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Writing out these thoughts has been tough, not just because I'm finally coming to terms with a part of my childhood I forso long hoped would just disappear, but I'm having trouble putting it down in words. And I know that at some future date when I am comfortable with the idea of sharing this blog's contents with Ls and Lb, I don't want to hurt them more. Even now, all these years later, I'm trying to shield them from the pain my csa may cause them. I know I'm not responsible for it. I cannot continue to play the roll of preschooler RR, taking care of everyone else's feelings like my own don't matter. If the truth of my experience hurts the people who love me, that is not my fault, any more than any of this shit was my fault. Writing it out has helped me actually define what sexual abuse is. Some of what I now see as csa I just saw as physical abuse at the time it was happening. This seems weird, but I never realized before that an abuser might not be seeking pleasure, either for themselves or for the person they are abusing. They can unintentionally be abusing another person. Or, they can thoughtlessly do it without really considering what harm their actions are doing because they aren't thinking about the other person. Or perhaps they are just selfish. Or maybe they are sadistic and just don't care. For whatever reason, I had never considered that sexual abuse was more about the harm done to the survivor than about the motivations of the abuser. I had pictured the abuser to be seeking pleasure or power. I had assumed that absence of the pleasure seeking motive dropped this action from csa to "just" physical abuse. Even now, explaining it like that, I feel like I'm still a little in denial. Still searching for a reason that explains why she did what she did. I feel like an enabler of sorts. How do you get away with bad behavior? 1) convince people that you didn't do it, or 2) convince people that, while your actions may have been wrong, your motives weren't nefarious. I never realized how much labels effected how I thought. Once I finally saw what my mom did to me in the tub as sexual abuse I had the realization that she sexually abused me, too. I know this might sound obvious but it took me a long time to actually make that connection. I don't know why it took so long, but it did. Maybe I just didn't want to see her as a sexual abuser, too. Maybe it was just too much to handle on top of the physical and emotional trauma she doled out so regularly. Maybe I just compartmentalized it. Maybe what she did to me didn't fit the category of what an abuser does because she didn't do it in some pervy-creepy-old-dude-in-a-trench-coat-hanging-out-in-a-playground kinda way. Maybe in my head I defined what the perpetrator of csa looks like and I defined her right out of the picture because she 1) was female and 2) her motives seemed to not be for her own sexual pleasure. My own assumptions about abusers left me with a blind spot big enough for her to hide in. But it's not just the motivation of the abuser that can define something as csa, it's the combination of the action and the affect. And I CLEARLY remember absolutely dreading the end of bathtime, and knowing that she was going to hurt me down there. Feeling trapped because both of my parents touch me down there in ways I don't like and I can't make them stop. My childhood self, even my teen self and adult self, considered it about as sexual as if she'd been roughly scrubbing salt into an open wound on my arm. I saw her actions as physical abuse, and his as csa. For whatever motivated her to do it, I'm working through this idea right now. At first I thought I must be an idiot not to have realized this before. But I need to forgive my younger self for not knowing, not realizing, possibly not wanting to know. How would I have known? No one defined these things clearly for childhood me. I was young and didn't have the opportunity of hindsight or the logical reasoning skills I have as an adult. I certainly didn't have any type of support system to help me with the heavyness of this truth. I was alone and coped as best as I could. It's possible that the reason I see it for what it was now is because I'm finally at a place where I'm strong enough to handle it. I'm in a safe place where I can actually process this. That's enough for now, RR

My whole life there has been a safety net underneath me put there by mostly well-intentioned people. The thing is that my whole life the safety net has had some major flaws in it. Holes big enough for me to fall through. One of the tenants of good touch/bad touch education is to empower kids to not keep the secret of csa to themselves. A major problem with this is that some "bad touch" was ok. How do you explain in a clear way that an exam by a doctor is different than the "tickling secret" you have with your creepy uncle? Again, we are back to spanking-yes, Rubbing-no. How do you empower a kid to break the silence when they have every reason to stay quiet? When their parent(s) have made it crystal clear to them that "telling" will change everything. Not just the one bad thing but EVERYTHING. That telling will ruin the family. ************** When Ls was little she had juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. She was a fighter and very strong. My mom took her for treatments 2 or 3 times a week for a long time to the big city with the children's hospital in it. This left a lot of times when it was just me, my dad, and Lb. Ls missed a lot of school. Whenwe were older (in our 30s) we were talking about how this led to some pretty major fears for Ls about doctors/hospitals/needles/blood tests. She told me a story about mom flat refusing a nurse and doctor to do a swab on her to confirm a yeast infection/UTI. She said it was "too invasive." She was "just a little girl." My mom wouldn't let them swab her, just give her the medicine for it. For me, this was triggering. I started sobbing. Ls was confused. She didn't understand. I said she (mom) was never that concerned about me. Never cared if I was going through anything "invasive." She used me like a prop. She asked "what do you mean?" So I told her. ************** When I was between the ages of 4-8 we lived with my Gram. One day I got home and my mom was in a panic. She was yelling and screaming and crying and packing all our stuff in the truck. Muttering about how it wasn't safe here and we'd have to leave to be safe because Gram was a liar. My Gram had gone for a few days to visit my uncle and auntie and my cousins. Mom and dad were going to leave before she got back. There already was plans to move eventually, before this happened. We had a shell of a house on my mom's land. The frame was done. The roof was on. The outside under-siding stuff was on. But Gram told mom that she was going to report my dad's abuse and my mom wasn't having that so we left. The five of us we're basically fugitives for the summer. We slept on the floor of cramped trailer houses, in a barn for a while, in different "cousins" places. These were not cousins I knew before this. There was one nice place. It had a big green yard and a tire swing that went out over the water. I liked it there. One day we were at another cousin's trailer and I was sleeping on the floor between the couch and coffee table with my sister. My mom came and woke me up. She shushed me firmly. I was not to wake up Ls. I ate a bowl of fruit loops at the kitchen table. The lady/cousin who lived here was scrawny and as tall as my mom and smelled like cigarettes. She had a quick temper with her kids and cracked her knuckles a lot against the table. She did give me a "woody woodpecker and friends" coloring book, but I didn't trust her. She was trying to console my mom. "I know, I know, but you have to prove she's lying." What the heck were they talking about? I knew better than to ask. So we go and get in the truck. My mom says we have to take me to the doctor. "But I'm not sick." "I know, you are just fine." "Then do I have to get a shot? To make me not be sick?" I didn't like shots. "Umm, I dunno...Just be good ok." It wasn't a question. So my mom takes me to the doctor building. There's a lot of waiting. Finally a nurse comes and does the weight and height and all that. She says "you're really tall for your age." I know that already. I'm almost the tallest kid in the school. We go to the little room. I look out the window. It's the second floor. It seems kinda high. My school, my Gram's house, our framed up shell of a house, all of them were only one floor. The apartment when Lb was a baby, that was four floors, and lots of stairs. But it's been a long time since we lived there. Now, two floors seems really high up. I sit on the crinkly paper on the bench table thing. The nurse gives my mom a folded bedsheet. She says "have her change into this." Then she leaves. My mom tells me to put on the bedsheet thing, which turns out to be an adult shirt hospital pajama thing. It is huge and I put it on backwards. My mom tells me to quit "fuckin around." I don't know what she expects, but I have a weird feeling about this. She's nervous and taking it out on me. The doctor comes in and I don't recognize him, but my mom knows him. He says I look just like her when she was that age. He pinches my cheek. I hate that. So he says "I was your mom's doctor when you were born." The only thing my mom told me about that was that I was a very hairy baby when I was born I had red hair all over and the doctor didn't like it when my mom had said that I looked like a monkey. Also, she said my freckles made me look like I had more hair than I really did. Ok...so you were my doctor way way long ago. And you didn't like that my mom insulted me.... Then he says "I was also your grandma's doctor when your mom was born too, did you know that? I delivered your mom." How would I know that? But my ears perk up at the mention of Gram. I know that my mom was my Gram's youngest baby. I miss my Gram. But mom is mad at her now, so I know better than to bring that up. Then he turns to my mom. "How is she?" My mom bursts into tears. She says that Gram is crazy and trying to ruin our family. She says she needs him to look at me. So she has proof that Gram is a liar. At one point she cry's her crocodile tears and calls Gram a "lying bit*h." The doctor shushes her and says "not in front of her, ok?" He's trying to shelter me from the bad words. Finally he says, "ok, let's have a little look, ok?" Again, it wasn't a question. It was a direction. My mom tells me to "lay down." I know what they are trying to do now. They are trying to prove my dad never touched me. They are looking for fingerprints or handprints or smudges or something. The doctors rubber gloved hand is cold. My mom tells me to "lay still." I don't like him looking down there, but he says he needs a better view and turns on a light like they have to look in your mouth at the dentist. "So far it looks alright." He says. I hope it is done soon. He picks up a silver shiney thing. I think it might be a light or something, because he says "now...let's get a better look." HE PUSHES IT INSIDE ME! I freak out. The crinkly paper crinkles under me as I try to squirm away. My mom yells at me to "hold still so he can see." The silver thing is cold. Very cold. What?!? Why did he do that?!? The doctor pulls it out. He looks towards my mom and says that I am fine. "Her circuits look fine. No scarring." My insides still feel cold from the silver thing. I am so confused. Why did the doctor have have to do that? Couldn't he see the fingerprints? Not once did he ask me if my dad touched me down there. Nope. No one. Not the doctor. Not the nurse. Nobody. My mom is crying tears of relief. I feel cold inside. I feel like I did it wrong. I feel like my bladder is made of ice. My mom is weeping with a smile on her face. I am her prop and she doesn't care if my circuits are fine or not. She just cares what the doctor said. What the doctor thinks. We get into the truck and she says "I knew she was a lying bit*h!" The doctor is not here to shush her now.

MARCH 30, 2009 It was a dreary day. End of March my senior year. I decided I wanted to skip my morning classes this day because my boyfriend wasn't coming that morning anyways. We had our own building on this high school campus for this college program I was a part of. It was on the corner of campus, but sort of isolated from the other buildings, of course. I smoked some weed across the street where everyone smoked cigs before school. I was alone though. I remember walking around outside, calling N and he didn't answer. I wanted to skip that morning and go see him but instead I decided I would just go get some coffee and food or something if he didn't answer. Before I could even look up from my purse after putting my phone away, I felt someone close. It was him. At first I froze because I just didn't know what he was doing outside, but my stomach turned. I couldn't even react. If there was even any time. He sniffed me and told me he needed me to come with him and I thought, well fuck I'm busted for the joint I smoked moments before (fucking buzzkill). At least that's what came to my mind when I heard him sniff. I never thought anything more than that. I figured he wanted to punish me (as far as getting me into trouble with the principal or something normal) because my boyfriend always started fights with him and embarrassed him. Well, he ended up taking me toward the main doors, which was on the way to the student parking lot. Only he kept going. Skipping the entrance. The doors I should have bolted for. He led me, grabbing my arm slightly. Not much further to go "can we talk? I just want to talk." At this point, stupidly I thought "Oh ok. Maybe he doesn't want to get me into trouble" (Fucking dumb thought). I didn't even want to be at school to begin with, I just wanted to leave until my next college class later..This was probably second period at this point.. So part of me didn't want to go in the school anyways. I said "Talk about what??" But as we were heading away from the doors of the main building to the student parking area, he must have noticed nobody around because he grabbed me harder, walked faster. I naturally was starting to tense and try to pull away somewhat. He told me "Stop moving" and before I knew it he shoved me into the back of his car. I don't know why it was in student parking. But it was pretty much isolated. I don't know why I didn't run or scream. It really didn't cross my mind at that point that this could be anything violent or rape. Then I heard the doors lock and saw he was right next to me. At that point I was terrified. His windows were tinted. It was a car this time not the truck he took me to before... I felt uneasy. First thing he said to me was "why do you look so confused? I thought this was what you wanted. You keep talking about it." and smiled at me. That smile gave me chills. Like there was pure evil in it. I didn't know what to expect because I guess I'm the most naive person, but I knew I didn't expect him to rape me. I was also young and never thought this kind of thing would ever happen to me. But after he smiled at me like that, my stomach jumped into my throat. It now crossed my mind and I felt sick. I looked at the floor and closed my eyes "what do you want??" He didn't say anything. Just grabbed my face and turned my head to where I was facing him. He came in to kiss me and I tried with everything I had to pull away. Trying to go for the door, but he grabbed me and threw me against the seat and everything happened so fast. He kept trying to kiss me and I kept turning my head so he ended up kissing my face and neck. He was unzipping my coat and touching my body. He ripped my pants down and I was trying to pull them back up, desperately trying to keep myself covered. But he wouldn't let me, it just made him more forceful. "Get off of me!" I couldn't believe I followed him here, to this! I couldn't believe I was so stupid. He said "Why are you acting like this? You've been begging me to fuck you." I was trying to shove any part of him I could grab away from me and telling him I couldn't do this, he couldn't do this. "Sshhh, I can" he pulled my shirt down some. He leaned into me as he pulled my sweatpants, underwear and shoes off all at once, just tearing it all off me. He made an "mmm" sound, it made me feel so gross! Leaning into me more, crushing me with his body weight, he took his pants down. He touched me with his hand and put his fingers in me. Making comments..When he took his fingers out he licked them and told me I tasted "sweet." He grabbed my hand and put it on his di*k and asked me if I was ready for "that." I remember asking him not to again but I don't remember exactly what I said and it was probably a whisper at this point. I guess I realized he was actually for real going to have sex with me. He bent my leg and pushed it against the seat and threw my other leg to where it was hanging off the seat. I said “No. I don’t want to do this part” He asked me what I was scared of. I asked him to not hurt me... “No it won’t hurt, *trying to kiss me* 🤮 you’ll like it.” He was putting his body part against my body part. I told him I didn't want that in me.. “Sssshhh i can make you o* don’t you want to feel that?Just let me show you” He shoved it in me and didn’t even try to be gentle 😣 I said "Ouch that hurts please?" “Oh please give you more” and he would thrust more and it would hurt so I would tense and cry and he would tell me it didn’t hurt that I needed to relax my body and take it all in 🤢 I remember thinking I was trash. I thought N was going to hate me for cheating on him. He was going to think I was gross. My coat was on the entire time with my chest exposed some because he pulled my shirt down. I had no pants on though. I felt so exposed and vulnerable; I was embarrassed and didn’t want to scream because I didn’t want anyone to see me that way. I thought for a second “is he going to kill me here” but he seemed to be okay if I stopped fighting him off. I thought maybe if I just did this he would let me go and I could just get away from him as soon as possible. He said “You’re just tight. Just give it a minute and it’ll feel really good for you” I never had sex with anyone but N and he was I guess average size. But this was large like he always said it was. And it hurt me. I told him I wanted him to take it out but he wouldn’t stop. He kept telling me that it would get better, it would feel better in a min. He touched my cl*. I guess it felt a little better with him doing that but i still didn’t want him doing any of this to me. He was raping me! I said no! I didn’t want his penis in me!! I never wanted that! He kept trying and trying and then he just took it from me..I was being smashed into this small space and trying to get even just a foot away, to breathe. But there was nowhere I could go. I felt so trapped. "You're so tight, I'm going to cum already." I tried once more to fight him off by pushing on his face when I had the chance, but he flipped shit about that. He grabbed my arm, threw it down and punched the car seat multiple times. That was terrifying. I thought he was going to start hitting me. So I guess I became more submissive at that point. He didn't hit me though. He put his hand around my neck, which scared me at first. But he never actively choked me. Just touched me like he was going to choke me? He kept going and saying vile things to me (which I don't remember all of; "you smell so good" "is this how you wanted it?" "Ssshhhh, just relax. You can like it if you relax" "I hope someone sees") until he decided he wanted something else. He was always holding onto my arms, guiding me. He sat down on the seat and made me sit on top of him, facing away. He held my arms behind me as he continued doing what he wanted. I remember was him pushing me more into the back of the front seat. He whispered things in my ear. I hate admitting this right now but I have to get it out- his breath as he was whispering tickled my neck and he had reached around at some point to touch my cl**, and I ended up orgasming. I didn't know it was at the time. It was a hot tingling sensation and my body started twitching. I wanted to scream but I didn't I hoped he didn't notice. If he did, I didn't pay attention to what he said if he did. I was too focused on that new sensation. The next thing I remember was he said "Turn around and ride me." "No, please, I don't want to do this! I'm not ready" I was mortified. I had no idea what I was doing. "I'll show you, it's ok." And this is where it gets even more humiliating for me. These parts make me obsess with deleting what I write. I'm so ashamed! I didn't want to do any of this! But I also wanted it to be over with. So I turned around and he put it back inside He made a comment about me bleeding and it made me start to cry. He grabbed my hips and squeezed "do you like that?" I was unresponsive at first but he made me tell him I did. He made me say other things too. Degrading things about myself (He made me call him by his first name. He told me I was a filthy sl*t ("his") and made me say I was) I tried to keep my eyes closed because I couldn't stand looking at him. He told me I was too stiff and that I needed to "loosen up." I started to cry more almost hyperventilating. "Open your eyes, look at what you're doing." The next thing I remember, he grabbed my arms hard and held them on either side against me until he finished. He leaned into me breathing hard, and all I remember is crying and trying to do it quietly. I couldn't believe where I was and what was happening to me. I was trying to figure out how I could even get out of the car. All I wanted was to get off and away from him, but when I tried to move my arms away from him, he wouldn't let me go. Made me stay there on him. He would let me pull away a little and then pull me back down, laughing. So I just stayed there, humiliated and broken. "Were you a fuckin virgin? Did I just pop your sweet cherry?" He didn't but I definitely wasn't experienced and I guess I was bleeding because he was rough, which I guess he liked. I lost my virginity not long before this. I only had sex a few times before this with N. I didn't respond to him. But he got really excited thinking I was... looking at me with wide, crazy eyes. It was horrifying! I think he wanted to ruin me. Like he thought his career was over so he didn't even care anymore and just wanted to cause as much pain and torment as he could. "Sweet, tart cherry pie" When I was finally allowed to get up, I was in a panic looking for my clothes. I couldn't see them, which he enjoyed watching me freak out. He ended up handing them to me eventually..I heard him say something about doing this again sometime. I remember not finding my underwear in what he gave me. I threw my clothes and shoes on and tried to grab for the locked door. There were no lock switches on these back doors, so I couldn't unlock the doors to get out. He liked watching me panic with fear. He fed off of it. I asked "Can I please go? I won't tell anybody" He said "I know" "Hey, I hope your boyfriend likes the way I taste" with a huge grin, and he unlocked the doors with his keys and I fucking ran for my life. Confused and trying to make sense of what all just happened. If this really just happened. What am I going to do? I had gone to the bathroom in school to figure out if I was bleeding because it felt like I must have been bleeding more-but it was just his se***... I went home, showered and laid down in bed and cried until I couldn't anymore. Wondering why he let me out of the car. Thinking how I needed to tell someone. But being humiliated and scared. Remembering him saying people would just think I had a crush on him and that really bothered me. I didn't understand if I told people he hurt me why anyone would assume "oh she must have a crush on him." As a 17 year old who wasn't at all experienced with anything, I didn't get it back then. But reflecting on it as an older woman now, I see he probably meant everyone would think I made it up "crying rape" to ruin his precious image or whatever. I remember he told us students he had a friend in law enforcement before; how he also charmed his way out of any wrong doing he seemed to commit (like the previous school locker room incident), I was just so discouraged. Anyways, I called N and when he finally called me back, I could tell it just wasn't a good time to talk to him. I didn't even want to tell him anyways. Or anyone. But it was eating me alive. I didn't have anyone else in my life around then. I didn't live with either parent and they both had priorities that didn't involve me... My grandma, who I lived with (I miss her so much) was always working and stressed. She also had bad health; specifically heart issues and I sure as hell didn't want to stress her with my problems. I felt so alone and isolated. So I drank some alcohol just to try to sleep. N ended up showing up at my house, which I didn't expect. Probably because I wouldn't respond to him since I was pissed he wouldn't answer me earlier. He started asking me questions. I looked horrible so I guess that warranted it. I was tearing up so he knew something was wrong, but I really didn't want to talk about it. He wouldn't let up though. "Why are you so upset? Whats going on? Is it your mom?" She stressed me a lot back then so I think naturally that was his first idea. It could have been the alcohol or maybe I was desperate to be seen with this pain, but I muttered "someone hurt me today." "What do you mean?" "Someone forced me" and at this point I was trying with everything I had not to cry more but I couldn't stop it from flooding. He looked at me with pure confusion and what looked to me, at first, as disbelief "forced you what?" So I started to close off and needed to sit down. I ran back to my room where I could sit. He followed me "forced you?" My ears began to ring and I just crumbled. He was still saying stuff but I couldn't even focus anymore. "Like sex?? When? Where?? Who was it????" is some of what I could hear as I ran to my trash can and puked. My head began to spin. And I felt foolish and guilty for saying something. So much shame. N told me I needed to tell someone. I had to tell him who it was first. He asked me a lot of questions and found out it happened at school. With more and more questions I became more uncomfortable and laid down, which he then guessed eventually. He wasn't his first guess though, because I mean seriously who would think that?! When I wouldn't give him a direct answer, he said "just tell me it wasn't him" and I fucking lost it. Once he was confident enough in what he wanted to know, he told me he had to leave. He had to go because he couldn't just sit there. He was too angry and wanted to punch my wall. I freaked out and told him "please don't do something stupid!" Maybe I was selfish in that moment, but I really just wanted him to hold me and tell me it was ok. I just wanted to feel like I mattered at all. And that loneliness added to my feeling of worthlessness and like no one could ever truly understand what happened or truly care. I didn't know what I could do so I called N after he left just to make sure he wasn't going to do something impulsive or crazy. He promised me he wouldn't, he just needed to think clearly right now. He ended up telling me I HAD to tell someone at the school. I had to let someone know what happened. I don't know why our first thought wasn't the cops. I didn't even think about going to the police honestly. I was just so damn scared. So two days after that horrible day, N accompanied me to school. There was the principal of our section of the school and a teacher of my choosing (they let me for comfort, I guess). I couldn't speak. N asked if he should leave the room, if that'd make it easier. I cried and ran out of the office. He followed and told me he saw how hard it was on me, but they needed to know who he really was. So after I gathered myself, I went back in. N offered to go get drinks from the cafeteria with the principal if it was ok with me, and I agreed because it was hard enough to talk to him about this. The teacher said "if it makes you more comfortable, you can avoid using "I" or "me" when you talk about this." So that's what I did. I said "this teacher hurt a student." I was very vague because deep down I was terrified and too embarrassed. When N and the principal came back, they asked me a few more questions. I answered, and then they picked up the phone to call my mom. I panicked. I didn't want her to know. I didn't know what I was thinking going there, telling them these things and thinking everyone wasn't going to find out my humiliation soon. I clammed up and ran out, N following me and we left. I didn't go back to school except to get my things. And when I did that I saw the guy who raped me in the office. I found out later he was putting in his paternity leave for the rest of the year because his wife was giving birth soon. I didn't know anything about him except random things he told our classroom when we were his students, and hearing he was about to become a father made me fucking sick. Made me question even more things. I also soon after this found out the school gave him a lawyer after I told them, in so many words, that he hurt me. That intimidated me beyond repair. I felt so isolated, alone, ashamed. To me, at that time, I just wanted to forget any of it ever happened. I was young and I regret not doing things differently back then. I just didn't know what to do. I was so lost and so confused; felt trapped. If he was also close to someone in the law, then it made sense why he seemed arrogant. Also made sense why he already had a lawyer. This intimidation, in turn, caused me to make bad decisions. I didn't hear anything else from the school or anything from an investigator or anything like that. They contacted a lawyer for him but not a cop for me. So I think that added to my decision to bury it deep. I was so close to the end of the school year when I stopped going that I still graduated. Even if I wasn't on track to graduate, I don't know if I could have gone back there anyways. The teacher I opened up to spoke to me at my graduation and asked me if I was doing okay, but that was it and I never heard anything else about it. N tried to tell the school to get phone records to show he was interacting with female students outside of school (which was my ex best friend R that we KNEW of). He told them this info because he was trying to show them how he wasn't what he was saying he was. But they didn't care. Or at least I didn't think they did at the time (I much later found out he was made to resign from my school in June, two months after the rape. Not sure if it was because of the phone records or me sobbing in the office telling them he hurt me.) But back then, I felt incredibly alone. I thought if I buried it and never spoke about it, it would all be over. But I swear, this person wanted me to be miserable with every embarrassment he suffered from me trying to tell on him.I guess I tried to turn him in, I really did the best I knew how back then. I still have so much anger and shame with myself though that he is still free, but I mean what else was I supposed to do as a 17 year old with no parental guidance? I don't know what to feel about myself some days...

