I had reached a turning point. I finally stopped picking at the wound that Never Happened and it – and all the subsequent self-inflicted injuries – finally started to heal.
It took two more years for those wounds to scar over enough for me to trust any man again.
This year – more than 15 years after that night – I gingerly pried open the Never Happened again. And I found, to my surprise, that the roaring, stabbing, blinding pain had been replaced by a dull ache, a small sting. It still hurts – it probably always will – but it’s more like a phantom limb or a prickly old scar.
Looking at it without the red veil of pain, I could finally realize just how much I was driven, shaped, forged by the thing that Never Happened. And I decided that maybe it was time to shed just a little bit of light on my darkness. To finally admit to someone else that THIS DID HAPPEN. That it changed me. That it’s part of who I am.
I know that – even after all this time – I still have healing to do. I still haven’t completely forgiven that 18-year-old girl. Part of me hates her. Wants to kick her in the ass for being so stupid, so cliché. And part of me wants to hug her tight and tell her she’s good and beautiful and worthy of love and that she didn’t deserve it.
And yes, some tiny part of me still wants to lock the Never Happened back in its dark little box and embrace my old friend, Denial.
But 35-year-old me knows it’s too late to change the things that made me, impossible to ignore or revise the history that brought me to where I am today.
And writing this has made me realize that, even if I could, I wouldn’t. Because we are the sum of our experiences. What Happened THEN is part of who I am NOW.
So. This is me.
Scars and all.
30 Responses to “ZM”
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Thank you.
I always always put my molestation in a box on a shelf, for many reasons. And only by holding the box, and firmly opening the lid and looking in it’s eyes was I able to begin moving past it.
Thank you for reminding me how strong we can be. Thank you for showing us how strong you are.
We all have our boxes, locked away in a dusty corner.
I’m so glad that, finally, all these years later, you were able crack yours open, take a peek and know that you are healing.
You’re so strong and I admire you.
congratulations to you for coming through this nightmare and being able to start to heal and shed the light. for realizing that no matter what has happened in your life, you are still you and have been strong and beautiful through it all, even when you didn’t know it.
I’m deeply sorry for your experience. You are a very strong woman, to deal with it now.
And my husband (a former Marine) would like me to tell you that he’s ashamed of and disgusted by these “brothers” in the Corps.
First off – I can only express how deeply sorry I am for what happened. I don’t know you personally, I wasn’t responsible for it yet I feel awful for you.
I think what you’ve done here: opening up, scars and all is a wonderful thing.
Too many women experience what you’ve gone through in one way or another and it’s wonderful and uplifting to see that no matter what, you found the strength you never knew you had to come through the other end.
Thank you
x
thank you for opening your box here and in this space. being a drugged rape survivor myself (my story is archived here in VU), i applaud the way you are embracing this part of who you are… a survivor.
congratulations and i wish you continued healing as time goes on.
ZM, thank you for sharing your story. I am so sorry for what happened to you.
Please know that the 18-year-old girl from the past *was* good and beautiful and worthy of love, and did not deserve it one bit, in any way.
Please know also that the 35-year-old you in the here is now is *also* good and beautiful and worthy of love, and that you deserve recognition for your bravery and your fortitude, and peace for all the days of the future.
You’re in my thoughts.
May your strength and love for yourself continue to grow and help you to finally forgive your younger self. Thank you for sharing.
You are so amazing for sharing your story. Thank you. Just. Thank you.
Nic, yours was the first post I ever commented on here on VU. Because your story hit very close to home for me. Thank you.
Thanks to everyone for your comments. Honestly, the bravery and fortitude of the women on this site leaves me humbled and awed.
Oh ZM.
Your story is so chillingly close to mine (http://violenceunsilenced.com/wife-and-mommy/)…not in the actual incident, but the thoughts and processing afterwards. I know that what happened to me is a part of me now, as much as I don’t want it to be. The box of Never Happened will not stay closed, and Denial…she’s a tough friend, right? Keeps coming back.
Thanks for sharing and may you find healing and peace.
I’m not sure I can add very much to what’s already been said. I’m not sure I can come up with anything that I haven’t said to countless others here and elsewhere. But even though your story is tragically similar to so many others, we’re not talking about “others” here. We’re talking about you. The 18-year-old you who did nothing to bring this upon herself, and the 35-year-old you who still blames her to some degree. And the every-other-age-between you who endured so much that she never should have had to.
Maybe you’re still second-guessing yourself. “If I hadn’t gone, if I hadn’t had so much to drink, if, if, if…” If that’s true, if you’re still asking those questions, you can stop now. Because no matter how much you drank, it did not give those men license to violate you. These are supposed to be “men of honor, with a commitment to something greater” — or so the commercials would have us believe. But there was only dishonor in what they did to you. Dishonor and a repugnant level of disrespect for another human being.
If there is guilt to be borne, if there is shame to be felt, it should lie with them, not with you. And I get the sense that you’re coming to realize that now, half a lifetime later. It grieves me that it took so long, grieves me that you had no one to turn to for comfort, grieves me that you spent so many years alone in the dark. I hate that you had to find your way to this place you are now on your own.
But I’m so very thankful that you found it. So grateful for your courage in sharing it so that the next 18-year-old girl who thinks of filing her story under “Never Happened” won’t have to.
I wish only good for you, only peace, only light. You’ve already had a lifetime’s worth of darkness. And I hope with all I am that you have found the comfort here that eluded you all these years.
Thanks for sharing, scars and all.
Thank you for being so brave.
Denial never does anything but fill that scabbed-over wound with poison and pus. Good for you for having the courage to open it back up and clean it out.
It’s a very, very hard thing to do.
And I too wish I could go back and hug that 18-year-old girl you were…
ZM- just sending you more love and strength… and thinking of you.
It’s so true. Even though there is the nightmarish pain of the past, it allows the sufferer to see through it and use the experience in a positive way — even if that’s just being able to understand other women and their experiences.
Thank you for sharing.
ZM- thank you for sharing. That box must still be frighting to open. Thank you for opening it here. We love you, scars and all.
ZM – healing can only happen when the pain is exposed to light. You are brave to have exposed your pain to light on this site. Keep up the hard work!
This made my heart hurt. I’m sorry. I’m listening – I’m glad you’re telling your story and opening up that box so you can heal.
Thank you for sharing. I recently busted the lock open on my own little box right here on VU. You are a brave, strong, beautiful woman.
THANK YOU for sharing this. THANK YOU.
GOOD. FOR. YOU.
Thanks for telling your story and thanks for commenting on mine. (((HUGS)))
Thanks for telling your story and thanks for commenting on mine. (((HUGS)))
Thank you so much for this. I put my own thing that never happened in a box about 20 years ago. I just recently opened it.
You ARE good AND beautiful AND worthy of love !! You did NOT deserve it.
Thank you for sharing your story!
Thank you. For sharing your story, for being living proof that scars are evidence of healing.
Wow. What a powerful story. Thank you for telling it, for expressing emotions and thoughts that I know others have and may not yet be able to express, themselves.
You are strong & courageous. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for having the courage to survive and to share your story.