It has been a long few weeks of intrusive, random memories coming back to me that I for some reason never put a lot of thought into back then or blocked from my mind for whatever reason. Plus the pieces of memories I have that don't have a beginning or an end to their story and it only makes it more confusing and uncomfortable. Just need to jot them down as I remember to make sense of my thoughts so it doesn't become too hectic in my head I think some of this is coming from DS watching sequisha. Never really saw him before and I guess seeing him and how he resembles him made me sick! Plus the video game rage and guitar playing just took me back there for a minute!!!! I had to run to the bathroom and hyperventilate a little. Now I guess things are flooding back some. I remember inappropriate things he did as a teacher in high school: -Talking about how he had a large di*k (wtf. everyone laughed, nobody cared) -Talking about sex games he played in college. -Talking about masturbation; both male and female. -Joking about his bass guitar playing being like playing with a clit. -Letting us watch Dane Cook standup (it was funny in some parts) but I remember feeling uncomfortable when the joke was about female masturbation and how it was like being a disc jockey, which we knew he was. -He always wanted us to open up about our problems, like trying hard to get us to talk to him on a personal level or help us one on one with projects. Like one instance during lunch, I was working on homework and he asked me if I needed help, to which I said "no" but he kept trying to get me to let him help me. But I didn't need help so I said no. I wonder what he would have done if I said yes... -He told us he had insane insomnia and barely slept at night. - He also told us he would black out/ pass out sometimes and had done that since he was a kid. -R trying really hard to get me to join their school band "mr. m said he wants me to ask you to sing!" We had done homework together a few times and we would listen to music and I sang I guess and I do remember her saying I had a nice voice; which she must have told him about. Sick. -He gave me the history award at the end of the year and there was actually no reason for it at all. It made R kind of jealous and mad I guess and I think it was easier for her to pull away from me that following year...she never understood why she wouldn't have been given the award because she was his "favorite student" and yea I didn't get it at all either and still don't get why. -I remember apologizing on behalf of my boyfriend N my senior year (before the rape, obviously). I felt like I had to apologize for how N kept making uncomfortable jokes and things. He looked at me like "you should be sorry" Like everything HAD been my fault. I don't know why I felt I needed to do this. I don't remember exactly what pushed me to do it. I mostly remember more about which room we were in in school, the giant windows that showed the traffic on the downtown street. And his look of pure disdain at me Random fragments & recovered memories: -I remember running out of the office crying the day I was telling them he raped me. I saw people in the computer lab and I looked right at R and she looked at me as I was crying and looked concerned. I wish I could have screamed it then! HE RAPED ME . But I couldn’t I am so weak -After I was raped the first time when I was 17, I was In a lot of pain. It made me nauseous to shower and even touch down there. It was a horrible reminder- I remember wanting the pain to just be gone so I didn’t have to think about it -I remember shaking with fear "you look terrified" *smile* "I'm not going to hurt you. Just relax, you'll enjoy it if you don't tense up" 🤢 -I remember N telling Storm my life. Storm then turning around and talking to z and also J and telling them things N was telling them in confidence...which was how word got back to z about N's legal case and things of that sort... - I remember one single memory alone of being in a car, I was naked. I was was bleeding from somewhere down there. It all hurt, both my vagina and my bum. I don't remember when this was or what happened before or after. -I remember being given a ton of water. I was always thirsty and I was always given a lot of water. -I remember being really alert with certain memories. Fragments of others. Maybe some memories were more intense and memorable? I have no idea. -I also remember not being able to talk sometimes. Physically unable to speak. I could make noises and try to talk but I couldn't move my mouth much or form words. He would want me to respond to him but I physically could not do it. It was like my jaw was wired shut or something. -I remember wanting him to choke me more to kill me but he wouldn't, he just laughed "that's not fun for me" -I remember one of the guys who used me had brown skin; light brown skin. He had a chest tattoo that said love on one side and pain on the other. -I remember performing oral sex on him ^ while someone was having sex with me from behind. I had to stop because I couldn't breathe and he was decent about it. Let me catch my breath. -Another memory I have with him is him ^ giving me water and another of him showering me, washing my hair. I don't know why he would have been doing that unless I couldn't do it myself or didn't want to. Which I can't imagine why I wouldn't want to unless I thought it would make me less desirable to have sex with. -I do remember not shaving for a while and him making me shave. Told me he would do it if I didn't. -I also remember how much he hated when I would get a tan or when I pierced my body or got tattoos. He told me he would cut the tattoo off of me.. it got to a point he would inspect me completely before we did things. It was so invasive! Him looking at every part of my body and telling ME what he didn’t want on my body... I felt like I didn’t exist. My body wasn’t mine -I remember when DS (my husband) and I first met he wanted to get me to sq*; this was scary for me-I was paranoid he knew something or saw something about me; it was eerily specific and made me weary but I guess he knew nothing... -My car was also always being fucked with when I lived in Ohio. Weekly had to call work telling them I would be late because something was cut on my car, again. When I moved, it was stolen, cleaned out, abandoned, then repossessed. -When I moved to Cali, someone burned my dads house down. Found out it was a guy I went to high school with. He was paid to do it and nobody really knows who paid him to do so because he was just a street kid who lives on the streets when he is out of jail. Update: -After the second attack, I remember waking up on the bed with urine on me. I was naked and I was sore and I remember just being elated I was in my room. But I was on the wrong bed so I knew that was off. I was naked, I peed, I saw blood on the blanket beside me. I saw needle marks. My body was so sore. Everywhere. But I tried to tell myself no it was just a dream. Had to be. But dreams don’t leave physical marks... when I found my phone I guess I realized this was a real thing and I panicked. I remember falling to the floor and hurting myself. Screaming nasty things at myself. I hated myself. I was nothing. I couldn’t do anything. I was stuck. I wanted to die. But I didn’t want to die at my grandmas house and her find me there and I didn’t know what to do. So I showered. I crawled Into my bed, hurting so much. I smoked and I went to sleep eventually. I remember waking panicking that entire night. What felt like every half hour. When I would wake up it felt like I was holding my breath in my sleep before being startled awake. I couldn’t cry though. I was numb. Just scared. Hated myself but couldn’t die at my grandmas and I could barely walk so I just laid in bed miserable, broken. Completely shattered. Ripped apart. Every inch of my body hurt. My jaw. My throat. My arms. My legs. My vagina and bum. I felt sick to my stomach. My head hurt. I just felt like I had been mauled -DS telling me about the rumors from high school; how I would have sex in the student parking lot during school -I asked him why he hated me so much once, why he wanted to hurt me so badly. He just half smiled and wrinkled his brow, "I'm not hurting you?" -I remember a time I had made him angry, something I said.. But he pushed me and bent me over a bathroom counter and started hurting me in my bum again. That’s what he did when I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to do. The table was digging into my rib cage and hips and I remember not knowing what body part hurt more in that moment. I kind of focused on relaxing my body so it wouldn't hurt so much he made me look in the mirror and he told me I was a dumb w**re and nobody would want me -I couldn’t eat when I was with him- not that he didn’t let me but I physically couldn’t. Just things like apples and mandarins, everything else made me sick. it would get to points where I couldn’t perform the way he wanted me to- physically or the one thing he wanted me to do because I was dehydrated and he would get angry with me, keep me and make me do more things -There were times when he finished, he would make me look him in his eyes. He would grab my face and squeeze "open your eyes, look at me" as he was shaking me back and forth making my jaw hurt.. So I would open my eyes, sometimes looking in his eyes and sometimes looking between his eyes (thank you Dwight Schrute). Then he would cum. He burned these moments into my head. The worst part is I have thought about these memories while having sex and sometimes it repulses me and other times it doesn’t ... 🤢 -He wouldn’t tie my hands or hold my hands down himself after so many times. He would make me put my hands in certain places and if I moved them he would rip my hair or something to remind me I had to put them where he wanted them. Sometimes he made me put my own arms behind my Back and hold them there. That was so painful after a while. -This memory was in a hotel room. He had his camera set up on a tripod. "You look warm. Take all your clothes off. Turn around. Get on the bed on all fours. Yea, like that." He comes over to me after doing something to his camera. He starts having sex with me. He pushed me down on my stomach, and that's when he made me do what he wanted.. . He wouldn't stop doing things to me and it made me feel out of control. He was Making me do so much this specific time and I was so exhausted. I just wanted to lay down in the bed and close my eyes. But he kept going. He made me do all kinds of things :cry:It was over and he gave me drugs, I drank some liquor and I passed out right next to him -There were multiple times I had to lay down next to him out of pure exhaustion. He would stay with me and watch tv or other stuff. Sometimes I would wake up to find him asleep too. I felt fucking horrified. I wanted to get up and leave when I saw him so close to me, but whenever I would move to get up, he would move and it was just pointless -he would make me watch videos he made that’s how I know he really did record things. I don’t know why he made me watch them...but I can remember feeling disconnected from what I was seeing. It all felt unreal. -He also let me use my phone when I was with him. Sometimes I would “forget it” at home mostly because he almost always smashed them at some point of DJ called me or something. But he would let me text people back sometimes if I did have it. He always watched what I was writing, it had to be short and he would read before I sent it -I can remember being so soaked with sweat and then after everything was done, the extreme cold chill that would come over my wet body. It was the worst. I would get the worst shakes. The drugs and alcohol helped most of the time --One night when I was with him and DJ had called me a few times, he took my phone and threw it in the toilet and pissed on it. -"Please, I don't want to do this!" he mocked me in a whining voice. So I stopped asking for anything and just did. -I don't remember some of the violent parts, Except choking when I wasn't drugged. I think my brain blocked them out. But I will have phantom pains during panic attacks associated to memories I only have pieces and parts of not ready to write about those yet though. -I can’t even talk about the parts Where I just did what I knew he wanted me to do- those memories feel consensual even though I know they weren’t :cry:the times I would wake up and flinch because he was laying next to me and then he would make some kind of joke and I would just smile and nod, dead eyes. I think my eyes are still dead -The first time I remember being made to have sex with someone I didn't know, I was absolutely horrified. I don't know if this is the first time because my memory was horrible then, but this memory I remember being scared. This is so hard for me to talk about still. Even though other things were horrifying as well, this was when I remember thinking for sure my life had to be over. I was going to be used by this person I didn't know and my initial rapist (we will just call him z) was finally going to kill me. These people were going to use me and throw me into the woods like garbage.I didn't know this person. He was white. I don't remember his face. Or his hair color. Or eyes. I just remember his smell. Sweaty. Spit from kissing me I HATE the smell of spit. OMG fucking hate it! I felt so grossed out being raped by z, but this was just so strange I didn't understand it! I didn't know what to think of anything going on. I don't really know how to put it into words. I felt betrayed by z. Even though, yea, all he did was betray me. But this was like a really huge "fuck you. I hate you. You are nothing." I didn't get why this was something he wanted to do to me. Maybe break me ? ^ He made me get on my hands and knees and he started having sex with me vaginally. I remember being so scared, trying to focus on breathing. I had no idea what to expect next. It all felt like a nightmare that just couldn't be real! I was fucking petrified. I went in and out. Don't remember most of this. I remember different positions, some choking with something he had (some kind of cloth), hair pulling, smacking. I tried to focus on my thoughts. I really tried to think positively. But bad things kept coming to my brain. "I am seriously dead soon. This is really happening. I hope it isn't too painful. Or too bloody." "Would anyone ever find me?" I was thinking of the fun my cousins and I had growing up. All the laughing. Family. Mourning that I would never be anything more than this. No love. No kids. I wondered if N would know who did it if I was ever found. Or did he forget about me? Probably... I don't remember when it was over or anything else. -He made me dress up as a cheerleader once with no panties on under my skirt. Made me do a cheer to that Ohio state song I won’t name right now because I can’t 😢 so whenever he made me kick it was just like he could see everything of me....💔 i know he made me do something sexual to myself because I remember feeling so humiliated he was watching me. I pretended to like what I was doing but I didnt and I couldn’t because I was too embarrassed. He knew and told me to try something else or he would show me how to like it. So l told him to show me 😣 so he did things to me. And sometimes when these things are done to me I can’t feel them. I numb my body out completely. -He had off the wall fantasies. Wanted me to be pretend I didn’t know him and I was just some sl** he picked up off the street to "fuck" he said. Or the time he recorded my genuine reaction to him making me have sex with some guy with that love & pain tattoo, some other white guy and him. That was a rape video he recorded. A genuine rape video. Wherever it is 😞 this one is really hard to talk about honestly. I don’t feel like it can possibly be real but I remember the feelings I had. The pain. The thoughts I was never going to be able to have a life outside of this. I was just a slave to be used by whoever whenever forever. I didn’t have any other purpose. My stomach hurt. I was queasy and cramping. I had the shakes for a while and I remember him saying things like “yea you can’t control your shaking legs” he knew what he wanted how he wanted and just moved me around like a rag doll. Any which way he wanted. It started with oral on the mixed guy. I remember gagging and almost puking. He seemed to be pleased with that 😞 then he pushed me down on stomach, lifted my bottom up and started having sex with me vaginally. I was crying because it was hurting. I was being mocked by one or all of them I don’t remember. I think I started crying too loud because I remember him getting close to me and telling me to “shut the fuck up” “shut up” over and over . “Shut” thrust “up” thrust over and over again. I don’t remember when I stopped crying. I remember how it all ended though. He pulled himself out of me and just jammed it into my mouth and then he pulled it out and came on my face. Then he stared fingering me and I didn’t get why because he was done! But then I realized I was going to have to do whatever the others wanted to do with me. And one just came over and started having sex with me too. I didn’t even have a chance to wipe the stuff off of my face. I was doing that as he started having sex with me because I felt horrible having one guys cum on me while someone else was now using me 💔 all I could smell was cum and spit. I just wanted to die!!!! I remember trying to get away but I couldn’t because there were two others . He wasn’t interested in anything but a rough scenario this time so he was throwing me around and being aggressive also. I didn’t care though this time I was hoping they would kill me together in this room. I begged him to choke me and kill me “this is better. We are having fun” he used me every way. I had to give oral to the guy at the edge of the bed while I was being rammed behind. And I orgasmed. Only because he was touching my clit and pinching it. “See look you like being double teamed. How about this” he pushed my head down and told me not to scream Or he would be rough and he put himself in my bum again of course I cried because I hate it 💔 after a min he made me get up and before I knew what was happening I was being shoved down On top of the one guy and he was inside of me and then I felt him inside of me behind me and they were both raping me in both places. My body didn’t like what was happening and it just went limp. I remember being told to stop that. He would shake me or smack me or pinch me to keep me present. “Are you dehydrated? Why aren’t you squirting??” “Idk” “well do it” “I don’t want to!!” “stop crying” “I can’t" -I remember once I went to the hotel before him and I was in the shower and he came in while I was in the shower and grabbed me out and did what he wanted to me 😞 for some reason I was in the mindset that I needed to just play along and be into it and let myself relax so I could enjoy it. So that’s what I did. We did that for a while. I can remember thinking it was one of those times that it just went on forever and I probably dissociated because I don’t remember much but being a sl*t Why is there so much? Does anyone else's recovered memories and post abuse realizations look this lengthy?? I am feeling stupid and pathetic about it all 💔

I have decided to write about the individual experiences I have had with other questionable situations I was in. Some of these things have really been bothering me and I hope giving them an actual written outlet besides a snippet of "oh, this happened too but it's not a big deal" because it is really bothering me lately. I think it had been overshadowed by my more violent trauma. My head is spinning with self blame, shame, grief. I just wish I could have realized things and spoke up for myself more. Some of these things I wrote a little about in previous entries but I just feel like I haven't allowed myself to really deal with them or accept them entirely as what they were. I guess I just considered them "awkward situations" instead of "sexual harassment" or uncomfortable sexual encounters instead of "sexual assault/rape". So I will just go in order of when they happened in my life: -When I was 12, I saw my first erect penis. I was in the back of math class and a student next to me said "hey, look" and he had his hard penis out! We were in the back of class, but I know a fellow student Drew saw it happen! His eyes were wide in shock. I told my mom and she was horrified. She told the school and when the principal asked me about it, I told him what happened. He said "you do know it's your word against his?" and I don't remember ever speaking about it again. - My second job was a grocery store where I met a creep, E. I immediately friend zoned him because it was obvious he wanted to have sex and he was very crude and gross about it. When he realized I was not going to sleep with him, he told everyone at work we indeed had sex AT work. Do all sleazy men have the same fantasies?? It seems likely. I am not sure anyone believed him though which was a relief. This same guy during work hours brought me a "poem" he wrote about me. It was titled "c*nt" which he then looked down at my vagina. And the "poem" was in this format: C is for c*nt U (I cannot remember what he wrote for this one) N (or this one) The calls are coming from inside your house I used to have a picture of this poem but it was like 5 phones ago E also made a horrible joke around coworkers once: he said to a friend/coworker of his as we were all stocking the toilet paper aisle "wouldn't it be hilarious if we kidnapped her and took turns with her and then just left her on the side of the road?hahahahahahahahahahaahah" The other guy just kind of looked at him in shock but laughed uncomfortably. I remember being horrified and leaving to go stock somewhere else; mainly because it was extremely triggering and also I had slept with the other guy once and it made me feel sick that maybe they were talking about it behind my back or something and E was mad I didn't sleep with him. I don't remember the reactions of the others around or if they even heard what transpired. I remember feeling like I was nothing at all. People weren't seeing "me". They were seeing something they hated and wanted to dominate and take advantage of. I didn't understand why this is how people wanted to treat me! -I knew a guy from school (not high school, but we had a lot of mutual friends in high school) we ended up meeting up for a mutual understanding of a one night stand basically. I will call him Nate. While we were hanging, he got a phone call from a friend, of course being DJ (we weren't really friends at the time, hadn't talked to him since high school) and I cringed when Nate told DJ we were hanging out. I had friend zoned DJ since the beginning of us knowing each other so he asked "samantha who?" and then Nate fucking told him it was me and we exchanged the cringiest of hellos 🙄 Anyways, this guy and I just drank, smoked, watched a movie. We both started taking our clothes off at the same time, this was what we were getting together for. We had sex that first time. I can't remember if it was before or after sex that he asked me if I had "ever been pissed on." I, of course, looked at him concerned and said "no, I wouldn't want that." So we left it at that. We continued watching that movie "Superbad" and then he asked "will you get a shower with me?" I kind of wanted to wash the sweat off anyways so I agreed. We ended up showering and having sex again, which was also fine. Thinking about this now though, I wonder if he pissed on me in the shower? Why else ask me if I was ever pissed on?? I just kind of had this epiphany not long ago Also, after the shower we went and laid down in bed and continued watching tv. He kept putting his hard penis on me and eventually asked me to give him oral, I didn't want to. Mainly because he had a large penis and I really didn't feel comfortable. Well, he kept pushing my head down and telling me "just put your mouth on it" "come on, just put it in your mouth" and I guess I gave in and did what he wanted, but made it clear I didn't want him to finish in my mouth. He ended up finishing in my mouth! I fucking jumped up and ran to the bathroom to the sink... What a fucking asshole. I felt so betrayed. Then I thought I was stupid , what did I even expect. Blamed myself for being in that situation. I didn't have my car so I felt trapped there. So I laid down and we went to sleep, kind of. Through the night he kept touching me and putting himself on me, but I pretended to be asleep hoping he wouldn't go any further. The next morning, he took me home. I was so relieved. When he asked me to get together with him again I think I made it clear when I told him I was on my period. Took a hiatus from sex for a minute after this also. -When I look back on my friendship with DJ, I feel foolish. I mean, I should have known he was going to want sex from me. I am a fool! But we were friends. He would get me weed when I wanted it. He would also get my favorite beer on the way to his house all the time. I felt safer with him than when I was alone. We did not start out having sex. Just hanging out and listening to music. I guess maybe that was what made me think I was ok from the sex part. But he started showing more signs of wanting to. I should have stopped hanging out with him then, but I didn't want to be alone We had made out once. We were both tired, so it didn't really go anywhere. Another time I was on my period and he wanted to have sex, so I told him I was on my period. He kept trying to convince me to take my tampon out. Which I wouldn't... I guess it just kept progressing and I was stupid to think he wouldn't expect it eventually. He had done other things that should have been obvious red flags; like sneaking into my house and getting into bed with me and things like that but I never took it serious I guess We were listening to ADHD by Kendrick Lamar; I will never not remember this night And this song, the smell, the feel, everything...we were kind of drunk and had smoked some weed. He started kissing me and we were making out. He kept trying to take my clothes off and I told him I didn't want to have sex.. I didn’t want his penis in me. He was large.. it was triggering, so I thought. I said "Stop, I don't want to. Not tonight DJ. Wait." He kept saying "Please? Come on." "No..." I pushed his hands away, I tried everything I could think in that moment. He wasn't violent or loud. Just very coercive. He was pulling my underwear and shorts to the side saying "Just let me finger you at least" and he just started to do it. I remember tensing, he thought I liked it because of that. So he continued doing more and pulling at my shorts and underwear until they were off. He was opening a condom and then he started doing what he wanted. I just laid there. I felt defeated. I said I wanted to get on my stomach and he let me. I was just glad to not have to see him doing it anymore. Then I liked it...I asked if I could shower. So I did, which he ended up bombarding me in there to shower too. We fell asleep on that couch together after this. I went back for his company over and over again. Knowing he wanted to have sex. I never really did want to at first but my morbid curiosity led me to it. it was better than being alone I guess. Or being vulnerable to even worse situations. Mostly. He did other uncomfortable things. Things I went along with because I didn't know how to say "no". He recorded me on his phone once while I was giving him oral. It was triggering, but I didn't even say anything! There were times we would be watching tv and he would be touching me and out of nowhere he would just stand in front of me on the couch, pull his penis out and put it in my face and just tell me to "suck it". I just did whatever. And I found that I kind of liked it. I couldn’t get enough of him and the bossing around and things but he started getting too odd and controlling. There was a time he didn't use a condom and I only found out because we changed positions. I felt betrayed and horrified. I wanted to stop, so he agreed to use a condom. But this wasn't the last time he tried to trick me! I found out another time he didn't use a condom as I was changing positions and it was right at the moment he was pulling me down onto him and he said "ride me". It was like I had a switch that just turned off when he said that because I just did what he told me to do. I told him to tell me when he was almost there so I could get up, but he just grabbed my hips and finished in me. I wasn't on birth control. He knew that too! We didn't talk for a little because I was offended. Then we did talk again because I am a fool. It was around his birthday and it was the last time I saw him. This time I had my car. We were smoking and we started kissing. He pulled my shirt down and said "your boobs are bigger" and he seemed really excited by it because he started kissing them and doing things to them.I actually panicked because it crossed my mind the last time we had sex he didn't use a condom. I know he never was the kind to ever want to have kids. But his reaction made me feel weird and I wanted out. I don't even remember how far we got, if we had sex or not, I have no memory of what happened next. I just remember I left and I felt good leaving. So I ghosted him. Never answered his calls or anything after this. I was not pregnant, but that was my first official pregnancy scare that no one knows about! I don't know what I would have ever done if I were to get pregnant by him. What a terrifying fucking thought. I never allowed myself to think of the initial trauma over the last 10 years let alone thinking about these situations being wrong. I wonder if there are other women out there realizing these same things about these same people. I am sad. And mad. Honestly, heartbroken. This isolation isn't helping me with thinking about it all, almost nonstop. Kind of obsessing over it. sam 💜

My husband is amazing. But recently he read my very personal, private journal without my permission; which is kind of like my blog here just more detailed and more memories Needless to say he is now traumatized and even though he is a veteran who fought twice overseas, this is what has sent him into therapy. I feel so much shame and guilt. One thing that has come up is the fact that the one thing he knew about me in high school was that "I would have sex at school in the parking lot". I never ever would do anything like that. I was a virgin until 3 months before I was raped. I had absolutely no experience. I was, however, raped in that parking lot. And that has to be the only thing this rumor stemmed from. Which fills me with a lot of questions and emotions. Would he have started that rumor himself to make me seem like a sl*t or something? Or like sex on campus was something I normally did? Was this an attempt to discredit me? Even though I was just a teenager with no experience? I feel horrible about this

For eight months total, the guy who was deployed (DS) still kept talking to me here and there, never giving up. Asking again if he could see me when he came home for military leave. This stressed me out so much because as much as I liked him, I was too ashamed to meet him in person. I didn't want him to see me. Or know me, for real. I didn't want to be taken advantage of again. Or him regret meeting me. Worse, I didn't want him to like me still for some reason and I end up ruining his life in one of the millions of ways I thought possible already. He must have told his father about me (!!) because his dad ended up messaging me and telling me he wanted to do a surprise welcome home at the airport, and his son would really want me to be there. I struggled with this so much. I wanted to go. In my heart, I wanted to be there. I just didn't feel like I had the right to be there. I didn't feel worthy. My cousin ended up talking me into going and took me. I stood all the way in the back, behind everyone. When he spotted me, he came over, gave me the flowers he had in his hand and hugged me. I was so nervous. We spent our time together talking, eating comfort food and watching the food network together. I didn't want it to end. I felt so safe with him. He was a marine so I knew he had training in defense and I just felt so completely secure, which was a brand new feeling for me. He ended up asking me to be his date to his dads wedding, which was about a week into his trip home (they decided to do it while he was home so he could be a part of it). I accepted for some reason! I had a wonderful time. It didn't feel real to me. His family seemed so happy and full of a lot of nice, loving people. I didn't feel like I belonged at all. But he and I grew closer. It scared me. So after all this, it was time for him to go back to his base across the country. And I was really sad about it. I actually truly felt safe and secure with him. I never knew what that felt like before. I could let my guard down and feel like I didn't have to look over my shoulder when I was with him. I was beside myself when I was alone again. I also thought he would stop talking to me any day. But we remained talking, every day now-multiple times a day. I have no idea what he saw in me. At this point, when it came to the person who tormented me, I was basically cooperative. So in these situations, I would basically take myself to be used. Or "willingly" go with him. I didn't want to be terrorized anymore with being held against my will for however long. This way I could give him what he wanted, which at this point I just knew what to do to get him to be satisfied with it so he wouldn't like force me to do more. If I just played the part he wanted me to play, it could be painless, right? Or as painless as it can be in its own fucked up way. It never lasted for more than two days at this point. Probably because he had kids and couldn't get away with being absent as much. I knew he had kids because his car had car seats and toys. I remember a toddler shoe. That pierced my soul because it reminded me he was just a normal guy to everyone else. He was just a husband, a dad. But to me, he was a fucking monster. He threatened to hurt people I loved. Kill me or my "boy toy." Which I assumed was my friend (DJ) I always hung out with before who ended up taking sex from me also...or maybe even DS, but I mean I know that wasn't likely because he lived in another state. How could he even do that? But I mean I didn't ever imagine he would be capable of doing the things he did to me, so a part of me was still nervous what he would be capable of if he was angry enough. So I was regularly giving him what he wanted from me. It was just the only option I felt I had back then. I didn't want anyone to be hurt because of me. I definitely didn't want anyone to know anything, I was so humiliated! I think he started using the "I will kill your brother/grandma/friends" threat more when he realized it didn't affect me as much when he threatened to kill me anymore. I just didn't care. I hoped he would sometimes. I even asked him to. I guess that was when he flipped the script. It was the same thing every time he used me though there in the end. Drugs, whatever sex he wanted or whatever he wanted to record or if he wanted me to do it with someone else. I was just a sex slave pretty much. I don't even know what this was or what it's considered. I truly felt like a sex slave though. I don't really know how else to describe it. He would make me do things on camera for "people". I don't know how it all worked back then. But he would make me do things alone while he recorded and told me what to do or record himself doing things to me. Sometimes in hotel rooms. That I drove myself to... I was so disconnected from everything at this time I didn't even react to sex except with pleasure. He Made me feel so much shame for that. Beat it into my head that no one would ever believe anything if I said I didn't want it. There was video proof I would be lying, he said. How could I argue that? I couldn't. Anytime I reflect on this I just hear him saying "nobody will ever want you" over and over. One of these times I was with him, after I returned home I noticed DS had messaged me a few times. A few missed calls. I wasn't allowed to have my phone whenever I did these things with him (he would smash them if he saw it, so I just left them at home) so I didn't even know he was trying to get a hold of me until I returned home. The messages seemed worried (it had only been one evening) First, because he thought I was done speaking to him. Second, because he was actually having a bad gut feeling I was in danger (I guess he had that intuition). So I contacted him, telling him I was so sorry, I had to replace my phone... It broke my heart to have to lie to him and that alone made me want to run from him to save him, but he seemed to care about me and I don't know why!! He really truly cared about my well being and respected me. I didn't have the heart to stop talking to him. He told me this made him realize how deep his true feelings were for me. And that's when he started asking me to come to the state he was stationed in to be with him. I, of course, hesitated at first because that was just too much. But each time I had to have sex when I didn't want to, I would fantasize about moving away across the country. It seemed impossible to me. So out of this world. I was also doing what I was doing with this person who was threatening me, and I didn't feel right. I didn't feel faithful, so I didn't feel worthy. I never wanted to do these sexual things. Although I did orgasm, I didn't want to do these things with him or anyone else. But it still made me feel dirty, like I was unfaithful to someone who was committed to me somewhat. I hesitated for months. I didn't know what I would be expecting. I was so scared of so many things. DS came back to visit for Christmas. He noticed I had an eating disorder this visit. I purged everything I ate the entire time he was home. I don't know why he didn't run from me. He also bought me a new phone because I was paranoid about using my other. He told me he wanted me to come back with him. I said I couldn't. I didn't understand what he possibly saw in me. The idea of leaving though became intoxicating. I was sick of being forced to do things I didn't want to do. Sick of being a joke, used for everyone to see every part of me. Violating my bodies trust with pleasure and pain. I was exhausted. Just a side note, I was always getting checked medically. Condoms were used that I remember during the assaults, but I was out of it sometimes so I'm not sure about all the time...I wasn't completely ravaged but I did deal with one std...But this was way before I ever did anything with DS. Anyways, less than a month later, he left again for his base. DS asked me yet again to move with him and stay for a while. I knew I was going to have to be humiliated again soon, and probably not too long after that. I decided I was going to go. Just that quick. Up and go. It was the best thing I ever did. I got my plane ticket, and flew out west! When I landed, he picked me up and took me back to this apartment that he just furnished. He had my favorite color lamp shades and kitchen towels. It's making me cry now thinking about it. I didn't understand how or why I deserved this treatment. He was/is seriously amazing to me. I probably tell him this every day, if not multiple times. I don't know why I was blessed with him but I was. He saved my life. I don't think he will ever truly know to the extent in which he saved me. I really don't think I would be alive today. Unfortunately, soon after moving there, I became really depressed. The weight of everything really fell on me and I fucking freaked out. I felt like I lied to DS all this time, but there was just no way I would ever tell him anything. I was insanely paranoid my grandma would be killed or something. I just had no idea what to expect, but I knew I had to leave or I would be dead when he was done with me. Luckily DS was working during the day because I was a mess around then. Picked myself up when he came home but he knew I was struggling. I started trying anything at all to try to get out of this funk and nothing was really working. One day he came home from work and we drove to this place in the middle of the desert; a small building with what looked like a warehouse size building beside it. It was the humane society and he brought me there to pick a pet to keep me company. That's when I adopted my first cat, who is laying with me right now as I type this. She still provides me comfort. I think he just always knew exactly what I needed when I needed it. He respected my space when it came to everything. He is so patient and loving. We ended up getting married eventually (going on 7 years). I fell head over heels for him. I feel safe with him. Secure. For the first time in my life. We ended up moving back to our home state before our first son was born so when he was born, our family could meet him; more so DS's family. Although my home town brought a lot of painful memories to me, we moved back. I had paranoid thoughts at first and struggled with depression, but it faded some. I was here for years and started feeling normal, living my life. Being a mother and wife. Then everything came crashing into my life yet again in November of 2019. I was walking down the aisle at the grocery store as I naturally started looking at the person who was at the end of that aisle. As I stepped closer I thought "ew that looks like...oh my god that's him. He's here. What if he sees me?" And I had to walk past him because there was nowhere else for me to even go the way this store was laid out (unless I wanted to run out of the entrance I just walked into and I wasn't even sure the door would open that way for me!) It was all happening so fast. So many thoughts all at once. I don't know what compelled me to look at him. Just my own morbid curiosity I guess. He was stuck there and his eyes were wide and like bulging. He knew it was me. I kept going and went to the checkout and as I was leaving I noticed he was just now leaving the first aisle by the entrance. So weird. Almost like he was avoiding me as much as I was avoiding him. Now I'm scared to go places alone again. I have paranoid thoughts about leaving. Although it's winter and I usually am naturally a homebody, I have become reclusive and almost never leave the house unless I have to. I feel much safer at home. My husband makes me feel protected. We do have a weapon or two for protection, cameras, and a security system. So this is my safe haven and I want to stay here for now. Sometimes I feel like I should come forward to tell everyone who he truly is. What he's capable of. Because in the back of my mind, I've always had fears he would have killed me. If not me, then maybe someone. Or he could hurt someone else the way he did me. I don't know. I feel so much guilt. I know he lost his job and license to be a teacher anywhere. That may limit his easier access, but who knows what life he leads. He was obviously violent and had humiliating fantasies. I just don't know why after all he ruined of my life, why I have to feel responsible to dedicate even more of my life centered around him. It isn't fair. So I decided to fake my death and move on. It is hard. But everyone knowing the humiliation and him still not being able to be held legally accountable, I'm sure, would have crushed me beyond repair I think. I don't want him to completely annihilate me. I want to now live for ME. I also couldn't admit these things out loud. It's still too hard to admit this was all real. I can't even have social media accounts because I'm too paranoid. Even worse now that I'm a parent. I guess I can sleep nowadays without waking up freaking out like someone is standing there, but this is still looming over me way more than I would like. I'm horrified even writing it all out. I know I'll have to read this again and I'm terrified. I should be writing this out because it's a release from bottling it up for years. It's a way to get it out of me somewhat. But this also makes my thoughts so real it's really hard to come to terms with. If anyone I know were to read this I don't know how I would feel. The unknown scares me so much. I'm reverting to my severe symptoms of ptsd again. I find myself sitting and staring off for like an hour before I realize I'm even doing it. Just so consumed with thoughts. I really hope this can help me. I need help. I never felt like I could be believed with what all he did to me. I actually still don't and that's why I am terrified you're reading this. If you've somehow made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my story. But a large part of me hopes you didn't read it this far I hope this helps and doesn't make me obsess over deleting it! sam

After I returned home from Vegas, I went straight to working and trying to stay as busy as I could so I didn't have time to think or be alone to be taken as his slave again. It was 2012 now and I was working on and off for a few different restaurants and sometimes I even worked two different restaurants a day; working double shifts just to try to stay as busy and surrounded by as many people as I could. I would even hang with friends from work as much as I could just so I didn't have to be alone after. I was always terrified he would come for me again soon. He told me I wasn't done "paying my dues" so I just assumed if I let myself be vulnerable, he would do it again. This was probably 3, 4 months after the last incident: After one of my double shifts, I had come home. It was probably close to midnight. I smoked some pot in my car, and when I was walking to my porch I was grabbed from behind. I ALWAYS checked my surroundings. I was always looking around to make sure I was safe, but it was like he was a ghost and just appeared. I had my mace always with the key ring around my finger like a ring, so I had a grip. But he kept shaking my hand though until it fell in the darkness. I couldn't see his face anyways then, not like I could've used it. He could have been anywhere. It was dark outside, my guard was down and he'd won, again. And I knew this was coming soon. I was going to let him violate me again by not being careful enough. He told me it would happen and I was just waiting around I guess... I wonder how long he'd been watching me. I always felt watched, wasn't sure if I was paranoid or if he really was watching me sometimes. He had his hand over my mouth saying things to me. He was taunting me. Again, with the thoughts of "oh, he's going to kill me this time." I didn't think, I just acted and I bit his hand just to try to fight back any small way. He ended up letting go of my mouth and I screamed for a second before he started choking me. "I'm going to fucking kill you now!" ("Oh, I was right he is finally going to kill me. Please just don't leave me here for my grandma to find") He was forcing me back to my own car. "Get in!" He shoved me into my backseat and I don't remember what else happened until I woke up. I had a hell of a headache and woke up grabbing at my forehead which was bleeding (have a scar above my left eye). Realizing I was somewhere else in the back of my car and I was cold because it was February. I was completely naked. One wrist was tied with some plastic ties to the door handle. MY door handle. I was in my car. The door at my feet was open and when I looked up to see I saw him there, outside smoking. I remember yelling and saying no over and over. I was trying to rip my arm loose. He came at me, laying his body weight on me "Yea scream louder, I like it. Nobody can fucking hear you!" He leaned into the front seat and grabbed something and put a pill in my mouth like before "swallow it" so I did. I didn't want to be a part of whatever this was as much as I couldn't be. So I took it. I had water in my car, which I grabbed with my free hand out of the seat flap. He grabbed it while I was drinking and it ended up spilling all over me. "Look how wet you are! You are so ready." He started touching me all over. "You want this d*ck. Tell me how much you want it!" He made me give him oral. He performed oral on me. I was very confused. Now I know he just did it to humiliate me. To play mind games with me. Eventually I began reacting because of the drugs. He wanted me to react this way for some reason. I was trying with everything I had to hide it at first. But I couldn't after a while. I didn't even feel like myself. I was "feeling" all of it without wanting to. "Yea you like that? I knew you'd like it eventually sl*t" "Tell me you like it!" He handed me his lighter and told me to melt the plastic tie on my hand; so I melted my ties with the lighter and told me crudely to get on top. So I did. The worst part that makes me feel so guilty and sick was when I thought I peed. I just went into my head and the next thing I remember is feeling like I had to pee and it just happened. I don't know if I said I have to pee as it happened or before but I remember panicking once it was happening. It freaked me out when I remembered he was fucking me again. I thought he was going to hit me, but he said "fuck, yea, do it again." He grabbed me by the hair and moved me face down on the seat, "yea, c*m! squirt on me" and he wouldn't stop until I did it again. After this he became fixated on it. Only later did I learn what "squirting" even was and felt so betrayed by my own body. I think at this point I realized he did have complete control over me and there really was nothing I could do. So I was completely submissive. I gave up. If it felt good, I just allowed it to feel good because it was better than the alternative. "You'll never c*m again without thinking about me." "You'll try to forget but you never will." ^This and the other two attacks are the ones etched into my mind, but I don't remember a lot of things. Just pieces of conversations, body memories caused by triggering sensations or words,remembering feelings associated with random objects that I guess can be triggering sometimes (which I don't have the full memories to, if that makes sense? example:a toddler shoe reminds me of feeling hopeless. I saw one in his car once, but I don't remember why I was in there or what happened before or after that) This "situation?" or what have you, where he used me sexually became a more regular thing. It was always basically the same as before, with less violence since he did what he intended and broke me with that violence. Drugs, sex. Making me do whatever thing he thought of. Mostly dominant, submissive where I was controlled completely and humiliated but enjoyed the pleasure physically. That was his fantasy it seemed. Like this specific one I'm sure won't sound surprising: He did a teacher-student scenario where he would ask me questions "So you need to pass my class? What are you willing to do for me samantha? can you squirt for me?" (yes he used my real name and it was even more humiliating because he threatened to send it to people I know and then they'd "know" I made "porn"). There were other scenarios like this but I just don't want to get into it I'm scared more memories will come that I am not ready for. He taunted me with telling me he put it online to sell and thousands of people saw me. "People are going to recognize you" "Nobody will want you now, for sure." Did he really do those things? I don't know... He got something from it all. Whatever that was. The feeling of power and control. Living out his fantasies on me to show everyone. Or just re watch later. And I hated myself. I was sure if he didn't kill me, I would. I lost some of my memory around this time. Chunks gone because I guess I would rather not remember (I wish I could forget those initial attacks, though. That'd be pretty dope). Things my mom and grandma and cousins told me about recently that I have no memories of. Not sure yet what that means, or what all I don't remember. That really has me chilled to my bone. I'm still scared of the memories coming back someday. Anyways, I ended up losing most of my jobs around this time because I was a "no call, no show" and that was another tally on my worthlessness chart. I felt so fucking low. I remember lying in bed in the silence for hours, days. Just laying there staring into space. If it became too lonely, I would invite a friend or go sleep on my friends (DJ) couch. I actually only could sleep there. On his couch. In his basement bedroom in the dark, watching Kenan & Kel. I would forget where I was sometimes and wake up in a panic but this was the only place I could really sleep. Especially if my friend fell asleep on the couch with me. Even though he ended up not being the most gentle person, some of these memories in this basement are still some of my favorite... I was broken. Ruined friendships. Close ones I had with people who meant a lot to me (K). I was just so out of it! I don't even remember how we fell apart completely. I just feel like one day we stopped talking I felt completely hopeless, trying to survive one moment to the next. For some reason my friend who was deployed (DS) still continued to email me around this time. He was one of the only people who truly saw me for me and made me feel like I was worth positive attention. When he would bring up more serious topics or try to get to know me on a deeper level though, I would pull away. I couldn't let him in. I didn't really think it could possibly go anywhere. He was so much better than me. I just figured he was lonely. Which I was too, and we could just talk through our sadness. So we did. I didn't open up to him about anything I was going through though. He could tell I would pull away a lot. He told me his last relationship was with someone who was in an abusive marriage prior to their relationship, and she pulled away from him completely. He didn't want me to feel like I needed to do that. He really liked me for some reason. So I only opened up a tiny bit telling him I was still healing from trauma I had experienced and I didn't want to talk about it. I was extremely ashamed and never wanted him to know. He made me feel better about living at the moment though. He respected my space amazingly. Even through our emails. He just brought this up the other day too "when we emailed, sometimes it was just one small sentence emails." Non-intrusive, just talking about random things. He was very persistent with keeping in touch though, which we usually did through email and sometimes the occasional phone call. It took me a while to allow that. He wanted to video chat, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. I didn't like the idea of it. Looking back, I wonder if any part of him wondered if I was catfishing him. It was easy to get away with not talking to him for extended periods of time because he was across the world and almost 12 hours difference. This gave me the space I felt I needed to keep my baggage to myself. That was comforting for me in so many ways. I didn't feel like I could truly get close to anyone. I know my grandma thought I was having health issues and probably drug problems too. She really wanted me to get help, but I just didn't know what to do. She tried to help me as much as she could though. Took me to the hospital when I needed it, and took me to get any medicine I needed. I wasn't on hard drugs consistently though, myself. Only drug I managed to do on my own consistently was pot. Anything harder would kind of take me back to that feeling of being out of control of myself and I didn't like being taken back to that feeling unless I had to be. My friend in the military (DS) really wanted to meet me when he came home to visit family after his deployment, so he asked if he could when he comes home. That's when I panicked and stopped talking to him for a short amount of time. I just didn't know what to say to him. I was so ashamed. I didn't know what to expect or what he expected and I panicked. It was debilitating. So I spent my time working and trying everything to not be alone. I was always with a male friend (DJ) if I was out of the house, and he made me feel safer I guess. It got to the point where I didn't even drive anymore unless I had to. I always had someone take me places. I was fucking paralyzed with fear of being killed when my guard was down. Like I said before, I would sleep on this male friends cozy basement couch or even invite him to stay over just for company. I just wanted to feel safe sometimes. We were friends. We just smoked, sometimes a beer or two, watched nostalgic tv or listened to music. I do remember one instance he told me he was being harassed by a fake account on facebook. I was never able to physically see the account before it was deleted and he never showed me the message, but he told me whoever threatened him had told him to stop touching their "b*tch". He said I was the only person he was hanging out with at the time and I guess I could believe it because we hung out a lot if he wasn't working around then. Plus I had a likely culprit... He seemed mad at ME because of the messages. "You need to tell whoever this is to stop. I don't like this weird shit." Yea, me neither... "Is it N?" and I told him no, so he just kept asking me who it was. Maybe he felt threatened, I don't know. I told him I didn't know who it was, but he wouldn't stop talking to me about it. So I stupidly thought being somewhat honest with him would help. I told him I was attacked in my past. To which, of course, he didn't believe it. "A lot of girls say they are raped..." I remember feeling so numb to that. He didn't know or ask anything and already dismissed it. Another reason to never open up... Why is it so hard to accept these things happen? Or is it just men who rape stick together and give each other the benefit of the doubt and blame the women? I wasn't being sexually active much back then at this specific time because I just felt burnt out, but I could tell DJ was getting to that point of wanting to even though we were just friends. He would sneak into my house sometimes and just get in bed with me and kiss my face until I woke up which I found confusing. No idea if he did more than that ever or anything. There was one instance at his house when he started kissing me. I kept telling him I didn't want to have sex that night (we didn't have sex yet but we had made out before). But he kept touching me, making me say "stop, not tonight. Don't." He took what he wanted anyways... I just gave in and accepted it after this though. I didn't care anymore. We started having regular, wild sex. Did I want to? Not really, ever. I thought it was what I wanted sometimes. (But it really was just a way to self harm and I guess feel like someone wanted to spend time with me) I just didn't want to be alone. He seemed to really like it. So the more he liked, the more I wasn't alone. But he would do other things I didn't appreciate. Most of the time I didn't even say anything because I just didn't care about myself. I was just a vessel to be used each and every way. So I did whatever whenever which I am sure he just loved. There was another time he was inside me and I started doing kegels on him because I just wanted it to be over with, we were going at it for a while; he told me to stop because he didn't want to cum “yet” and I kept doing it anyways because I wanted to stop having sex... And I did it until he finished and I remember him looking at me confused. Since this I have kind of thought bad things about myself... See, he was nice most of the time and we had good times together too; but he was a sleaze bag. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. I guess my initial memories of him weren't very comfortable either. In high school he would grab me from behind all the time where my butt cheeks would be on his di*k. Or he would pick me up after hugging me from behind, purposely putting his arms under my breasts and feeling me. I just find that invasive...it always did make me uncomfortable. The last time he ever did this to me was in front of the teacher who raped me oddly enough and he yelled at him telling him to "never do that again" DJ looked shocked for being called out and we just laughed it off and I teased DJ "yea, stay off of me!" Meaning it with everything inside of me though.. to both of them. He would also act out a little controlling as well while we were hanging out. He said some things during sex and wanted me to repeat things I didn't feel comfortable with. For example "tell me this is my pu**y". I remember specifically saying "no?" He would orally assault me constantly. I guess it’s considered oral rape.. but he would just put his penis in my face and tell me to suck.i never wanted to. He was large also and I just never even liked giving oral to men...it made me feel so dirty. He recorded me once while I was doing it. Looking back. I think he recorded other things we did because his laptop was set up on a chair in front of where we always were and it was always open with the screen brightness turned all the way off. He also would randomly say "I love you" "you know, not love love, just love. You can say it back..." I was like "No...that's ok." He never said it again. He would also take my phone and put it away from me and if I received an alert he would read them first before handing it to me. Right in front of me. I think he noticed I was emailing DS (they were friends in High School) and I don't want to say he was jealous but he definitely seemed off about it. He would say things like "fuck him (DS)." And that was the start of me feeling like I did not want to talk to him anymore.. I didn’t like the feeling of being controlled by someone. I didn’t want another person in my life controlling my life

In 2011, I was not with N anymore. I was working a lot. At this point, I was living in my grandmas house again. I had a lot of alone time since they were not home for chunks of time. My grandma worked a lot and her husband worked for an airline. They also traveled a bit. I liked the privacy and the solace though, until the second rape. My grandma was able to travel a lot for free, perks for having a husband in the field. So they would go on vacation together sometimes to visit family or friends in Florida or Texas mostly. This particular time I was home alone while they were gone for about two weeks. After they were gone for about two days, I heard noises downstairs. Thinking it was our outdoor cat, a cousin, or maybe even my grandma home early sick, I went down my steps to see. When I reached the dining room, I saw someone at the counter moving toward the island touching things and I thought for sure it had to be family. But then he looked up at me and I remember freezing for what felt like way too long, or maybe everything was slow motion; I don't remember what he said to me. I had a bad feeling and I knew I needed to try to get away from him. This was terrifying. I will never forget the pure panic I felt. It makes it harder to open up about these specific things at this point because I realize some people wouldn't want to believe these things can happen. Or maybe he just made me think nobody would ever believe me no matter what. I don't really know. I am only just allowing myself to admit most things about this entire thing This house I lived in with my grandma and her husband was spacious and my neighbors weren't very close. We also didn't really lock the doors back then. And I actually didn't even think about it either... I just never..imagined. I knew I wasn't safe at my old high school. I never thought I wouldn't be safe from him in my own home. I thought he got what he wanted. All the paranoia of feeling watched felt real now. I instinctively screamed out of pure fucking horror. He was saying things but I couldn't really focus on what he was saying. I turned and ran back toward the stairs to my room (which was on the second floor, almost like a studio apartment room). I wanted my phone! I ran upstairs and he let me. Only to chase me with laughter. "I need a huge favor! You knew you'd see me again!" There was nowhere for me to go. I was looking for anything that I could use as a weapon. I had no idea what to do. My neighbors weren't close enough to hear me scream. But I was screaming for him to not kill me. I thought for sure that's why he came there. He grabbed me from behind, pulled and sniffed my hair. "Are you scared?" He shoved his hands in my pants, touching me and putting his fingers in me. He smelled like alcohol, which immediately reminded me of N. "Please don't do this to me, my grandma is coming home soon" "She can watch me ruin you!" I was trying to get away again, kicking, yelling at him to let me go. "Keep screaming, you're making me hard." I had two beds in my room and one was my guest bed on the other side of my room by this large window facing the large front yard. He threw me down onto that bed. Had something in his hand and I didn't know if he took it from his pocket or had it in his hands the entire time. They were scissors from our kitchen, and I thought for sure he was just going to start stabbing me so I mentally prepared for it. I closed my eyes as hard as I could and tensed everywhere. He put the cold blade against my skin, I screamed, and he started cutting my clothes off instead. He told me he could do whatever he wanted. Could have me when he wanted. He was in my house and there wasn't anything anyone could do about it. He told me I was pretty much his property. I remember how badly it hurt when he was pushing on my legs, like he could get them further apart by smashing them into the bed. He was always purposely rough I think because I really felt like he hated me. "I own you. You are fucking nothing." "I could just choke the life out of you. But then I wouldn't be able to do this." And he did actually choke me this time. I stopped listening to what he was saying eventually because he was being so obnoxious, very dominant. Simply because he could and he liked the power he had over me in my own space. I have no idea how long it lasted. At one point I remember him slapping me in the face "Hello? Take this" So out of defeat and hoping it would be over soon, I did what I was told to do. He gave me a pill. He continued doing things with me which I remember up until a point. This next bit is so hard to type. Fuck. The more I think about it, the more I realize how he wanted to scar me these ways. I really believe he wanted to ruin me. I think killing me would have been too easy for him; he wanted to torture and control me. I think these realizations are why I really avoid writing it. Thinking about it. I don't want to remember that rage and hatred. He rolled me over and pinned me completely down, I could not move. I was fucking freaking out. I feel like I am watching it all happen again He put my arms behind my back and leaned into my ear and whispered "Have you ever been fucked in your ass?" I remember trying with all my strength to try to wiggle him off of my back. I never ever thought...it never crossed my mind. I was screaming and sobbing and begging. "I'll do anything else you want. Please don't" And it was all what he wanted. "Don't freak out, you'll like it!" "NO" He ended up tying my hands with something "sshhh , stop. Calm down." He touched my body and then pushed my butt cheeks apart and said vulgar things about my body part. Then he started trying to put it in my bum. "You are too tight, I'm going to fucking rip you apart!" "Noo, Please!" (<I hear this every single day in my head; my own screams) "I'll never be able to get this in *spit*" After however long it seemed to be working easier for him. He was just jamming it in and all I could do was whimper because it hurt so badly. I couldn't form words because the pain was too much. It felt like he was using a knife. He kept saying things, but I didn't focus too much. The last thing I remember was being on my stomach and feeling very tired. The constant thumping of my body because of him was actually putting me to sleep. Maybe whatever pill he gave me kicked in. That's the last thing I remember there. I don't have the best memory of this next few days. I don't know if things are in order, what I am still missing, what fragmented memories I do have fit where; it's all still blurry and I really hope it stays blurry. One thing I remember was I was in the back of a car as it was moving. I was naked. I was going in and out. I remember it was dark out. Seemed like just blackness. Another, I started freaking out, having a panic attack at one point. I couldn't catch my breath and thought I was dying because he poisoned me or something. Another memory I have is in a room I didn't recognize thinking I was going to die, he brought me here to kill me. So many thoughts paralyzed me with fear here. I heard people, sometimes talking. Did he need help killing me? Couldn't do it on his own? I was in this room where there was only a bed, a blanket over the window, and a table. I remember being given more drugs in the arm with a needle. I wasn't terrified anymore and I guess I was more compliant, but I knew this was a situation I didn't want to be in, if that makes any sense. I wasn't restrained that I recall. People used me however they wanted to in this time I was here. I don't know how many there were. I remember two faces besides his, so I guess three people that I know of. I don't remember a lot of it, just random things I can't totally make sense of. Like showering, but not being able to stand so someone was cleaning my hair? I don't even know. Or humiliating details of being used by two men at the same time. I didn't have any sense of time because there was this thick blackout blanket thing over the window and I couldn't tell whether it was day or night. I knew my grandma was gone for days so she wouldn't even know I was gone until she came home. I thought I was going to be dead and thrown in the woods and never seen again. At least I wouldn't be home for my grandma to find though. And those were my constant thought scenarios when I was aware enough to think thoughts... At one point when I was more lucid (I was being cooperative for the most part), he asked me if I wanted to go home. I just didn't respond because I figured this was just another taunt to get me to crumble emotionally so he could get a fucking boner. "How badly do you want to get in the car and go? Badly enough to get on your knees and beg??" He shoved me onto the floor and told me to beg him. "You're such a w**re. Nobody could look at you and think you're not" He made me give him oral. He liked to tell me he owned me while doing these things. He told me I looked like a junkie, that's all anyone would think I was. "You have two options, you're crazy or you're a w**re. You can pass for both" "Do you think anyone cares about you enough to believe you? They'll laugh, you look pathetic." "Do you think anyone even realizes you're gone? They don't even notice." Like beating it into my head..He just kept moving my head the way he wanted until he was done. "Yea, swallow it all" He made me He wouldn't take his di*k out of my mouth until I did...Even though I was about to puke all over him. But I think guys like to see women gag on them. He choked me when I was done "I could squeeze the life out of you. No one would care to fucking look for you!" "But I'm having so much more fun doing this" He let go of my throat at some point. I was trying to breathe, sobbing. Imagining I was dead soon and wishing he would just do it sooner than later. I just felt so fucking done. Tortured. It was like he knew exactly how to break my spirit to turn me into what he wanted. He walked away from me, and I got scared he was getting a knife or something but he came back with a pill and some kind of liquor. "You want some candy" he shoved a pill in my mouth and told me to swallow. I gagged on the pill. He gave me that shot. I drank. He was singing "I want candy" which sends me into the fetal position whenever I do hear it now and again. I don't remember all of what followed. He told me I would like it. Everything gets very trippy around then. Everything I thought and felt just felt right. I don't really know how else to explain it. What I do remember my body began responding in a positive way to the things he was doing to me. Even though he was being very dominant, my body responded the way he wanted me to, without me wanting to! I remember thinking I needed to try to hide it as much as I could, but he caught on eventually. "Stop closing your eyes!" "Yea, see you like that. Moan!" The feeling of connecting shame and dominance with pleasure is hard to get past when you aren't a willing participant. I am not turned on by being used as a rag doll. But that night my body responded as if I was. I don't really know how to explain it... After what seemed like forever, he took me downstairs of this house. I was still completely naked. There were other people downstairs I remember seeing and this was humiliating. I felt like absolutely nothing. He jabbed my arm with a needle, and I welcomed the high. I felt relieved in that moment and for a bit after I guess. Pretty sure he took me to the car, the next memory I have is being naked in the backseat. Maybe a control thing as to why he kept me naked? Or I just didn't have any clothes since he cut them off of me before. I have no idea. I don't remember anything about getting home. I think he waited for me to come to, because I remember basically everything when I first got home. We were sitting in the idle car, he was smoking and I sat up but my right hand was tied to the door handle with a zip tie looking thing (black and thick). He threatened me a little more "Nobody will ever believe a drug w**re. You'll end up in jail for prostitution.You think anyone would believe you're not a w**re?" He opened the door I wasn't tied to and got in the back with me, "if you bite me I will choke you" and he put a mint in my mouth and he made me give him oral while he recorded it. He was so obnoxious with it I fucking hate these memories. He told me to swallow it again "don't pretend you don't like the way I taste." He got out and opened the door I was tied to and it pulled me out and down onto my driveway. I knew it was my house because of the Buddha garden decoration my grandma had by a tree in the yard. I don't know why I didn't scream here. I was so thankful just to be home. He put more drugs into my tied up arm, and then I remember not being tied up anymore. I remember being really cold. A snapshot memory of him carrying me over his shoulder. I don't remember much about how I got into the house or anything like that. I must have passed out. I woke up naked and in the bed he raped me in before. I had pissed on myself. I woke up in a panic. Wondering if I just had the worst nightmare of my life. Realizing I was naked and there were needle marks on me. I thought I was going insane. I genuinely spent hours trying to convince myself it couldn't have really happened. But the more I saw bruises and tracks, my bum hurt, there was also dry blood on my bed where he raped me anally before (how badly it felt I thought there would have been more blood). I realized somehow this was real. But it couldn't possibly be!! I was wondering how I let this happen to me again. How did I survive? Why did he let me live? And come back home? Why didn't he just kill me? I needed to call the cops. But I looked fucking insane rocking back and forth trying to figure out myself if what I think just happened, happened! I wouldn't be considered reliable I was sure. What day is it even? I got up to look for my phone. Couldn't find it at first (ended up finding it behind my tv stand). So I grabbed my laptop and it had been 6 days. I still had almost a week to be home alone. I went and locked all the doors and turned off all the lights. Showered in the hottest water because I still smelled like him and I needed it off. I laid down. But I didn't cry anymore. I think I was in shock. All I could remember was all the threats. How nobody believed he raped me before, why would they now? I eventually passed out. I'd wake up panicking every so often. Then passing out from pure exhaustion. Repeat. This went on for like 48 hours. I finally ate a banana (can't even stomach eating whole bananas anymore because it takes me back to this memory for some reason) and I had someone bring me some weed. I left the money in the mailbox while they dropped it in there because I was so paranoid about unlocking the doors or being seen. My body was sore. I wanted to try to forget. But I couldn't. So I smoked, took sleeping pills to sleep as long as I could. Still woke up panicking thinking someone was right there or choking me. It was horrifying. Worst time of my life. When my grandma came back into town, I avoided her. Told her I was sick in bed and although she did come in to see me, she didn't have to see most of me. I hid from her out of shame. I felt dirty. I felt like a w**re; what he told me I was. I didn't feel like I could look people in the eye anymore. When I felt like I looked decent enough, I needed to get my phone replaced. When I found it behind my tv eventually, the screen was cracked and I had some texts from a number I didn't recognize with a video of me giving oral...it said "mint blowies are the best" So I asked my grandma if she could take me to replace it. She took me. She wanted to go out for lunch and must have thought it was strange when I asked if we could just order and take it home. Which is what we did. She knew something was wrong with me, but she didn't press me after realizing I didn't want to talk. I am glad she didn't because I would have probably had a breakdown and he would have been right; I would have ended up in an institution. It was really awkward and hard but I just couldn't talk to her about it. I couldn't even look her in the eye. I couldn't even think straight. I don't think I could even form sentences with my thoughts after this incident. She probably thought I was on drugs. She offered to take me to Vegas with her when she was going a few months later, and I agreed to go because honestly it sounded like just what I needed. While I was in Vegas, an old acquaintance from high school (DS) reached out to me on a social media account. He was deployed in Afghanistan and started talking to me out of loneliness. I was lonely too. We talked about nothing but it made me feel like I existed for another reason than just being used. He was so far away I guess I felt comfortable developing a friendship with him. He didn't want to just have sex with me. I also didn't have to be with him in person, which it was hard for me to do and be present when it came to being around people because I carried so much shame with me. Every second of every day. But while this beautiful friendship with this guy was blossoming, I didn't realize my life was still under someone else's complete control until I did something drastic about it. I would get phone calls, sometimes saying things and sometimes not. I even received a call while I was in Vegas (we stayed with a family friend) and I remember trying so hard to not let anyone in the house hear me sobbing/hyperventilating because I was having panic attacks from the phone call. This particular time he told me he would be sending videos to my grandma and my parents. I would end up in tears only after some calls because some were worse than others; and the few times someone saw me I would just say it was an ex. I mean what could I even say? "Oh my god, I'm being harassed by this person who is torturing me and using me sexually?" I mean, I guess I wish it was that easy, but I was scared people would think I was delusional and insane. Send me to a psychiatric hospital. I didn't think anyone could possibly believe me. And because of stigmas I didn't think anyone would ever take me seriously if I did break down and end up in a hospital. People would just think I was incredible..I even still think that. I obviously didn't feel like I had a secure outlet to talk about this. I didn't feel secure enough to turn him/them in. I didn't even know who the others were. I felt invisible. I was also extremely paranoid. I became a little more self destructive. Drinking a lot. Experimenting with drugs. I also would starve myself. Sometimes for days. And if I did eat, most of the time it came back up. It was such a dark time.

I have desperately tried to take responsibility for my own life and be perfect, and deal with my issues in private. But I had a breakdown... Now my parents see me for the wreck I am. God, now "I" see myself for the wreck I am. They think I'm a mental case that does not put faith in God enough anymore. They say I'm an alcoholic and cannot fathom why I would ever want to slice my flesh like that, or threaten to take my life. They shake their head at me as if I am some sort of disappointment. They don't stop to think that... Maybe beating a child for years could cause her to lose her mind. Maybe that beaten child would possibly fall into the arms of another grown man at 15, a high school teacher that she thinks she can confide in. And HE would be the one to show her a false sense of love by molesting her for several years. That maybe when she gets frustrated with the frequent beatings, constant molestation, and forced display of perfection... she might decide to spread her wings as a teen and rebel. Then, maybe another grown man, who claims to be a man of God, would see her rebellion at 22, and to teach her "a lesson" by sadistically drugging & raping her and taking her virginity, making her feel like no one else would want her this way. Maybe she would grow up hurting because her own parents told her she should be ashamed for having let that man of faith make her unclean before God, by being rebellious and tempting him with what she wore. Maybe that her dating other religious men she thought would be better, would also rape and scar her too. Maybe realizing that the man you gave your blessing to, wasn't as perfect as he portrayed himself to be, and would beat her in private too. But that doesn't matter, because she's used to it anyway... that's just what happens. Maybe coming to understand that she's not just being spiritually weak in the faith... but is frustrated with God and religion after seeing her father a religious leader, get away with beating her, then another man of God get away with raping her, her boyfriends and fiancee beat and rape her too, and other elder men of faith sexually harassing her over the years. Maybe just maybe, that's why she's quiet and isn't as zealous in religious functions like she used to be. God.. I'm just so tired of having to be the perfect one that needs to work on myself, when everyone else gets a free pass in my life. I know this is my life and I have to put in the work to get better. But why do I have to feel like a bad person, because I had a mental breakdown and am having trouble coming out of it? Can't they see the years of hurt and pain and secrets that made me this way? The people that hurt me, and haven't had to work on themselves, but I do? They have carried right on with their own lives. But then again, maybe it is my fault because I was too scared to tell or report anyone. I still am. It doesn't even matter anymore. The things I am dealing with are my burdens to carry alone. Why do I even expect anyone to understand? They never did and never will.

Hello, all. Did you all enjoy NOT hearing about my schoolwork? I hope so, because I HAVE enjoyed not bitching about certain classes and papers that I really didn't want to write. Of course, these were for the 'required' classes not pertaining to my social work major and it would only be natural for me to complain about those. I will say though, that when I return to campus in a couple weeks, I'll be TRYING to refrain from giving my (former) Government professor a glare for giving me the only B grade of my last semester - it was a damned B-PLUS, he couldn't have let me have the A-minus???? Hmmmph. I promise, although this blog has SOME (really, just a little bit) to do with what I'll be taking in my spring semester, it's going to be more focused on a bigger problem I'm noticing and realizing that we have in today's world. Perhaps this is the main reason for me not being able to, for the life of me, come up with a good title for this blog entry. It's just...something has been on my mind for the last couple of days, and it's really messing with my ability to come up with something more inviting to put down as a title. What I'm about to discuss has left me mentally speechless in some ways. I'll try to make as much sense as possible, though, so, bear with me, please. My Intro to Child Welfare class's (the one 8am class that I have this semester) syllabus was released over the weekend. Now, you'd think that since I still have just under two weeks' vacation remaining, I'd only glance at it and get an idea of what textbooks I'll need, or that I'd MAYBE get a head start on some of the reading, but no. I've already read through the instructions for the two papers that I'll be expected to write, and it's already been (jokingly, but sadly, also accurately) suggested that I might be FINISHED with these papers before the class even starts on the 21st. (Go ahead and chuckle. I did.) Anyway, my Child Welfare professor has already released all of the supplemental readings needed - the articles that we won't be finding in our textbooks and that we'll be discussing in class. I opened up the document and started reading. It was a compilation of child abuse cases that, sad to say, did not yield a happy ending for the dozen or so children written about. The articles are nothing short of heartbreaking, and his intent, I want to say, is to demonstrate that there are cases that do indeed fall through the cracks, and that there are certainly flaws in the child welfare system, and there have been, for a very, VERY long time. There have been WAY too many losses, and WAY too many children have fallen victim to it. The system is in dire need of rectifying, but this is truly a process and requires for a LOT of corrections along the way, re-writing of policies and all of that fun stuff I'm still only beginning to learn about. One story in particular, I remember very clearly from 1987 - I was eight, at the time. The story of little Lisa Steinberg, a six-year-old forever-angel who was beaten into a coma by her (illegally!) adoptive father, Joel Steinberg, who was at the time, a defense attorney. In a rage, he beat Lisa to a bloodied pulp, to include dealing a traumatic blow to her head, and left her bleeding and bruised and alone before going to some kind of social event. Steinberg's common law wife, Hedda Nussbaum, found Lisa unresponsive, but alive, the NEXT FUCKING MORNING, and called 911. Nussbaum claimed she was also abused regularly by Joel, and that her crime was neglecting to report the abuse of Lisa, who, after this particular beating, was in a coma for three days before being taken off life support. Fifteen minutes after being disconnected, Lisa gained her wings, and the only consolation to the millions who would grieve a child they'd never met, was that her suffering had ended. This was one of the nation's WORST cases of child abuse. It was a MAJOR news story that I remember watching, seeing the headlines and even crying for Lisa, who was only a couple years younger than me. Just a little girl, just like me. And her father had killed her. I was able to identify the piece-of-shit's face without seeing his name - as soon as I read about what he'd done, his face was permanently etched into memory. I remember being more appreciative of MY father, who had NEVER raised a hand to me in anger. I remember thinking, this never happened to me - I wasn't abused. LISA was abused. Child abuse meant beatings, it meant being forced to eat their own feces, it meant being locked in closets, it meant being tied to radiators, it meant starvation. It meant one or both of the child's parents had harmed them terribly, and had put them either in the hospital or in coffins. This wasn't something I'd experienced, so I felt, for lack of a better explanation, unable to fully empathize with Lisa and what she might have gone through at the hands of her adoptive parents. There was always a sadness in me, though, from when I first heard her tragic story - perhaps I understood her pain in a different way, but at the time, I couldn't make any connections. (I'm gonna come back to this....because now there's another thought forming....just wanna finish up on this, first...) A lot of time has gone by. Eventually little Lisa's story had faded, but I'd never forgotten about this little girl - ever. And when I opened this article and saw Joel Steinberg's monstrous face, along with his wife's negligent bit*h-face, (I'm sorry, she's just as guilty as he, if you ask me - she testified against her husband, I think, mainly so she could avoid severe punishment for her negligence!) it all came flooding back. I probed deeper, and did more reading (on my own) on this case - to refresh my memory. In doing so, I learned that Steinberg was released from prison in the early 2000's and is now a free man, living in New York City. What the fuck????? HOW does a monster like this survive a stint in prison after murdering a little girl?? HOW has he not been knifed down in the middle of Times Square? HOW? I know this was a lifetime ago. People forget, people probably WANTED to forget, and as soon as he was put away, (for 29 years? Does that even seem fair?) they considered justice for Lisa served. Life went on, more and different horror stories have emerged, and that face I'd memorized - became DIFFERENT faces. I also have to consider that the Lisa Steinberg case is probably one that most of my classmates don't remember, as it occurred long before any of them were born. I remember it, though, and I remember Lisa. It is my hope, though, that when my classmates hear her story for the first time, that they, too, recognize just HOW flawed the child welfare system is - just HOW unnecessary it was for these beautiful children to die, and that we're just going to have to do better, to keep MORE children from being hurt or worse. And now the other thought...I did tell you I'd get to it.... When I was still young, (maybe 10ish?) I remember the Oompa watching One Life to Live. I may be wrong on the name, but I knew that it was a cheesy soap that, I think, is still being aired today, despite said cheesiness. For some reason, I was home from school - and was sitting in the living room with my mother while she watched her soap. There was a rape - on the show. I remember the man pinning the woman to the bed, and the woman fighting him. The man also struck her a couple of times. I asked my mother what was happening, and she said, 'he raped her.' "What does that mean?" I asked her. "It means the man forced the woman to have sex with him." "Oh," I said. I probably went back to whatever I was doing, but do recall that graphic scene on television bothering me. Not to the point where it was triggering anything, but it is something I STILL remember. Perhaps it is because I'd have an experience a few years later and I'd mentally come back to it, but, who knows? That was the day that I learned what rape was, by my mother's definition. Granted, I don't think a child my age would have been able to handle elaboration on what ELSE rape was, but for the moment, I knew what it looked like. I was able to recognize my own sexual assault at 17 as a rape - based on my mother's definition. The man who did this to me - forced me to have sex with him. It wasn't verbatim with what happened on the soap opera, but it involved force and it involved violence. My own situation - there was no question about. My perpetrator hit me, pinned me and I fought for as long as I was able to. He had sex with me, and I didn't want it or ask for it or give my permission. That was rape. There was no question in my mind about that. Following so far...? Ok, good. Moving on. I now had my definitions of what child abuse and what rape were, without expanded understanding of the more serious, the more silent/unseen and potentially, the more deadly forms of both abuses. It's the same with Domestic Violence. I'd always thought that it meant one spouse was physically abusing the other - and gave no second thought to the gaslighting, the mental, the verbal and the emotional abuse my own husband was dishing out - that, I thought was because I was a miserable wife, I was too damaged to be what he wanted me to be. I wasn't even considering that one isolated incident during the end-stages of our marriage, when divorce was already in progress, when he'd had sex with me AFTER my telling him that our physical relationship was over. In my mind, it was more helpful to consider it a 'last hurrah,' and that we WERE still legally married at the time, so....what's one more time with the father of my children? This wasn't rape - it didn't happen like it did in the soap opera, it didn't happen like it did when I was 17. This didn't count. But....guess what? Yes, it does. It counts. And even though I was never beaten by my parents, there was still child abuse...there was abuse by someone else, and potentially my mother's relationship with denial, that left no visible marks. There was abuse of my mind, also leaving no marks visible to the naked eye. At least, nothing ever was confirmed, on account of my having no memory of anything that could be submitted as evidence that it was truly CSA that happened to me. The CSA, I felt existed solely because of my behaviors as a child - a child who wasn't exposed to sex or sexual activity at a young age likely would NOT have behaved in the same way. There is plenty written about my story in previous blog entries, so if you'd like elaboration on this or on the rest of it, feel free to look for the blog entry titled "Installment One: The Formative Years.' Even though there were no beatings from my husband, there was still domestic violence. I was still afraid of him, but not because of what he would physically do - more so what he'd say, how he'd manage to make me feel two inches tall using just his words. I'm no longer married to him and no longer live with him, but he STILL holds an element of power and control over me, where he needs only make one statement, and over and over again, the things I want to and have said, are reduced to mere whispers that no one can hear over his higher-than-thou opinion. He's always right, I'm always wrong, even though we're not having to make joint decisions on things having nothing to do with the kids we share. Friends - we as a society, are in trouble. If 'trouble' isn't the best word, then at the very least, we have a very serious problem. I told myself a long time ago, (okay, it was perhaps not that long ago, as my own realizations manifested and sunk in only a few short years ago) that I wouldn't lie to myself anymore, and that I was going to do the best I could in encouraging others to not discount, dismiss or make light of any of their experiences, because - they all count. ANYTHING that has made us feel badly about ourselves - counts. We MUST take a few minutes to re-define what all is involved in this trifecta of abuses. Every day, there are survivors questioning themselves and their experiences, even invalidating themselves when it's, in all honesty, not fair to themselves to be doing so. Perhaps you've also been told what something was - your definitions were obtained without elaboration on what ELSE it could pass for, and you've had to take someone's word for what child abuse, sexual abuse, or domestic violence truly was. It leaves WAY too much room for misinterpretation and self-doubt and that is, I believe, what makes it MORE tragic. Maybe our abusers, themselves, forced a definition onto us from an early age? (For example, CSA doesn't always physically hurt - sometimes it doesn't go beyond fondling and inappropriate touch, and this child might have been told 'if I'm not hurting you, how can this be bad?,' or 'this is how I show you love.') See what a clusterfuck that can cause in one's mind??? And furthermore, what damage it can continue to do, should we allow ourselves to believe the definitions that others want us to believe? Rape isn't always violent. Sometimes it's silent, sometimes the word 'no' is NOT even uttered. Sometimes it's done as a result of coercion, so that one doesn't have to deal with confrontation or with making their assailant angry or hurt their feelings. Oftentimes, rape is committed because we simply don't fight it....and for whatever reason we choose not to fight, we MUST know that there was a deep, meaningful, VALID reason for it and that it doesn't, in any way, make it okay! If it wasn't wanted, if it wasn't one THOUSAND percent agreed to with an emphatic 'YES,' then it was wrong. And, this is a new one for me - but even within a marriage, mutual consent should always be given. If crystal clear, conscious, SOBER consent was not given, we should ALL be allowed to consider that it was the wrong thing. PLEASE remember all of this. PLEASE expand your definitions, friends, because your feelings DO MATTER. CSA doesn't always hurt. Child abuse goes beyond beatings or starvings. We can't always see child abuse, whether we've experienced it ourselves and suffered no physical pain - or we know someone else who has experienced it. The system continues to fail SO many beautiful, innocent, PERFECT children. Consider the ways the system has failed YOU - because it has. It's failed me, too. I'm sorry to all of my friends who were failed as children - this, I understand all too well. Tell yourselves that it doesn't necessarily have to hurt, and that this was NOT love, even though someone you trusted may have told you otherwise. That's a truth you deserve to know, too, and a truth you're ALLOWED to recognize and adopt as your own. And how about that wife whose husband tells her (you may place me in this category) that if she's not having the shit beat out of her on a regular basis, then she has no reason to complain? She has everything she needs - a roof over her head, a spouse that provides, what's she got to complain about? When in reality, she has a lot indeed to be upset about, that initial definition of domestic violence, that definition that doesn't quite apply, is blocking any and all rational thought beyond what you've already defined. If this is you, and you're also that person dealing with a verbally abusive spouse, please know that you're in JUST as much danger as you would be if your spouse is throwing punches - and you don't deserve that shit! You DON'T, no matter how much they may make you feel that you do. I'm also realizing as I embark further onto this journey into the helping profession that there is so much anger within me - that this line of work I've chosen is either going to make or break me. On one hand, I'm not going to be able to become too emotionally invested in any one child's (or survivor's of rape, domestic violence, etc) case - but on the other, I'm going to see and hear a whole lot that pisses me off and I'm going to be finding myself increasingly disgusted with our broken system and frustrated that I'm just one piddly cog within the whole of it. And because I have experience with pretty much every form of abuse under the sun, I'm going to have a deeper understanding of why things are second-guessed, why there are suspected 'gray areas' (and I'm not saying they're there - I'd rather say they DON'T exist because to say there is one, allows for more room for self-doubt) and why certain things are a constant, continuous struggle and why healing seems so complicated at times. I know this Child Welfare class, once in full swing, is going to take a toll on my emotional state, mainly because I'm going to be reading about actual cases of abused children and in learning more about the variety of ways they were failed where they could have been HELPED, where they could have been SAVED, I'm going to hurt. Over and over, I'm going to find myself either crying for them or wanting their abusers to pay a bigger price for their crimes. If these pieces of shit are not on death row, scheduled to be executed, then they're not paying and they'll NEVER truly pay for the innocent life they've destroyed, but that's just my opinion. NO ONE who hurts a child, or abuses another person in ANY WAY, deserves a mere slap on the wrist or to be walking free...but that is not my jurisdiction nor my choice to make. This, like many other things, is out of my hands. My primary focus will be on helping those who HAVE suffered abuse at the hands of another - be it physical, mental, verbal, emotional, medical, elder, or sexual - and capitalizing on how I can help them to heal from these wounds. It's my goal to show them that none of these marks, be they visible ones or otherwise, are their fault and that there is NO justifying abuse of any kind. There's NO excuse for any of it. My mission is to keep reminding others of that. Every day for the rest of my life, if need be. One man, woman, child, day, email, phone call, blog post at a time, in hopes that those cogs that surround me that are still grinding and stuck, will eventually begin to turn again, and that this system that is so fucking miserably broken will start to work as it should. I'm sorry this blog entry was a bit on the deeper side, tonight - I just didn't expect to be re-acquainted with Lisa, and those children with stories like Lisa's, so soon. Or maybe I did. I AM going into social work, after all - did I really think this was going to be easy? I guess I just need to brace myself because I am starting to see a whole lot of ugly that could have been prevented and need to be prepared to have these horror stories repeatedly thrown in my face. Shit's getting real, and I'm hoping I made the right choice. I can tell that this is just one of many future rants I may make on broken systems and perpetrators who deserve to die. In closing, a little advice for those of you who have been reading up until this point...(thank you, by the way!) Don't doubt yourself. If it feels wrong, it was wrong. Don't minimize, or allow anyone else to tell you that what you've experienced was 'no big deal,' 'small,' or 'insignificant,' because that's NOT true. Take a minute (or a few) to self-validate, to re-define, to tell yourself (repeatedly if needed) that your trauma was 100 percent real and that you deserve to be believed. You deserve for your voice to be heard, no matter your age. I know I said I was starting my 2020 eat-healthier plan this week, but that's going out the window; at least, for tonight. I barely touched my dinner earlier, and now that I've purged all of the thoughts of the last couple of nights onto this page, I'm wanting to comfort-eat - and so, I shall. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to sleep tonight - it's been a battle with the tossy-turnies all week. While I'm tired, I'm still not sleeping as well as I should be. At this rate, going back to school could be easier to adapt to - or harder. We'll see. On that note, I'm wishing you all a good day/evening - depending on what part of the globe you're tuning in from. My love and hugs to you all. - Capulet

i need to stop drinking. but with that comes the nonstop words that haunt my soul for eternity; can you save my heavydirtysoul? compiling all of this over all this time and realizing all of the things he said to break me; it is comforting to know I am free of him physically. This is what I can remember from 5-6 years of off and on abuse from the same horrible, sadistic person repeatrepeatrepeatrepeatrepeatrepeatrepeat his words - "Your eye color is very interesting. I've never seen eyes that color before, very pretty." - "Hey blue eyes, I need your help." -“you look nervous. You don’t have to be nervous” -“have you ever been alone with a guy?” I’ll never forget this one, it was when I was sure he was a pervert. I finally knew it wasn’t just my gut feeling being irrational. Which led to him asking: -“have you ever kissed?” and then, -“have you ever been touched under your clothes?” -“do you like how that feels?” -“if you relax, it will feel good” -“you can look at me” but it felt like a demand not an option -“I have a surprise” he put his mouth on me. I’ll never forget the sounds... the shock I felt. He wanted me to like things so I would want to do more... 🤢 -“Here, I’ll show you” he put my hand on his penis and told/showed me what to do... I hate the memory of first seeing his penis because i had never seen a penis so close before and it shocked me and he commented on my wide eyes and commented on his penis size again 😢 -“You shouldn’t tell anyone about this. Someone might get jealous and start rumors” -“Ohh you’re here to finish what you started?” -“if anyone knocks, hide there” pointing to a spot under a desk where there was cardboard covering from the top of the desk to the floor, completely hiding what would be under the table. -“it feels like you’re ready” *laughs* - "Are you obsessed with me? Why are you telling lies? i wouldn't do that. You're just some 'teen' with a 'crush' " - "come with me" - "Can we talk? I just want to talk for a minute" - "Stop moving" - "Why do you look so confused? I thought this is what you wanted. You wont shutup about it" - me: "What are you doing? You can't do this!" him: "Sssshhhh, I can" -“you’re being a tease” - me: "Why are you doing this to me?!" him: - "Because you want it. You're begging for it. You've always been begging for it." -“see? You’re ready for me. Just let it happen. Don’t fight what your body wants” -me: “no I don’t want to do this part” He was coaching me along “stop acting like that, you’ll like it, it’ll feel nice” I said I didn’t want that in me and he said “you want to o*, just let me show you” and he put it in and it hurt so I said “ouch that hurts” “you will get used to it, just relax” I cried “no take it out!” “no it doesn’t hurt. You just need to relax” so I just stopped talking and tried to relax my body but I couldn’t - "Get on top" - "Turn around and ride me" - "Do you like that?" - "Open your eyes. Look at what you're doing!" - "Were you a virgin? Did I just pop your sweet cherry?" - "Ahh, don't get dressed! We were having so much fun" “we will have to do this again soon, I need another piece of sweet, tart cherry pie” 🤮 this one is one if the hardest ones I’ll probably have to delete it - me: "Can I please go??? I wont tell anybody.." him: "I KNOW" - "Hey, I hope your boyfriend likes the way I taste!" - "I need a huge favor" - "You knew you'd see me again" - "Are you scared?" - "Keep screaming. You're making me hard" - "She can watch me ruin you!" - "Lay down" - "I can do whatever I want to you." "I can have you when I want." "I am in your house and there's nothing you or anyone else can do about it." - "I own you. You are fucking nothing!" - "I could just choke the life out of you!" - "Have you ever been fucked in your ass? Don't freak out, you'll like it." - "I'm going to fucking rip you apart" - "Do you want to die?" - "Do you want to go home? How badly do you want to get in the car and go? Badly enough to get on your knees and beg?" - "You're such a w**re! Nobody could look at you and think you're not" - "Yea, swallow it all." - "I could squeeze the life out of you. Nobody would notice you're gone or care to fucking look for you!" - "You want candy!" - "Stop closing your eyes!" - "Don't pretend you don't like the way I taste" - "I have videos of you being a w**re. You look so happy. I can send them to your grandma? Your mom? They'd love to know you're making porn." - "You need more than some spray." - "I'm going to fucking kill you now!" - "Get in, get in." - "Yea scream louder, I like it. Nobody can fucking hear you!" - "Save your energy, I need it" - "Look how wet you are, you're so ready!" - "You want this di*k. Tell me how much you want it" - "Oh, now you like it. I knew you'd like it eventually sl*t. Tell me you like it!" - "Squirt on me!" - "You will never cum again without thinking of me." - "You will try to forget but you never will." - "People are going to recognize you. Nobody will want you now for sure" -"Is this what you wanted?" -"You want to ruin people's lives?" "I like ruining people's lives too" -"Oh you're so beautiful when you cry. Keep crying. Just like that." I tried to stop crying but I couldn't. -"You get goosebumps when I touch you." -"Just imagine you're alone and cum" "Here drink this" I just did whatever he asked me to do -"So you like fucking two guys at the same time? Now you will really know what it's like to fuck two at the same time" hahahahahaha -"He wants to fuck you too." "You've been bad so this is what you get now" All I said was "ok" -him: "You're not done paying your dues." me: "What?" him: "It's pricey when you try to ruin someone's life." -"I'm not hurting you"

How could I have been so naive? How could I allow someone to manipulate me so much? I feel worthless. I'm so alone. I feel annoying everywhere. To everyone. I'll have this shame inside me forever. My chest actually hurts because I just feel the loneliness and shame breaking my heart. I find myself seeing others with family or people talking about family or friends and my heart hurts so badly because I just long for it so much. I long for someone to see me and tell me I matter to them, too. I wish I knew what to do to change this feeling. I'm reverting back to bad coping mechanisms; which I guess is bingeing, fasting, drinking. I don't want to do this. But I feel so alone. I don't have one person I feel like I can truly open up to without feeling annoying. I wish I could feel connected. I'm depressed. I never think about suicide for me personally, but I have been thinking about suicide as a topic in itself. I feel so hopeless about ever being happy but I don't think about dying anymore. NOBODY CARES. I am nothing. A nobody. With an unbelievable story. A ghost. Was he right all along and that's why he chose to use me? I was weak? I was nothing? Still am those things I guess. I try not to let him write my life story; but I feel beaten down. I want to feel like I matter. I have always been unworthy to be seen by my parents, most family, friends. I have always tried to be there for everyone in my life and nobody is there to even ask me how I am. I feel like people only talk to me when they want something. So I feel used. Like I have always felt. I feel haunted by him more often than not. The things he said, he spoke them to life it seems. I am nothing Who could care about me? Would anyone really care if I was gone? No Where is everyone now? I own you. You will never forget. You will try, but you never will. And he is right. I cant forget. No matter how hard I try. He has ruined sex for me. He has completely obliterated any thought I have about pleasure. I never had a living sex life before the first rape. And the promiscuity I did experiment with was when I was 19, and so were the guys I was having sex with. So they were young and inexperienced and I never really orgasm-ed with them. I did orgasm with N a few times, but I was young and inexperienced and I didn't know what exactly had happened entirely to reach that each time. The only memories that I think of when it comes to pleasure are the rapes.. Because I orgasm-ed. It is humiliating. Extremely frustrating. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed to me maybe he knew what he was doing and that's what makes me so ashamed. Because even now I am aroused thinking about it. But it just is what it is...it happened. I can't undo it. So now if I orgasm or squirt, it is very humiliating for me. Every orgasm is met with a "no" aloud and I can't stop it. It is etched into my brain. Forever. I avoid squirting but on a rare occasion it will happen and I end up physically ill from it. Especially because whoever it happens with gets very excited and fixated on it, like he did. It's happened with DJ once and I tried so hard to not do it. It also happened when I was pregnant a few years ago. Now I am constantly edging a full orgasm because I don't want to accidentally do it again. He really ruined me. And I am sure he meant this. He intended this hell for me. I don't know how to not think about it. I have no idea what to do. I feel completely ruined. I don't know how to talk to anyone about this so I guess writing it is my only outlet. It is so embarrassing is it always like this??

Shut up. ------------------------------- Stop it, stop squirming. ------------------------------- You feel that? ------------------------------- Daddy likes you. ------------------------------- Did you start your period? No. Good. ------------------------------- I wish I could make you pregnant. ------------------------------- Finish for me. Good girl. -------------------------------

I have a memory that I'm scared is real. I'm not sure. I have a snippet of me lying down, my head raised up to look, and I see my naked lower half with my legs spread and him pulling his penis out. It has some cum at the end of it and looks slightly wet. His gut fills the top half of the frame. I feel like my body is lying on top of something, because my vagina was at the perfect height for his hips and groin. Maybe a shelf? I'm not sure. I'm nervous that it's real

I think it’s time. Let me back up a bit. First, I want to say hello to all of you and say that I hope you’re enjoying the impending holiday season! I love the holidays and I’m looking forward to my mini vacation next week. That being said, I want to let you all know that I am taking a few days away from AS. If you’re someone that I see around a lot on the boards, or talk to frequently, just know that I will return! I am leaving next week to drive to Nashville, Tennessee for a church conference. I am SO looking forward to this! I’m going to meet new people, see old friends, and enjoy a break from the normal struggles life presents. Yes, I will be away from home on Thanksgiving and I will not see my family as they are not going with me on this trip, but I really am okay with that. There’s been a lot of brokenness in my family lately and I’m looking forward to not having it rubbed in my face. Being away will let me escape the fact that things are bruised right now. I’ll be gone for 5 days but will be back by December 1st so I can participate in the Holiday Buddy Program here! If you’re a member here and you don’t know about the Holiday Buddies, you should check it out! It’s an amazing way to get and give support during the holiday season. You can find the information as a pinned thread in the News and Updates forum. I would recommend looking into it if you’re even just the tiniest bit intrigued! You never know what kind of relationships you can make here and this is a great way to get to know someone. Now, I know you’re wondering about that first sentence up there. You’re probably thinking I’m referring to Thanksgiving, or my trip, or Holiday Buddies. None of those are what I’m referring to. I think it’s time for me to share my story here. I’ve shared fragments of my childhood assault, but I have yet to share the story of my rape. I posted it a couple of months after I joined this site, but I immediately had it hidden because I was too ashamed and afraid. I felt too exposed and I wasn’t ready for the opinions or backlash that I was sure I would receive. I feel like I am in a different place now than I was when I posted it the first time. I’ve done quite a bit of healing and I know my truth now. The self-doubt is fading little by little and the self-blame is slowly dissipating. I’m not saying that I am fully okay with what happened and that I will never struggle to think this was my fault again, but I am saying that I know my truth for myself now. I know this was rape and I know better than anyone else how it made me feel. I’ve dealt with the aftereffects of the trauma, I’ve lasted the nights with the nightmares and flashbacks. I’ve sat through EMDR sessions that I couldn’t handle because the pain was just too much. I know I was hurt and I know what he did was not okay. Because I’ve come to terms with this now, I can share my story in hopes that I gain more power over it. In hopes that in some way, this might help someone else. Before I get started, I want to issue a trigger warning here. I am not planning on holding anything back. I want to tell this story as my truth and I want it to be told the way I want. This happened to me, and I want the freedom to tell it as I would like. So, PLEASE don’t read ahead if you’re feeling sensitive. There are very graphic depictions of rape and sexual trauma. Take care. This story begins when I was 21 years old. I am 22 now. It’s been 1 year, 5 months, and 5 days since I was raped. I was very naïve and I never thought something like this would happen to me. I had just turned 21 three months prior to this and had just started going to bars. It started off simple. I would meet up with an old co-worker after work and we would have a couple drinks, then I would go home. Alcohol was new to me and I wanted to know more about it. I tried several drinks during my first few visits to this bar. I always went to the same bar with the same person. I drank quite a bit on these nights but never felt much from the alcohol. Turns out, I’m not a lightweight! One Friday night, I had several people cancel plans on me. I wanted to go for drinks, but I had no one to go with. I was frustrated and mad and I decide that I didn’t need anyone to go with me – I would go alone. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal. I had been here many times before and I wasn’t going to drink a lot. During some of my previous excursions to the bar, I would make sure I was prepared for sex. Just in case I met someone that I wanted to have fun with. I never ended up having sex with anyone I met in the bar. While it was something I anticipated, it never happened. On the nights I thought there was a possibility of it happening, I would make sure I was freshly showered, shaved, and my bra and panties matched. I would wear something a little revealing and I would put myself out there. This night was not one of those nights. I remember that I didn’t shower again after work, I remember than I hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. I remember that I didn’t care what bra and panties I wore, I actually had on a sports bra, and I didn’t put on anything revealing. I told myself that I did not want to have sex that night. I wanted to have a few drinks to take the edge off, and go home. I wasn’t even in the mood for conversation. I made my way to the bar, ordered a drink, and lit a cigarette. I was content with being alone. I stared blankly at the wall or the TV. I made a couple of casual remarks to other people there. But above all, I wanted solitude. There was a man sitting to my left. He kept trying to talk to me, but I politely gave him one-word answers and directed my attention elsewhere. I did not want to speak to him. He continued to push. I relented and figured some conversation wouldn’t hurt and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He was older than me. I would guess maybe late 40s or so. He had greyish hair that was all messy and out of place. He had quite a bit of a beer gut, but he was not obese. He looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. I think he was wearing sweats and a sweatshirt or something similar to that even though it was the middle of June and not cold outside. For the sake of the story, we will call him Clay. Clay was annoying, but he was also nice. He was drinking beer most of the time and decided he wanted a shot of fireball because he loves it. He asked if I wanted a shot and I declined. Not only had I never taken a shot before, I had also never tried fireball and I wasn’t sure if I would like it. After this, he continued to drink his beer and push conversation on me. I don’t remember anything we talked about aside from the alcohol. He would ask what I was drinking, and he would tell me what he liked and didn’t like. I was VERY careful to always finish my drinks before going to the restroom. I had read about people being drugged and I didn’t want that to happen. Although Clay seemed harmless, I wasn’t taking any chances. After about my 3rd or 4th drink, Clay offers me a shot again. I take it. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe because I already had some alcohol in my system, or maybe because I really like fireball, I don’t know. I can say that I’ve not had fireball since this night. Before he ordered the shot, I told him I would take it and then I was going to have a beer and be done. I didn’t feel drunk, just a little tipsy. He ordered our shots, we took them, and I went to the bathroom. When I was coming out of the bathroom, I remember hearing the bartender ask Clay if I said I wanted a beer. He was double checking, I guess. I made my way back to my seat and the beer was there. I drank it and at this point, was feeling a little drunk. Not wasted, but drunk enough. Clay decided we would have one more beer. I told him no, but he ordered it anyway. This is where my memory gets fuzzy and I only remember fragments. I remember him ordering the beer and the female bartender going to get them. Right after this, a male bartender comes over and asks if we need anything. Clay tells him that we ordered 2 Corona’s but we thought maybe she forgot because it was taking a while. The male bartender goes to get us one right as the female bartender brings over the ones we ordered from her. The male bartender decides he’s going to stick the others in the freezer to keep them cold and we would drink those too. I felt bad because Clay was buying these and I knew I HAD to drink them. I didn’t want to waste his money. Somewhere between my second and third beer, I quit remembering to finish my drink before going to the bathroom. I left my drink unattended at least once that I remember for sure. I remember coming back from the bathroom and Clay was talking to another guy. We’ll call him Adam. Clay and I had been taking turns going to the bathroom so the other person would watch our seat. I came back and Adam was in my seat. He got up and let me have my seat back, likely because I was getting a little unsteady on my feet. I don’t know this for sure, but it seemed like Clay and Adam knew each other. I remember Clay introducing me to Adam and I don’t know if they had just met or if they knew each other. Adam was by himself – he didn’t come with friends or anything and neither did Clay. I remember that now, it was loud. There were suddenly so many people in the bar and I didn’t remember any of them coming in before I went to the bathroom. Adam was 23 and was wearing the ugliest pastel yellow polo I’d ever seen. His hair was black and curly, but still messy. He had some facial hair, but not a lot. He was slim and kind of tall and he had just ordered his first beer. Clay says he needs to go to the bathroom and I tell him I will watch his seat. At this point, I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m swaying, the room is spinning, and I know I’m not okay. Adam sits in Clay’s seat and starts talking to me. I remember giving him my phone number. Then I remember that he kept running his hand up my thigh under my skirt. I had my hand under my head holding myself up on the bar. I felt really off. I couldn’t hear anything or see anything. It was all really fuzzy. Clay came back and I remember him saying something about wanting his seat back, and then he left. But he kept his eye on me from a distance. He never wandered off too far. The next thing I remember is ordering water. I knew I needed to sober up so I could drive home. After I got my water, Adam took it from me and said, “don’t drink water, it makes you more drunk,” and I knew this wasn’t true. I ALWAYS drink water to sober up. I listened to him anyway and stopped drinking the water. I remember sitting there a little longer and he asked if I wanted to leave. I think I said yes. I’m going to pause to insert my thoughts here, then I will continue with what happened. This is where I feel like it’s possible that I was drugged. I was so out of it and yes, I had a lot of alcohol, but I’ve been super drunk before and this is not how it felt. It was different and I know I was leaving drinks unattended. I also think it’s possible that this was planned. Not toward me specifically, but in general. It seemed like Clay and Adam knew each other and Adam didn’t show up until after I was already pretty gone. Clay was too quick to leave after I met Adam and he seemed to linger after Adam started talking to me. I’m thinking it’s possible that Clay put drugs in my drink, and then Adam sweeps in to take me home. I don’t know any of this for sure, but this is stuff I have thought about since the rape and these are things I think could have happened. Or, it could all be coincidence and I’m making it into something that it’s not. I really don’t know. Anyway, back to the story. I remember paying my tab and not being able to see the lines to sign my name. I’m not even sure I actually signed my name. I remember trying, but everything was spinning and I couldn’t see straight. We got up to leave and I couldn’t stand. Adam had his arm around me and basically carried me out. My eyes were mostly closed and my body felt really heavy. We made it outside and he took me to his car, put me inside, and then went to my car to get my phone charger. I was texting a friend through Snapchat – it was the friend I usually go to that bar with – and he said he was coming to get me. I told him no. He was almost an hour away. I don’t remember how I convinced him not to come, but he never came. Adam drove me to his house. The entire time I was in the car, I was falling over onto his shoulder. I just couldn’t hold myself up. I think he thought I was doing this in a flirty or loving way, but I was just so tired and my body felt so heavy. We made it to his house. He came around to my side and got me out of the car. I still couldn’t walk and I was stumbling across the lawn. He carried me inside and took me down the hall to his bedroom. I immediately fell onto the bed. I just wanted to rest. I physically couldn’t hold myself up any longer. He plugged my phone up to the charger and then tells me that he needs me to get up. I stand up and he pushes the mattress back on the bed – I guess it was falling off. It seemed like something he was used to doing. His room was messy. I remember navy blue sheets on the bed. I remember the room was small and there wasn’t very much room to move around. His nightstand was covered with empty water bottles, a bong, and other things that I didn’t take special note of in my head. I think the wall opposite the bed was like a bookshelf. Maybe it had books, but I think it was filled with video games, DVDs, and other things like that. At the foot of the bed was a television on a TV stand and all kinds of clutter around it. I remember there being clothes on the floor that he tossed aside and I think there was a window by the bed. It wasn’t very appealing. After he fixed the bed, I asked for the bathroom. I walked down the narrow hallway, made a left, and found the toilet. I pulled my skirt down and sat down. I almost missed because I was still so out of it. I held on to the counter and somehow managed to not fall over. I have no idea how long I was in there. Time seemed to stand still and everything was moving in slow motion. I made it back to the room and he was laying in the bed. He had no shoes on, but was still fully dressed in his jeans and ugly yellow polo. I fell onto the bed beside him and started drifting. After what seemed like a few moments, I had to go to the bathroom again, only this time, it wasn’t to go pee. I made it to the bathroom and knelt at the toilet. I proceeded to throw up bright red while swaying and holding my entire head into the toilet. I got up, rinsed my mouth, and stumbled back to the room. He asked if I was okay and I honestly don’t remember if I answered. I was feeling better having thrown up which is another reason I think I could have been drugged. Being drunk and throwing up has never made me feel more sober. It doesn’t change the blood alcohol level, but I’m thinking throwing up if it were drugs would make me feel better, but again, I don’t know. This is just speculation. I laid back down on the bed wishing for sleep. I had my head on his chest and he had wrapped his arm around me. He was watching New Girl on Netflix. I had kind of fallen asleep at this point. I was in and out of consciousness but never fully gone because I knew I had to get home. I remember resting my hand on his abdomen – maybe just to steady myself. The next thing I remember is him lifting up his shirt and unbuckling his belt. I was just catching glimpses because I was still not fully conscious. I think he was asking me questions. Maybe he was asking if I wanted to have sex or maybe I was asking if he wanted to. I don’t remember. A lot of my thoughts I can’t remember if I said aloud or just in my head. The voice in my head was so loud that I don’t know what was verbalized. He proceeds to unbutton his pants and expose himself. He guides my head onto himself and makes me give him oral. I didn’t fight him off, I never said no, but I was also not fully aware or conscious. I also knew that I wanted to go home and to do so, I had to have sex with him. Even in the state I was in, I knew that I wasn’t getting out of that house without giving him what he wanted. The oral seemed quick maybe because had me stop because I wasn’t doing a good job. I was still drifting and I wasn’t aware of what I was doing so I’m sure it wasn’t good for him. He removes himself from my mouth and gets up. I remember losing my shirt and bra at this point. I was on autopilot – survival mode. I was doing what I had to do so I could get home and sleep. I was tired, I didn’t want to be there, and I wanted this to be over. I laid back down on the bed and closed my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed but when I opened my eyes, I looked to my right and he had completely undressed and was standing there looking at me, fully erect with a condom on. I will never forget this image. The picture of him standing there naked, staring at me with a grin on his face. He makes his way back over to me and gets on the bed in front of me on his knees. I closed my eyes and drifted. I remember my legs being in the air and resting on his shoulders. I don’t think I had shoes on, but I don’t remember taking them off. I don’t even remember what shoes I had on that night. He didn’t bother to undress me the rest of the way. He was seemingly uninterested in my breasts or seeing my naked body. It was like he just wanted somewhere to stick his penis so he could feel some pleasure that wasn’t done by his own hands. To my memory, he never made comments about my breast size or the tattoo on my ribs. He never made mention of the way I looked while he raped me. The lights were still on and there were no blankets or pillows around. He pushed my skirt up to my waist, lifted my bottom off the bed, pushed my panties to the side, and inserted himself. I felt nothing. No pain, no pleasure, just the feeling of something happening. I could feel him inside, but I was numb. I was frozen and I wanted it to stop. He leans over me while my legs are still on his shoulders. His face is right in front of mine and I can feel his heavy breath on my face. I could hear the way he panted like a dog on a hot summer day. I don’t remember how rapidly he moved in and out of me. It seemed like it was in slow motion, but his breath made it out to be like he was going fast and hard. He moved his head down onto my shoulder, so his face was right next to mine. I wasn’t in pain from my legs being pulled so close to my face or from him ramming himself inside me. I was still numb from the alcohol or dugs or maybe just from fear. I remember staring at the ceiling while my body moved up and down and wishing it would stop. I wanted to go home. I never wanted to have sex that night. I remember making it a point in my mind before leaving my house that night. I actually told myself that I was NOT looking for any sexual activity. Yet, here I was. He stops. His penis is still inside me as he lifts his head and looks at my face. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes. I don’t know if he saw pain or fear or even a blank stare. I was completely frozen. I was breathing hard but not from physical exertion – I was panicking. He removes himself from inside me, takes my legs off his shoulders, and strokes himself. My legs are folded and tossed to my side, my underwear is still out of place, and I’m frozen on the bed. Stuck. I can’t move. He moves to my left and gets next to me on the bed while continuing to rub his penis with his hand. I thought it was over. I close my eyes and try to catch my breath and calm myself down. I look to my left and he’s looking at me, smiling. I start to get up and me moves my hips to where I’m straddling him. He puts me down on his still erect organ and moves my hips up and down. I do as he showed me. I want him to finish so I can go. After a few minutes of me moving up and down on him, he says, “I’m not going to cum again,” and stops me. He lifts my hips to remove himself from me again and tosses me to his left toward the wall. He gets off the bed and I start to get dressed. I’m still on autopilot. I find my bra and my shirt. By the time I have my shirt on, I look over and he’s fully dressed again in that hideous yellow polo, sitting in a chair, and watching television like nothing happened. He no longer cared to help me with anything. Before the rape, he helped me walk, carried my phone and made sure it was charging because I was worried about my dying battery. He would touch me in a seemingly careful way like he actually respected me or cared about me. Now, he wasn’t even looking at me. He was silent. As I fixed my hair, I asked for some water. I still didn’t feel well. He grabs a mostly empty bottle of water from his nightstand and offers it to me. I tell him I don’t want it anymore. He sets it down and goes back to watching television. When I’m done, I stand up to put my shoes on and he’s already left the room. I grab my things and follow him. We walk down the narrow hallway toward the living room. When we make it to the living room, I see his roommate sitting in there on the computer. I only saw him for a split second but in that moment, my only thought was ‘this guy just heard everything that happened and he won’t make eye contact.’ Adam let me walk out the door first and he followed. I stumbled across the lawn toward his car. I was still unable to walk straight but I was feeling more alert. I fell into his car and we drove away. I don’t really remember the drive back to the bar. I don’t know if I was still fuzzy from the alcohol/drugs, or if I was just dissociating the whole time. I never knew what dissociating was until after this, but looking back, that could be what happened. We made it back to the bar and he stopped in the middle of the street and dropped me off. He didn’t make it to the parking lot where my car was, he didn’t help me out, he didn’t even say anything. He left me in the street knowing that I was not coherent. I made my way back to my car and got inside. I knew I had to puke again but didn’t want to do it outside because there were 2 men behind my car talking. I had no choice. I opened my car door, leaned outside, and vomited on the ground. One of the guys outside came to me and asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine. He offered to give me a ride or call me an Uber but I refused. I couldn’t leave my car at the bar. He brought me a Vitamin Water that was cold and unopened. I’ve never been so grateful. I was still so thirsty from before and now my mouth tasted like vomit and I needed the drink. I told him thank you and he left. I was feeling even more sober now that I had thrown up again. I drank the water and sent a message to my therapist. At the time, I was doing online therapy and my therapist was always online in the evenings. I told her that I had sex and I was freaked out. I didn’t know that I was probably just in shock about what happened. She told me to let her know when I made it home, and she made sure I was okay to drive. I stopped at McDonald’s to get some food to help soak up the alcohol. When I made it home, I let my therapist know. It was a little after 1am at this point. She stayed up late waiting for me to get home. She said goodnight and said we would talk later. I changed clothes, ate, and cried myself to sleep. I wanted to die. It took me some time to come to terms with what happened. It took a lot of time talking to my therapist. She was the one that told me I was raped. I told her what happened and she apologized to me for not being there the night it happened. I was confused because she WAS there. She said that she thought I had consensual sex, she didn’t realize I was raped. In all fairness, I didn’t know either. I talked with her a lot about what happened and eventually had to stop seeing her because she wasn’t specialized in trauma. I sought out a trauma therapist and I see her now every week. I’ve done a lot of work on my healing since this happened. I am still struggling and I still have days where I feel ashamed and disgusted. I still have days where I feel like this was my fault and there were so many things I could’ve done differently to prevent this from happening. There are even still days that I don’t think I can call this rape. I have lived this. I have survived this. I know this was trauma, and I know I was taken advantage of. There was no piece of me that wanted to have sex with him. I’m still working on forgiving myself for what happened, but it’s getting better. To anyone that has struggled with their own story, or anyone that doubts or deals with self-blame, just know that you are not alone. I wish I could go back in time and heal this before it happened, but I can’t. So I’m looking toward my future and I’m trying my best to move on. It’s the best I can do. Thank you for your time and for reading this. As always, I appreciate you for listening to me and hearing me. I will be back soon. Until then, keep your head up and let your voice be heard. Hugs, Poppy

Also posted in Share Your Story: Installment Two: The Party I am now fast-forwarding, (or rewinding, depending on how old I was in your minds upon completing reading of the first installment) to when I was seventeen years old as I bring to you all, installment 2 of my story. This is the full, uncensored version of what was shared back in 2007. One would think that as time goes on, you’re likely to forget some details. While that may be the case for some, I WISH that was true for me. Time has gone on, but in some ways, remained stationary – frozen, almost – and I still remember the details of that night as if it were only yesterday. And for the last nearly twenty-three years, it HAS been ‘yesterday.’ While I know a lot of work has been put into my healing efforts, the memory of the work isn’t as strong as the memory of the actual event. It’s stayed fresh, although I do have to admit that time HAS made it sting less. In this newer version of my story, I’ve decided not to talk about the ‘fluff stuff;’ by this, I mean the benign, unimportant events leading up to what happened on the night of October 4th, 1996. The pre-story of having gone to a classmate’s house, my lying to my father, telling him that I was going to be working on a school paper, my thinking this was a good way to jump-start my social status. Why not talk about these things? Because they’re not important, now. Originally, I perhaps felt partially to blame for what happened. It was a classic case of, ‘well, if I hadn’t been there, this wouldn’t have happened.’ Perhaps I was waiting for someone to say to me, ‘yes, that’s exactly why this happened. You were in a place you did not belong, and at a time that you shouldn’t have been there.’ Believe it or not, there WAS the occasional question of ‘why?’ but I have come to realize that there simply is not an answer good enough to justify what happened. I could search for the rest of my life and I’d still never find one. There IS one very important detail that you should know about me, though, before I delve deeper into this part of my story. If you’ve read through my first installment, you know that I was born deaf. This is something I don’t like bringing attention to – unless circumstances make it that I have to. I don’t share this with many people unless, well, I think there will be a reason they need to know. Don’t get me wrong – there’s nothing wrong with it. It just plays a COLOSSAL role in who I am. While it doesn’t define me, it also does. And this, as much as I HATE to admit – is a HUGE contributor to what happened that night. Whenever I think back on my trauma, it also ALWAYS comes back to this. As a matter of fact, it plays such a role in BOTH of my traumas, although I cannot remember one of them. I guess the running joke on this is – even from the very beginning, I didn’t want to hear it…it being drama, bullshit, and whatever else makes me momentarily (and rarely) appreciate my lack of hearing. My mother and father wanted me to speak, so they were quick to alienate me from the deaf community and (my mother mostly) moved Heaven and Earth to ensure that I functioned as a ‘normal’ hearing person. And, to be ‘normal’ was always something I had to work extra hard at – with certain limitations that were beyond my control, I had to overcompensate, all under the impression that this was what was ‘wrong’ with me and that it was never something I could fix. This was simply the hand I’d been dealt. And now – back to the story. To summarize, I was 17 and was at a house party. It wasn’t a frat house – it was simply someone’s home – off campus. I’d gone with an acquaintance from one of my classes – thinking this was what the stereotypical college kids did with friends on a Friday night. To call her a friend is inaccurate, for she never once had my best interests at heart and likely invited me to accompany her to this party so that she could delay working on the research paper we were assigned to complete together. She probably still, to this day, thinks I’m angry with her for forcing me to find another way home at the end of the night. I’d only seen her a small handful of times afterwards – once when I finally picked up my car, which was parked near her house – and a few times in class. I made very small talk and avoided her at all costs. We’d never spoken of what happened; which was my choice. She was the enemy. I wanted her out of sight and out of mind – and thankfully, I got my wish – we were fortunate to not share any more classes after that semester. And for a long, long time, possibly YEARS, I WAS angry with her. I even blamed her. It was, after all, because of her – the whole thing was her fault, simply because she was having too good a time to leave when I wanted to. For years, hers was the face that popped up into my mind when thinking back to that night. No, it wasn’t the ONLY face, but it was still a face that shouldn’t have been as much a focus as it was. HIS face is the one I see now. The only one I see when I think back to that night. There is no longer any blame for her. While I still unfondly remember her face, I’ve mentally connected the image of it to a ‘type’ of person that I’ve vowed to NEVER trust again. That’s the face I see when people around me are acting recklessly, in a manner that reminds me of the behavior of those around me at that party on that night. Although nearly 23 years have elapsed, I still remember. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we can recall with ease the moments BEFORE trauma, but draw blanks when it comes to the actual event? I cannot bring myself to forget their oblivious, stoned, drunk-off-their-asses expressions as I followed the man who would forever change my life through smoke-infused hallways. The obnoxious laughing, the booming music, the glazed-over looks, the tongues hanging out, the god-awful SMELL of weed. All of these things added to my overall discomfort of the whole scene and I wanted nothing more than to go home. This is where I will issue a trigger warning for those who are still reading. I am going to be sharing some things that I’ve never written before. If you’re not in a good frame of mind, please close this and bookmark it for another day. I totally wish it were possible to turn this night on and off in my brain – and there are times I have succeeded in doing so. But instead of an on/off switch, there’s a dimmer – sometimes it’s bright, sometimes it can be reduced into the background so that I can carry on as normal, whatever that means. The very purpose of this update is for me to be able to shine a brighter light on some of those things that I’ve kicked into the shadows for as long as I can remember, in hopes that they’d not find their way back into the light. We all know how well that works, right? So – trigger warning now in effect, for several details and for rape. The first thing I noticed about my attacker was how incredibly good-looking he was. Sporting thick jet-black hair, broad shoulders, a dimple, a complexion hinting that he was of either Spanish or Italian descent, ‘Eddie’ was undeniably handsome. I’d later learn that even the most physically beautiful people are truly capable of evil, of ugliness. For the moment, though, I remember having to remind myself that I had a boyfriend that I’d been seeing for two years prior to this night. I had my boyfriend in mind when I politely declined when Eddie, after overhearing my drunk acquaintance tell me that she was not ready to leave, offered me a ride home. There were a couple reasons, really, for my passing on the ride home – one – I didn’t see a drink in his hand, but I didn’t know if he’d been drinking before he approached me, and two – I didn’t think any girl should be in a car with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend. Things might happen! I suppose, in hindsight, knowing that Eddie turned out to be the predator I was unaware he was at the moment, that was likely his original plan – for something to happen. Instead, I asked him if he could make a phone call for me – something that I’d asked several strangers to do for me in the past. I had someone from the campus office call my father for me when I’d left the lights on and now the car wouldn’t start. Someone to call my mother when my wallet was stolen. And in this case, for Eddie to call one of my other friends to see if she could possibly come pick me up from this disastrous party. He seemed slightly taken aback by my request, but agreed to make the call. “Come with me,” he said, “I know where it will be a little bit quieter.” We weaved through a crowd of other partygoers, went up a flight of stairs and eventually got into a bedroom, where he locked the door behind him. I’d gone in first, wanting to believe nothing more that this man was going to help me to get home. I am sure there were other phones in the house – he insisted that being in one of the rooms farthest from the speakers downstairs would be best and he’d be able to hear. There was the phone on a night table, next to the bed. It was black, the buttons glowed. The bed was along the east wall, there was a small adjoining half-bathroom straight ahead. Along the west wall, there was a window, a desk and a chair. There was a small area rug and there was a pair of 20 or 30-pound barbells rested on the floor next to the bathroom door. If this was a bedroom belonging to a teenage or college-aged boy, it was by far one of the cleanest I’d ever seen. The computer sitting atop the desk was on, but had been left idle for a good while – the screen-saver was activated and there was this bouncing, morphing shape…it would first be a ball, then a square, then spiky, then something else, all the while changing colors – before returning into the original ball shape. Background was black – it was the first thing I saw when entering the room and little did I know it would become an unpleasant reminder. I didn’t know what the definition of a trigger was, until this became my first one. It was a very popular screen-saver in the late 90’s, too, so it was every-freaking-where. At libraries, at doctor’s offices, on computer screens at electronics stores… Eddie went straight toward the phone. He sat on the bed close to the night table and patted the seat next to him. I sat, but not too close. He picked up the phone and asked me what number I wanted to call. I gave him the first name of one friend of mine that didn’t go to school with me, but lived somewhat close to my Dad’s house. I figured she’d likely let me crash at her house, and then perhaps she could bring me back to pick up my car in the morning, so that I wouldn’t have to tell my father the truth. I was also admittedly trying to think of another ‘cover story’ to tell my father – I certainly didn’t want him to know I was in this predicament. I recited her phone number from memory. He dialed. “It’s busy,” he said after a few seconds with the receiver to his ear. I had no reason not to believe him – this friend of mine was one of those who’d have her phone surgically attached to her ear if it were possible. He asked if I wanted to wait a few minutes and then try again. All I could think of was how much I wanted to go home, versus going back out into the insanity outside these four walls, so I nodded in agreement. He hung up the receiver. That’s when the questions began. At first, they were innocent. It was when I learned his name and his age. Eddie, 25. Twenty. Five. My initial thought was that this was the house of someone he knew. He claimed that he was a friend of a friend, and he didn’t live in the area. He was just ‘passing through’ and heard that there was a party and came down. He asked where I was going to school and what I was majoring in. I told him. He told me he was in between jobs at the moment. He then asked if I had a boyfriend. Let’s call my boyfriend Matt, for anonymity purposes. I confirmed. Eddie became genuinely interested in my relationship with Matt. Those questions started out innocently, as well, before becoming much less so. He asked how long we’d been together, if Matt went to the same school as I did – and then, boom – there was the question of whether Matt and I had ‘fucked’ yet. In those words. I could feel my face turn beet-red. I cannot believe, looking back, how much SHAME that question made me feel. Not because it was overly inappropriate for a pretty much stranger to ask me this, but because the truth was, I was a virgin. I’d never experienced sex. Matt was a virgin, too. Like me, he hailed from a strictly Catholic family, and pre-marital sex being forbidden and sinful was something his parents instilled into Matt and his siblings. My family was of the same belief, but this was never something impressed on at home. My sisters were barely 10 and 7; and my mother hadn’t had this ‘talk’ with me, yet. Perhaps she knew, she herself hadn’t been married when she’d first had sex – maybe this was one thing she didn’t want to be hypocritical on. Matt was a typical 17-year-old boy with raging hormones and we’d only gotten as far as kissing, roaming hands over the clothes and occasionally down the pants, but whenever it became dangerously close to becoming an ‘all the way’ situation, Matt would slam onto the brakes and it’d be over. Personally, I was ready to experience it all – and to lose my virginity to him – but respected that he was not yet ready for that step. We’d talked about marriage and how our wedding night would be absolutely amazing – but that, like many other things, was just a dream. An illusion. And it would never become a reality. When I didn’t answer Eddie’s question, he proceeded with, “Do you like it when he fucks you? What’s your favorite position?” There were other questions, too, and I could feel my face flush even more with each one. I felt increasingly embarrassed, and I HATED the fact it was because here was this handsome, likely experienced twenty-five year old man asking me about sexual encounters that I didn’t have. What the hell would he think of me if I were to tell him that the closest I’d had to sex was Matt’s hand down the front of my underwear for all of 0.4 seconds before he’d put the kibosh on the whole thing? It didn’t occur to me, not at 17, that there was more cause for alarm to be derived from that line of questioning, especially by someone that much older than I. Instead of scrambling for an answer to a question I didn’t wish to entertain, I asked Eddie if he could please try my friend’s number again. He picked up the phone again and asked me to repeat the number. I gave it to him, but this time, watched his fingers carefully. Back then, there was no need to dial the area code first, and I saw him dial SIX numbers, instead of the standard seven-digit telephone number. His finger did not fully press down on the number 4. He skipped right over it and went to number 8. I saw it with my own eyes. My heart jumped into my throat as realization sank in – he’d been lying to me. Playing me. This whole time, he’d been manipulating the situation. If the mental danger flags weren’t waving before, they were, now. My heart sank when he hung up the receiver again, turned to me and said, “it’s still busy,” thus confirming my suspicions that I might be in trouble. I suppose for a split second, I hoped he’d realize he didn’t fully press the number 4 and try redialing – but he did not. He’d already hung up the phone, and was again focused on me, probably expecting I’d answer his question now that we had more ‘waiting’ time. My heart began racing. The panic was setting in. If we had the option to ‘press pause’ during significant moments in our lifetimes, so that we could re-evaluate and to give more thought on how to proceed, this would have been my first pause of the night. Maybe I’d have answered his questions – if I’d known what would alternatively happen, perhaps I’d have been better off answering and buying time by doing so. Maybe someone would have knocked on the door. Maybe this, maybe that… I’m not even sure how I managed to croak a weak, ‘thanks for trying,’ as I stood up and moved for the door. I’d just managed to reach for the knob when it all went into motion. First, I felt his hand firmly clasp around my arm, just above my elbow. Then, before I could scream, I felt myself being flung. My body quickly hurled toward the bed that we’d just been sitting on, and then bounced off. I landed hard onto my back, hitting the back of my head on the floor. It took a moment to process what had just happened, plus I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I couldn’t move quickly enough. By the time the stun had worn off and I’d managed to pull myself into a sitting position with my back against the side of the bed, he was standing above me with his pants and zipper open. Still, I remained in that place in-between shock and paralysis. I’d always been taught there was a cause and an effect to everything. All I could think at the moment was, what I’d possibly done to make him transform from the man who was going to help me, into this angry, violent monster that I now needed help getting away from. Was this a punishment for finding someone other than Matt attractive? Was that considered to be cheating and this was the price I’d pay? Was it a consequence for having lied to my father and told him I was working on a school project that night? I MUST have done something wrong! Everything was seemingly in slow-motion from this point on. One of his hands was now behind my neck, and from there, he reached up and clenched a fistful of my hair in between his fingers, pulling backwards. His other hand was on his now-exposed penis. I’d never seen one up close before. I’d FELT Matt’s, even touched it once. I’d seen photos. I’d seen the ‘adult section’ at the video store (when they still had them, back in the day before digital streaming was a thing!) and those video cassette jackets were NOT censored in the least bit. Although I had very little sexual experience, I somehow knew what he wanted me to do, and again, panic took over. I pressed my lips together as tightly as I could, trying to shake my head every time he moved himself closer. With each time I moved, his grip onto my hair tightened. Eventually, he roughly yanked again, forcing open my mouth when I gasped in pain. He wasted no time and maintained his hold onto my hair as he forced his organ into my mouth. Every time I tried to move my head in desperate attempts to evade him, he’d jerk me into position again. I began to gag as he violated my mouth and throat, and in the process, felt my teeth eventually sink into the shaft of his penis. I WISH I could say this was done on purpose, but it was completely, 100% an accident. Regardless, he released my hair, quickly withdrew, and angrily struck me in the mouth, knocking me back onto the floor. I immediately tasted blood in my mouth, as my lower lip was punctured on the inside by a tooth when he’d hit me. I hadn’t noticed the tears until that moment. Maybe they’d started forming when I was gagging. Maybe fear had caused them. Maybe it was the pain – in my back, my throbbing head, my mouth, my throat. Either way, the tears were now rolling down my face and I could no longer hold them back. It was also the moment I chose to plead with him, as hysterical as I was becoming. When a normal hearing person with normal speech is upset, they sometimes become difficult to understand. When a DEAF person with ‘different’ speech becomes hysterical, all hopes of being clear and understood are pretty much out the window. I’m not even sure what I said, as I was in no condition to choose or plan out my words. But I know I begged him to stop, I pleaded with him to let me go. It’s likely I said more, but my thoughts were racing and I had no idea what matched what was coming out of my mouth at the moment, and what didn’t. I stayed on the floor as I sobbed and spoke to him. I was terrified that getting up would mean he’d hurt me more or strike me again. He stood over me, holding himself in one hand, rubbing where I’d bitten him. When he was satisfied that I’d not permanently damaged his penis, he smirked, got down onto his knees, and lowered himself on top of me, straddling me just above my waist. I could not move, for his knees were pinning my arms to my sides. I continued to shake in fear, to cry, to beg, to appeal to any part of him that was kind. I know now that there was no part of him where such kindness existed, especially when he brought his face close to mine and began to mimic my sobs. He spoke with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, to emphasize on what I probably looked (and sounded) like to him. To clearly state to me that he saw me as a special-needs person who somehow deserved to suffer simply because they were different. There was no doubt in my mind then, that he’d taken pleasure in hurting others before me, or even after me. Although I somehow came to this conclusion at this moment, I’d not revisit this particular thought until many years later. I shut down. I stopped begging. Just so he’d stop mocking. He did. He kept on speaking to me, though. I didn’t catch all of it. But I was called some very nasty names, names that fully supported my theory that he viewed me as completely helpless. I cried silently. Eventually, he began to lower himself, slowly releasing my arms in the process. I waited until they were free, and then attempted to push him off of me. My fighting seemed to excite him even more. In one swift movement, he lifted himself off of me and roughly flipped me over to my stomach. In that split second while he was no longer on top of me, I attempted to crawl away, but now, he was in a position that better served to his advantage. He shoved me forward, and I stumbled and landed face-down onto the floor. And quickly, his lower body was between my legs, he was using his legs to hold mine apart, and the heaviness of his torso was keeping me from further being able to try to escape. I couldn’t see his face at this point. I saw only the bedroom door in front of me and called out for help. I screamed. My arms flailed; I used the palm of my hands to bang the floor, but these were likely camouflaged as stray musical beats and vibrations, as I could feel from underneath me, that the music was blasting loud enough to wake the dead. I kicked my legs against the floor, too, but that, too, was ineffective and went unnoticed to anyone who was not in the room with us. He managed to gain control of both of my arms and momentarily held them above my head. Then, using one hand, he continued to hold them there, by pinning my wrists to the floor. He brought his face close to mine, and using his other hand, began to roam. He first ran it over my breasts, (more so along the sides, whatever parts were accessible with all of his weight being on top of me) and then began to hike up the skirt I was wearing. Next, his fingers were inside of the elastic of my underwear, and I felt them being pushed to the side. “No.” I remember saying it. I did say it. There was also a ‘please’ in there, but he ignored me. I said it several times, each subsequent ‘no’ becoming quieter as I began to realize that I’d lost this battle. I was trapped. He replaced his probing fingers with his penis, and again, there was a sharp, searing pain. It was like nothing I’d felt before. A combination of burning, friction and pressure. More of my tears rolled, but I went silent and limp. There were no more remaining ‘no’s;’ I saw no point in it, anymore. There was no desire to fight any further – hadn’t I been fighting all along, just to try and prevent this moment? A moment I never thought would happen to me – a moment I’d only heard about on the news or seen on television shows or movies. It was too late, now. He was inside of me. His grip on my wrists eventually loosened, as soon as he’d realized that I was defeated and resigned. And I was. I let my cheek rest on the cold, hard floor, feeling right away my tears transfer onto the wood below. While he moved my body with his, I stared at the screen saver, that was still bouncing, still morphing. I counted the beats that I could feel beneath my body. I noted the time on the clock and saw that I’d only been in this bedroom for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took. I could tell that I was in a house that was cleaned regularly – with my face rested against the floor, I could smell the unmistakable scent of Pine-Sol. This would become yet another trigger – the Pine-Sol. I paid attention to everything except what was happening to me. I stared only at the things I’d chosen to focus on, even when he brought his face close to mine and told me how much I liked it. I’d caught that through the corner of my eye and wanted to scream back, no, I didn’t like it. But I feared that I’d receive the worst possible response to anything I could do or say, so I held my tongue. He’d added some other choice words in there, too. Even when he licked my face, even when he would become more rough in hopes of soliciting a reaction or even a cry from me. Even when the necklace he wore (it was a thick chain) hit me in the face with every thrust. Before tonight, I’d not know what dissociation was – but sure as shit, I did it that night. I felt my eyes glaze over as I left my body, and I encased myself within my surroundings, the music, the vibrations, the computer, the barbells on the floor, the flashing colon between the hour and minutes on the digital clock. On ANYTHING except what was happening to my body at the moment. For the moment, I only existed outside of the body I no longer would recognize as my own. I also remember thinking momentarily, what if these were the last things I’d see? What if this was it for me? What if he planned to kill me when he was finished? Would I ever see my family again? Would I ever turn 18? I didn’t want this stupid screen-saver to be the last thing I saw, my last memory. I remember letting my eyes slowly close as I scrambled for thoughts of good times, the smiling faces of the people I loved. It provided a measure of comfort during a time where my life was uncertain, although in a miniscule way. He eventually slowed, stopped, and withdrew. I opened my eyes only when I felt his weight shift from my body. Still, I didn’t dare move. Moving had always gotten me into more trouble. Instead, I remained stationary on the floor, even after he’d gotten up. I assume he took a moment to zip up his pants, because I only watched his feet. I didn’t want to see his face again. It was a passing thought that if we’d made eye contact, he’d speak to me. He likely had more horrible things to say. I didn’t want to be put in a position where I’d have to respond, so I avoided looking above his feet – which was easy, being on the floor. They eventually moved for the door, which was perhaps six feet away from where I lay. I saw it open, then close again. I was now alone in this bedroom – once a symbol of hope, and now a museum of unpleasant memories. Everything hurt. My head was throbbing. My stomach was in knots and was churning. My heart was racing. And down there, there was burning. I could tell I was bleeding. I could feel it. Still, I stayed on the floor and continued to stare at the same few things I’d stared at before. First the computer, then the barbells, then the clock…back to the computer for a few seconds, over to the barbells…. Oh, God, what if he came back? What if he wasn’t finished? The thought that he might not be finished was enough for more tears to fall before I began to slowly shift my thoughts over to how I was going to get out of this place. More than anything, I wanted to go home. I wanted to be in my own bed. I wanted my DAD. I don’t know that I wanted him to know what had just happened – I was still undecided on whether he would be mad at me or he’d criticize me for lying to him. Never once did I consider he would tell me it wasn’t my fault, because all I could think of at the moment was how much it was. I think, more so, I wanted to see my father’s face. I wanted to crawl into his lap like I used to when I was five, and watch a Mets game with him. I wanted to see him cheer when one of the Mets got a hit. I wanted to see him grumble when the relief pitcher turned out to be a bad idea. I knew though, most of all, I wanted to be anywhere but here. I moved my arms for the first time in several moments and using them for support, picked my head and upper torso up slightly to check the door. Eddie had locked it behind him, the lock was in its vertical position, same as it had been when he was in the room with me. Whether that was a plot to buy time so that he could make a clean getaway was only a consideration for a moment – I’d certainly been laying there long enough and was more concerned with how I was going to be leaving. If anyone were going to help me, to rescue me, they’d have done so already. No one even knew I was there. I could feel that the music was still blaring downstairs. Everyone was still having the time of their lives, while mine had just been hanging by a frayed thread – or at least that’s how it felt. The pain in my stomach had turned into complete nausea. Remembering there was a small bathroom behind me, I hurriedly scurried toward it and made a beeline for the toilet. I collapsed next to it, bent my neck over the side, and threw up. It was mostly liquid and whatever of my dinner (several hours earlier) wasn’t digested. When the contents of my stomach had been emptied and I was no longer heaving, I looked down. My skirt was still hiked up, and there were blood smears on my legs, mostly in my inner thigh area. My underwear was still on, as when he was finished with me, it had snapped back into place. I could feel they were wet, likely with blood. I sat there for several minutes longer. At least, it FELT like several minutes. In reality, it probably was not very long at all – but still. NOTHING made me feel dirtier than what was on my legs, what was in my underwear, what was probably still on the floor where I’d been lying. Again, I felt my heart begin to pound. Everything felt wrong. I felt as if I didn’t belong. As if I were intruding. There was not only the mess left on me, there was also the mess I’d made in a complete stranger’s bedroom. Completely disregarding the fact that a very serious crime had been committed here, I immediately felt the need to clean it, wipe it away. Erase myself from having ever been in that room. The words played over and over in my head, this is entirely my fault, I lied to my parents, I knew there was going to be drinking at this party, yet I came…I willingly walked into this room with a guy that I felt attracted to, although only momentarily. Maybe deep down, I’d wanted this, maybe I’d considered, even if only for a few seconds, that I was ready for a sexual experience – being Matt’s girlfriend was not a bad thing, but it was indeed frustrating at times, not being able to explore what sex was. Maybe I’d realized that, even if it were only for a very brief moment. I was a horrible person. That HAD to be it. I stood for the first time since I’d been thrown down. My legs shook as the skirt, that had been hiked up, finally dropped back down. I felt weak and used the sink to steady myself. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror hanging above the sink and saw that there were also blood smears on my left cheek, and around my mouth area, from the split lip. It was no longer bleeding, but had certainly puffed up. That was first. I turned on the water and washed my face thoroughly. I washed away the blood, the tears, the snot. His saliva. I cupped my hand underneath the faucet and rinsed my mouth out, wanting him out of there, too. When I finally understood that no amount of rinsing could remove those feelings of shame and disgust, I stopped. Almost as if some cosmic force was trying to let me know what my next step was - because I sure as shit couldn’t think straight - I felt a gush. Almost like a period gush, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t from that. Even periods, with the added cramping, did not hurt as much as I hurt at that moment. I hiked my skirt up again, pulled my panties down and quickly sat on the toilet. Once I was seated, I lifted my ankles out of the leg openings and picked my underwear up. I wasn’t ready to look at them, yet, so I held them in my trembling hand while I sat silently for a few minutes. I knew that to look would confirm whatever pain I was feeling. The pain was in the same area I’d cramp in when I did have my period. Just far worse than any I’d ever had in my life. I shook more as I became overwhelmed with my first flashback – if you could call it that, given it’d happened just minutes earlier. He’d repeatedly torn into me, paying no mind to the pain he was causing me with each angry push. Somehow that thought turned into, ‘maybe if I’d asked him to stop, he would have?’ The adult me now knows that he absolutely would not have shown me any mercy, but the 17-year-old version of me couldn’t see past that fact that she’d stopped pleading with him, thus she’d allowed him to do what he’d done. Stopping the fight was the equivalent of giving in, and to do so was giving consent. I’d soon mustered enough courage to look at the garment I held in my hand. The back and sides were clean, but as I’d suspected, there was blood in the crotch area. There was absolutely no way that I was putting these back on. There was a small trash can in a corner across from where the toilet was positioned. I found the cardboard core of an empty roll of toilet paper, and using my finger, pushed my soiled underwear into the open space in the center. I then plugged both ends with small pieces of tissue to keep the panties hidden, and tucked the roll back toward the bottom of the trash barrel. I was sure there was also some blood in the toilet, something I’d confirm during the next stage of my clean-up. Dirty. I felt SO dirty. I reached over to the sink next to me, turned the water back on and dampened wad after wad of toilet paper and cleaned myself up as best as I could before flushing my ‘sins’ away forever. When I was as satisfied as I could be with my cleaning, I stood, grabbed another handful of toilet paper and wet it. I exited the bathroom and walked over to the spot where I’d been raped. There were some droplets and smears of blood on the floor. Not wanting to see them anymore, wanting them gone along with the evidence I’d just cleaned off of myself, I immediately took the wet wad of toilet paper to the floor, wiping furiously at each spot and smear, until I was convinced that there were no further traces of me and that nobody would ever know what happened here. When finished, I returned to the bathroom to flush the bloody wad of toilet paper. I then ensured there was no remaining traces of my blood on the toilet seat, in the toilet bowl, in the trash, on the floor or the sink, before leaving the bathroom. I realized then that I had nothing on underneath my skirt. Almost immediately, I felt exposed and overly vulnerable. I needed something to wear, something to protect what was right now, the one part of my body I wanted hidden by several layers of clothing. Inpenetrable steel would have been a lovely, although unrealistic alternative, but I needed something there before I could safely re-introduce myself to the world beyond these four walls. Realizing again that I was in a bedroom, I made my way over to a dresser and opened the top drawer, where I found a pair of boxer shorts. They were faded and looked old and unlikely to be missed, so I took them and slipped into them. I did feel badly about doing that, too – stealing was added to the mental list of things I’d done wrong that night. I made one final trip to the bathroom where I grabbed another large wad of toilet paper, and stuffed it into the boxer shorts, between my legs, with the intention of it acting as a makeshift maxi pad. I stood in the middle of the room for what seemed like an eternity. I stared at the door, mostly. What if he was still here? What if he was standing right outside? What if he was waiting for me? Would I even see that ‘acquaintance’ of mine? It’s awfully hard to put into words the impasse I was at during this particular moment. I no longer wanted to be in this room, but what was out there was proving to be just as threatening and terrifying. What if I was in fact, safer in here? I‘m not sure what drove me. Perhaps it as the feeling of suffocation that was starting to set in. Maybe another part of me took over – a part of me that knew that I’d likely be standing in that room for several more hours if I didn’t move now. I felt my fingers turn the lock, and then my hand wrap around the cool-to-the-touch silver knob. I then was greeted with the heavy smell of pot once I’d let myself out into the hallway. There were other people in the hallway, there was a lot of smoke, there was the same loud music playing and the place was jumping. There had been no lapse in their world – only mine. I knew from memory that the front door was only a few feet from the bottom of the stairs and that in just moments, I’d be out of this house. I descended the stairs in a daze, refusing to look in any direction other than straight ahead. I think, deep down, I told myself that if I continued to look straight ahead, I would be less likely to find him, less likely to see his smirk, his amused smile. As soon as I stepped out the front door, I was met with a cool, relieving breeze. I am unsure of which was more relieving – the fresh air, or finally being out of that house where the smell of pot was overwhelming. I walked as quickly as my shaky legs would allow me to – I took step after step, knowing each carried me further away from the nightmare I’d just endured. I will admit that I’d hoped that the further I became from that house, the less hold it would have over me. My plan for the moment was to go home and forget about it. All of it. I’d not tell anybody. Not my Dad. Not my Mom. Not Matt…especially not Matt! Once I got to it, I’d crawl into bed and sleep. For days, if I needed to. Until I felt better, then I’d move on with my life as if nothing had happened. I know that plan is laughable, but for the moment, it was pure gold. But I had to get home, first. I thought as I walked. How the fuck was I going to get home? My car was at that stupid bit*h’s house! Still, I kept walking. If only I could remember where she lived and what streets she took to get us to the party? Maybe I could walk there? But my keys were inside her house. My purse, too. My wallet. My book bag. Everything. It was either inside her house or in my car. EVEN if I could remember where she lived and was able to get myself there by foot, I didn’t want to have to knock on her door. What if she’d gotten home already? Would I be able to refrain from punching her in the face when she answered the door? What if her mother answered the door? No. That wouldn’t work… Kept walking, still. I could feel that there was more bleeding, but still needed to be further away. I needed more distance to be put between myself and that horrible place. I kept looking behind me, to make sure he wasn’t there. What if he’d seen me leave and was following me? I needed to be states away. My legs couldn’t get me that far, and that quickly. No fucking way was I going back to that house or stopping to knock on someone’s door. That was completely out of the question. I needed to move forward, not backwards, and to ask another stranger for help was, to me, moving backwards. I walked for several minutes more, pondering my options. There weren’t many. And the burning between my legs was back and intensifying with each additional step I took. I could tell the tissues I had stuffed into the boxers were already becoming saturated. I needed a bathroom so that I could clean myself again. I’d arrived at a busy street. It was late at night, so traffic was light, but there were still cars passing by. Across the street, there sat a small diner. It was one of those storefront diners, you could see through the front windows that there were booths lined up along the length of the window, there was a counter. And there was likely a bathroom, too, as any establishment that served food must also have a bathroom… My first thought when walking in was that they’d likely not allow me to use their bathroom if I wasn’t a paying customer. As it was pretty late in the evening, there was only one customer there - an elderly man sitting in one of the booths farthest away from the front door, his companionship being a lone cup of coffee and a newspaper. A plump, kindly-looking waitress stood behind the counter and greeted me with a smile. I leaned against the counter, exhausted, and asked her for a glass of water (as I was of the impression that you couldn’t use the bathroom unless you were a customer, and although I didn’t have any money on me, I NEEDED the bathroom and needed to, at least, LOOK like a paying customer!) and then after a pause, if I could use the ladies’ room. Without hesitation, she pointed in the direction of the bathroom. It was just past where the old man was sitting, and he briefly looked up from his newspaper as I walked past him and disappeared into the rest room. There was more blood, and several more flushes. I sat for a little bit longer, as my legs were weary and sore – I’d walked as fast as they were capable of carrying me. It hit me that I was still unsure of how I’d be getting home. It was looking more and more like I’d have to call my father – or have someone call him FOR me. The lady at the counter worked at the diner. Name tag and all. (What was it? Susan? I want to say it was Susan…) Could I trust her to make a call to my father? I probably could trust a business employee but I’d have to build up the NERVE to ask, first. I needed to think some more. When I’d replaced the wad of toilet paper, I stood and walked back over to the counter, where Susan was patiently waiting. Right away, she produced a glass of water and a menu, I guess, just in case I WAS a paying customer. In hindsight, she probably wouldn’t have cared if I was or wasn’t – she was soft, kind-looking and I believe, deep down, she knew something was wrong. She was careful not to touch me when she handed me the water and the menu. Perhaps it was the body language that spoke for me – back OFF. Or was it something else? My hands had been shaking on and off for the last hour – perhaps they were still unsteady? Maybe my lip was swollen? Had it begun to bleed again? I hadn’t looked in the mirror on my way out of the bathroom…what if there was blood on my skirt? I’d not seen any when I cleaned up at the house, but what if there was some there, now? I remember gently touching my lip with a finger and running my tongue along the inside of my mouth to check. I wrapped both of my hands around the tall glass of water, needing them to be still. The concern of there being blood on my skirt was the biggest at the moment, especially now that I was sitting down. What if I’d bled through? Susan waited until I’d taken a sip of water through the straw before leaning in. I felt myself tense up but didn’t move. I was terrified of people right now. Even the old man, probably harmless, sitting in the booth on the way to the bathroom. Even he scared me. I didn’t want to be seen; I didn’t want to be smiled at. I didn’t want to exist. Eye contact was a dangerous thought – I felt as if ONE look at my eyes would reveal everything that had happened, every shameful detail - and I wanted to NOT be in the spotlight. I wanted to be invisible – or at least completely unseen for the time being. Still, I knew that if it was likely I’d have to suck it up and ask for help for the second time that night, I’d better at least LOOK at her. Slowly, I raised my eyes and met the lips of the waitress, who spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “There is a cab on his way here,” She said, “the driver is a relative of mine and he’s trustworthy.” I’m not sure how I managed, but I thanked her. She said, ‘you’re welcome,’ and, I suspect that in addition to her good timing, she also had a touch of ESP, because she must have sensed that I needed a moment. She left me to sit in silence and walked over to the old man with a coffee carafe. My hands were getting cold from being wrapped around the glass, so I gently pushed my drink over to the side and picked up the menu. I knew I wasn’t planning on getting anything to eat, but there was still that desire to ‘blend in.’ To look as if I belonged, as if I was ‘fine.’ To put SOMETHING into my hands. It was either the menu or the nearby salt and pepper shakers. I knew I wasn’t ‘fine’ or even okay, and that I wouldn’t be for a while. Still, I held the menu in my hands, feeling them begin to tremble again. I looked only at the calligraphic writing for another indeterminate amount of time. I don’t even think I remembered how to read at the moment – the words stared back at me and would blur every few seconds. My head was pounding, and I felt sick to my stomach. Yet, the kind words of Susan the waitress, replayed in my mind. A cab…on the way. She’d called a cab. I didn’t have to ask her to – she’d done it on her own. She’d saved me the trouble of having to muster up enough courage to admit that I needed help. I wanted to cry, this was one of the first things to have gone right that night! When I felt a breeze from the front door being opened, I looked up only briefly to see a man walk in. He had on a Yankees hat, jeans, and a black leather jacket. He stood at the opposite end of the counter for a moment, as one would if they were waiting to be served. Susan, who had disappeared into the kitchen a few moments earlier, re-emerged with a tray of desserts to put out on display in one of the see-through counters that was noticeably low on muffins and cakes and other desserts that I normally would have found appetizing. There was a brief exchange between Susan and the man, following a quick kiss hello. They spoke softly while Susan grabbed the nearby carafe and poured him a coffee ‘to go.’ He then took his coffee and left the diner. I watched as Susan opened the dessert display case from her side of the counter and she put the tray onto one of the shelves. She then began to make her way over to me. Again, I tensed up and my heart began to race. I felt safe for the moment, but at the same time, still wary of impending danger. I wouldn’t be completely safe until this night was over and I was in my room, in my Dad’s house, in clean pajamas, with my own pillow and blanket. “My brother-in-law is here. His car is right out front. He will take you wherever you want to go. All you need to do is give him an address.” I turned my head and looked out the diner’s front window. The man with the Yankee hat was sitting in the drivers’ seat of a black sedan, with the name and number of a local cab company printed on the side. The lights were on in the car as well as the headlights. He was sipping from the coffee cup Susan had given him. I wasn’t sure about this. Susan had indeed been helpful and had taken the initiative to call the cab for me, but she’d not asked me what I wanted her to do. Perhaps I’d not have been able to verbalize, nor would I have been too comfortable having her explain to my father that I needed a ride home and why. Maybe the cab would have ended up being something I’d asked for. I just hadn’t had the time to entertain the idea of getting into another stranger’s car – even if it meant that it would be bringing me to safety. How was I to know, though? What if this guy was a crazy, too? But then again, if I didn’t get into the cab, how WAS I getting home? How much longer would it be before I would figure out what the plan was? I was aching badly in places I didn’t even know existed, my head was continuing to pound, and my legs felt rubbery and sore. It was an opportunity I had to take. I stood, slowly, knowing that it was my best option. I thanked Susan again and made for the front door. “Take care,” was what she said. That was the last I saw of Susan, at least physically. I’d see her several more times in memories of that night and of the difference she’d made. I’d regret never having the nerve to go back to that diner to see if it was even still standing and of course, if she was still working there, so that I could say the words to her that I couldn’t say 23 years ago. I got into the back seat of Susan’s brother-in-law’s cab. He put his coffee into the cup holder in between his seats, turned his head and asked, ‘where to, honey?’ Where to? To the house of my acquaintance to pick up my car? I did have her address confined to memory from when I’d MapQuested it earlier. Yes, back then, GPS’s didn’t exist, at least, I don’t think so. So MapQuest or written directions were the way to go. But could I actually drive my car, feeling the way I did? Or was I more likely to die in a fiery crash on the Sunrise Highway because everything was blurring on me? To the hospital? The thought of painkillers was a good one. There HAD to be something they could give me that would numb my entire body. But, wouldn’t they have to call my parents? I wasn’t 18 yet. I didn’t have any insurance or even any ID on me. They’d likely call the cops. And then THEY would call my parents. And then my parents would know. And, so would Matt, eventually. My mother never could keep her mouth shut, so naturally, that would mean the whole world would know, after what had happened was broadcast on the six o’clock news. Then my parents would be SURELY be angry with me… The driver was patient. He waited quietly for me to mentally scroll through my choices of places he could bring me, and only pulled out of the diner’s parking lot as soon as I supplied him with the instructions, “Exit 43 off the Sunrise. I’ll direct you from there.” I was going home. I’d figure out the car later. After I’d showered, slept, and the pain had subsided. When I was able to form a conscious thought. When every damn part of my body wasn’t shaking or throbbing or otherwise uncomfortable. The ride lasted about thirty minutes – and that’s only because it was late and there was very little traffic on the road. After he had taken the exit and I’d told him which turns to take, we arrived at my Dad’s house. All of the lights were off. My Dad had likely gone to sleep hours earlier. I realized then that I didn’t even have my house key. I knew though, that my father kept a spare key underneath a large rock on the side of the house – it wasn’t a decorative rock, just one of those stray rocks that nobody knew served an additional purpose than to just exist. I knew my father kept a pouch of grocery money in one of the drawers in the kitchen – I hoped there was enough in there to give the driver. As soon as we were in the driveway, I told him to wait while I went in to get him some money. “No,” he said to me. “Susan already took care of it. You just get yourself inside, okay, honey?” I tried to ignore the ‘honey’ – I knew he wasn’t being fresh or inappropriate. He was genuinely a gentleman – and had gotten me home, he hadn’t tried to engage me in conversation, he’d driven responsibly. For all of that, I was eternally grateful. I just didn’t like the ‘honey.’ Especially not tonight. I shook it off, though, for I was finally home now – and nothing mattered more than that. “Are you sure?” “Go on.” I thanked him, (and mentally thanked Susan, again) and got out of the car. As soon as he’d driven away, I made my way over to the side of the house, where I prayed no one had moved the concealed key. I REALLY didn’t want to knock on the door and alert my father to anything – I just wanted to quietly go inside and get OUT of these clothes…clothes that usually were comfortable and that I actually liked – now were tainted. I never wanted to see that skirt again. I wanted the boxer shorts I’d been wearing wadded up and discarded. I wanted the smell of weed off of my shirt, out of my hair, out of my nostrils, where all of the unpleasant smells of that night continued to linger. I located the key despite it being dark outside, thanking God that it hadn’t been disturbed, and let myself into my father’s house. I disabled the security system, and quietly made my way into my room, where I wasted NO time. I grabbed clothes from my dresser drawers and made a beeline for the bathroom one door down. Finally. Fucking FINALLY. I stripped as soon as I’d locked myself into the bathroom and stepped into the shower, switching on the faucet. I don’t know how long I was standing there – it could very easily have been forty-five minutes before the water went from hot to cold. Still, I stood there for yet another period in which time seemed endless, letting the stream of water wash away any residual traces of blood – and him- that had dried up in between my inner thighs and on my legs. I washed myself thoroughly with a soapy, even though it burned to do so. The bleeding had slowed significantly by now, but I still avoided looking at the blood-streaked water before it disappeared down the drain, along with any evidence that might have remained. I know what you’re all likely thinking at this point. No, I thought nothing about reporting what had happened. By now, I’d decided that I was NOT going that route. The shame was far too great, and I truly felt at this point, that the events of the last few hours had been entirely my fault. My parents would tell me the same thing. They’d call the cops. The cops would ask me about him and really, what would I say? I didn’t know anything about him, just that his name was Eddie. I didn’t know his last name or where he lived. They’d never find him. And I didn’t want to get into it. I wanted to forget it. ALL of it. I wanted it buried. The thought of people knowing about this – TERRIFIED me. What would they think if me? I suppose you could call me chicken – but my excuse stands – being seventeen and still ‘a kid’ DEFINITELY hinders sensible thinking. That shower was also the first time I cried since it had happened. I know I’d cried during, but in between Eddie’s leaving me and my arrival home, it had been unsafe to cry, to show weakness and vulnerability. Look at where it had gotten me in the first place, after all. I’m not sure what that night taught me as far as showing emotion, but to this day, I still have trouble crying in front of others – most particularly when talking about this one event. As I finally felt safe and alone and that the spotlight had been removed for the time being, I stood there in the shower, bawling, and at one point, sank to the floor of the tub and sobbed silently and until my tears had run out. It would be the most I’d cry about this for several years. When the water had become too cold to bear, I got out, dried off, put my pajamas on and gathered all of the clothes I’d been wearing that night. Into a plastic bag they went, until the bag was eventually discarded days later. After ‘squaring away’ those clothes, I’d crawled into my bed, and that was where I’d spend most of the weekend. I didn’t want to get up, or to move. It took a little time for me to fall asleep and it was almost dawn when I’d finally succumbed to it. My father had poked his head into my room a few hours later, and had asked why I was home – where was my car? He hadn’t expected me home until later that day. I told him that I’d gotten sick with a stomach flu and that my classmate had driven me home – I’d have to pick my car up when I was feeling better. He didn’t ask any more questions – and while part of me was disappointed that my own father hadn’t even been able to pick up on the fact that something was wrong, another part of me was glad. Maybe, just maybe I could keep this secret. It was, after all, mine, and mine only to hold, to carry, to hide whenever necessary. This installment is dedicated to the woman who just wanted to fit in. The woman who wanted to have a good time. The woman who wanted to try new things. The woman who was put in a bad position by stretching the truth. The woman who found him attractive at first. The woman who allowed herself to trust a stranger, a friend, a family member. The woman who stopped fighting because she couldn’t anymore. The woman who was rendered defenseless and powerless. The woman who was too afraid to report it to the authorities. The woman who did what she needed in order to survive. The woman who is to blame for none of it. - Capulet

It's june already.. my birthday just around the corner.. i don't know what to do.. how to deal with my trauma... i was raped a week after my birthday.. my trauma already come out and haunted my days.. i don't have anyone to talk to.. imsomnia .. depression.. I don't wanna talk to my family.. they don't even believe me.. how will i cope with this situations.... 😭😭😭 Lately i can't sleep.. i feel worthless.. useless.. i hate my self... i can't do this.. Anyways.. i don't have others choice .. i need to struggle.. no one will help me.. only me.. myself.. To everyone that on the same situation with me.. u guys can do it.. even no one trust us.. keep fighting . And never give up.. how hard it is... P/s trying to help myself.. 💔💔

When I posted my story I wasn't prepared for the response I had so I appreciate every one of you that reads this. I feel less alone. So now I want to open up more to everyone. The first So most people know when you say no to someone who wants sex or say stop i don't want this it's considered rape. Well not me. My ex BF raped me I said no. I said stop. He didn't listen. If he would have done it with a condom maybe i would have been okay with it i don't know. I missed my period that month and went a few weeks thinking i was pregnant. I also suffered really severe stomach pains. Where was he then. Nowhere to be seen. My fiancee and i had just started seeing each other and he was ready to step up and be the father if i was pregnant. To make matters worse my ex wanted me to abort and when i said i wouldn't, he wanted me to put the baby up for adoption, when i said no to that he wanted the child to have his name if it was a boy or his grandmas if it was a girl. The good news I wasn't pregnant. But I was raped. I am just coming around to this fact. I remember him saying something about a girl trying to get him for SA before. He basically didn't care about that fact since nothing really became of it So now I have decisions to make. Do I want to report it? If I report it and it goes to court the defense can rip me to shreds if i end up having to testify. On the other side I don't want him to get away with it again.... I feel like he just kept me around as his little fucktoy. Everytime we hung out he wanted to play. But i'm more than just a play toy right? Struggles thats all i have left to say.

I can't stop it. I can't stop making myself bleed. It's getting worse, it's running down my legs just like when I was child. I don't know why I do it. But I keep doing it I need to stop. It's already so damaged It's so fucked up. I'm so fucked up.

I'm not sure which to believe, first. The fact that I received an email from the University that I applied to transfer into this coming fall - at 12:02am in the morning. Someone was apparently in the office VERY late, despite this coming week being Spring Break... Or.... .....that I've been accepted for the Fall 2019 term and will be working toward my Bachelor's of Science in Social Work. I've previously made this goal of mine known - but until a few nights ago, it was simply that - just a goal. I knew that there were going to be additional processes behind it. There were going to be more steps to take in order to make this goal a reality and I am now another step closer - I've decided not to apply anywhere else as my first choice has accepted me. I'll be submitting the 'hold my place' fee (an amount that's going to be somewhat painful to throw anywhere other than toward this year's heating bill) later this week and I've spoken to my VR counselor asking her for an appointment as soon as she's able. In the meantime, I'll be shifting focus onto applying for the state grants, for financial aid, and all the other required, headache-inducing, FUN stuff that's needing to be done prior to registration for classes. I remember feeling this way, before. 23 years ago, when I held my first college acceptance letter in my hand. I'm going to college. I'm in that final stretch of road that lays between being a kid and being someone with a job, a title, a purpose. Little did I know that almost immediately following my entrance into college the first time around, that path would crack and split off into multiple additional directions that I didn't anticipate ever having to take. It was no longer a straight line for me. In order to get to where I needed to be, there were now unexpected detours that although I would have LOVED to step over whatever obstacle obstructing my path from A to B, I felt forced into having to take the longer, more unfamiliar route. Much can be said for changed plans and shattered aspirations but it's always worse when you don't see it coming. And in an instant - everything that I knew about myself was now gone. Everything I wanted to do - also gone. My dreams? Some remained, but they were now cloudy; and this thick murkiness enveloped them all - sort of a message to the 17-year-old me that in order to see these dreams clearly again, I was going to have to wait for the fog to clear, first. Yeah, trauma IS that powerful. My assault did not happen on campus. It did, however, happen four weeks in - when there was still that 'I'm in college,' disbelief. My toe had been dipped; but there was still much to get used to. People to figure out. Lots to discover, including who I was - something that would only become seemingly impossible as time went on. See, when I started college in 1996, I didn't really have a plan. I wanted to do something with writing. I thought being a playwright or scriptwriter would be ideal for me, the thought of writing for the stage and screen was an exciting one. At this point in my life, I had become very shy, very withdrawn. Perhaps that's one of the 'deaf things' my mother likes to throw forward as a possible reason for any of my 'odd behavior.' On that note, yes, there existed little thoughts that I'd learned to not spend time with. The thoughts were present but were not considered for rethinking. Just as soon as one would pop up at a random opportune moment, it would disappear just as quickly. I remained oblivious (if simply not remembering counts) to the possibility of previous trauma and the aftereffects until I was seventeen. Until trauma looked me directly in the eye, there was that thought that lingered deep within that there was something wrong with me - based on the behaviors I remember having as a child. As these thoughts had been forced (by myself, mostly) to sit dormant in the furthest recesses of my mind, I had been plodding along, just taking it day by day. No one brought any of it up, so in turn, I did not, either. Any concern surrounding my odd behavior had been dismissed so long ago at this point, and I'd effectively been led to believe that it was my overactive imagination that birthed these thoughts - nothing more, nothing less. Either way, I was a watcher, not a participator. I watched people from afar, took mental notes of their personalities, they'd sometimes inspire the creation of a fictional character in one of my plays, that I'd write in a spiral notebook since this was way before I had my first computer. Scenarios played out in my thoughts, and I'd write them down. I'd then mentally cast my favorite actors and actresses into the roles of my characters. I didn't consider this a life ambition nor did I think it'd get that far and that I'd be sitting next to Steven Spielberg one day, but it was a thought, it was a goal, it was a direction, even though my brain told me that it wasn't a reasonable one. There was nothing else that spoke to me - no other career aspiration - perhaps this is because Oompa threw them all at me and said they were good ideas. Even as a child/teenager, she was forever trying to manipulate me into making choices she wanted me to make and to 'shape' me into what she thought was best, with little consideration for what I wanted or believed. "You should be a teacher," Oompa said to me, once. "What about for a deaf school?" "No." "Why not? You're good with kids. You're a success story and you could be an inspiration!" "NO." Yes, I do have a way with children - I'm the favorite aunt, I'm the one who gets on the floor and plays with the kids at family gatherings, but that's generally because I prefer the company of my nieces and nephew in place of their parents and I don't see them as often as I'd like. However, Oompa was a teacher. I do NOT want to follow in my mother's footsteps in ANYTHING I do. While I do sincerely love my mother and DO owe much of my 'success' today to 'early intervention,' I harbor a very deep, hard-to-find-at-times resentment for her - there was much she could have handled differently while raising me. While there was much she did do, there were also things she neglected - things having nothing at all to do with my hearing disability. At this point, bygones are bygones, and I've put into place an impenetrable barrier when it comes to her. It has taken YEARS, but I've managed to establish a distance between my mother and me; it has become increasingly necessary to do so as I got older and wiser. Admittedly, moving two hours away from her has helped, too. Anyway, my first time around, I chose a major in Liberal Arts/English. I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but was hopeful that eventually a different path would present. Little did I know that one would, but in the most unfavorable way imaginable. While the goal I have today took over two decades to become clear, I spent most of my first three years of college in a daze. I'd been raped shortly after the beginning of my collegiate journey and I was still trying to deal with that aftermath of that while balancing the 'basic' introductory courses. I wasn't thinking about anything other than just getting through the current day. I was directionless, I was unmotivated, and I was LOST. I was doing just the minimum needed to pass the class - that was pretty much it. There was no longer any excitement, there was no longer any visibility on the road that lay before me. All I had left of that was the faint memory of what it looked like BEFORE - and I was proceeding in hopes of not stumbling over an obstacle that had fallen when that illusion of a perfectly mapped-out future had blown up in my face. It was almost a relief finding myself pregnant with the Son in the middle of my third year. In a way, I took it as a sign - that I needed to begin to focus on things that I knew were a sure thing. It was time to stop wandering aimlessly. Impending motherhood was now more important to me than trying to balance schoolwork that I just wasn't of the frame of mind to be doing. And to what end? I had no idea where I was going - I was going to graduate in another year or so, but then what? Life was going to again, change drastically for me in a matter of months. It made no sense to continue on a path toward the unknown. And so, I dropped out in 1999, telling myself that one day, when I was able to identify a newly paved road to a destination that was doable, I'd revisit the idea of picking up where I left off. I announced late last year that I was ready to consider going back to school. The Son is now in his second semester of his freshman year in college and my daughter is in the seventh grade. I've spent the last nearly nineteen years of my life making sure they each had everything they needed. I put their needs, along with those of the wasband and my stepchildren, before my own. I gave little to no thought on what my purpose was, other than to be a wife and mother. Although I will always be Mom to my children and a wife to my committed partner of ten years, I am now ready to be something more. I am ready to work toward a career title, and I am ready for my reach to exceed that of what I'm used to. I'm ready for all of it. Again, Oompa, who was, I believe, most excited to hear my announcement, pushed the idea of my working toward becoming a teacher. Again, I told her no. She suggested a few other things she thought I'd be good at - some having to do with working with deaf children, since I was still considered a 'success story.' Likely, she'd want some more bragging rights reserved for when I graduated and was now working as whatever she recommended. After all, my successes were because of her, didn't you know? I shot those ideas down, too. I've previously shared with you all my aspirations to become a Social Worker. Oompa's soured expression was what further solidified this choice for me - she was SO sure that I would agree with her that social workers don't break the bank with their paychecks and I'd pick something that she'd initially recommended...her wisdom wasn't to be discounted, after all. 'It's hard work,' she also said. I wasn't sure whether to be offended that she was thinking I couldn't handle it, or to say, 'yes but because of your early intervention, I'm fully capable of a little hard work.' In hindsight, saying the latter would have shut her up immediately, but it's one of those thoughts that come to light days after the conversation had ended. For the first time in years, I stood my ground and told her that I wanted to become a Social Worker - and that was my goal - period. I did NOT want to be a teacher. I did NOT want to be an advocate for the deaf. I did NOT want to 'apply to a trade school so that it was easier and I could start working sooner rather than later.' I had started distancing myself from my mother prior to the age of 17, and I never shared with her details of my trauma. I just never felt safe doing so. That being said, I don't expect her to understand what mainly steered me in the direction of Social Work with a focus on Sexual Assault Counseling and Advocacy - but at this point - I am past the point of attempting to explain anything to her. Her thoughts no longer MATTER to me - and little by little, I am finding myself becoming FAR more vocal with her when I disagree. You've likely seen a recent example of this with my recent decision to lease a Jeep (my choice) over a Subaru (her recommendation)... So, now, here I am, with the acceptance email in front of me. Y'all know my tendency to ramble, and I'll try to wrap up soon, I promise. I came here to blog about something very specific I am feeling, and all that's been said before the mention of my mother, well - it's not unimportant, but it's for the most part, supporting information. So, without further ado... How do I feel about this acceptance? You'd think I'm whoop-whooping and clapping to myself in anticipation of finally completed some of the required steps to re-commit to going back to school. But I'm not. I can't stop looking at this letter, and although I am happy and I am pleased with myself for taking the steps I've taken, all of my doubts are coming back to say hello. I feel something. Maybe many somethings, but for sure, it's not as simple as I'd like for it to be. I've got jitters. Yes, definitely. I don't want to say I'm excited because I'm not sure that's what it is. There IS some excitement though - knowing I've made good on the promise to myself to re-focus on my education is something I'm proud of. I'm so used to doing for others, and doing for myself is rare. Another thing to take pride in is having found something that, although under circumstances that I'd love to say weren't a contributing factor, I can truly focus on building a career in. I'm nervous. I'm starting to wonder if this is indeed best. Not because of what I've decided what I wanted to do by now - but because I've been out of the 'school loop' for so long, now - I'm used to life being the way it is now - to take on school would bring forth VERY drastic changes. I know I stated above that it's something I'm ready to do - but I'm finding that the more ready you are, sometimes the doubt is stronger. Changes are, for me, VERY uncomfortable. I am sure I am not alone in this - change is not easy for many. I'm not completely in the dark on what college life entails, but...I'm 40, now. I've spend the last 19 years building a life that didn't involve me conforming to schedules, doing homework, meeting deadlines. I'm no longer a spring chicken, and I wonder if starting over at my age is even what 's best. I know - we never stop learning, it's never too late to get that degree, you can be furthering your eduction until the day you die - I know all this, I have even said this to others. I have to admit that a part of me anticipates there being somewhat of a sadness when I show up to my first class and I'm surrounded by kids my son's age, who are fresh out of high school and are going to get to travel that straight-line road that I was unfairly denied. I am going to be not only required to emerge from within my 'bubble,' my comfort zone, in order to attend classes - I'll also be meeting new people, there will be discussions I'll have to participate in, there may come a time where I'll have to speak in class. All of these possibilities are constantly circling my brain because this is what I do remember having to do 20 years ago (my first rodeo) and I was the same social disaster back then. Understandably, there are going to be times I will have to say to myself, "Cap - this is all a part of your overall healing journey. To put yourself out there is to re-learn how to establish a comfortable place within society." I have been a self-proclaimed hermit for the last several years, and this, I FULLY expect to have some issues with in the beginning, as I attempt to emerge from this mental cocoon I've become so comfortable staying hidden inside of. I'm terrified because I know that my goal to become a Social Worker is going to REQUIRE I become somewhat comfortable using my voice, being around others, looking others in the eye when I speak to them. I am going to need to learn to approach others, start conversations, learn to communicate in ways that don't involve writing emails or messages. I know that I cannot be forced by anyone other than myself to do these things. Even to self-push isn't always recommended but it certainly IS something that I've decided I need to work on as I proceed on my own personal healing path. In fact, going back to school can be seen as intertwining two positive steps toward a better me. It's inspiring but also scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I'm also sad - because there is great irony in one of the reasons contributing to my dropping out - now becoming something that is motivating my return to school. That cannot be missed. I know that all this seems...well, silly. At least, it does to me - I know that a lot of time has gone by since 'the first time around' and that I should be embracing these upcoming changes as I am now approaching them from an adult perspective. I know am not the same person I was at 17. I'm more mature now. I won't be attending any parties. I won't be putting myself into any potentially dangerous situations. These changes are good for me - they're healthy, they're ambitious. They're decisions I've made without pressure from anyone else. And deep down, I know that some of these concerns are probably unreasonable and I'll likely be just fine. I just feel it is important to be honest with myself and with whomever reads this - honest and truthful about what has been attacking all of my recent feel-good thoughts and leaving behind ones of impending failure. I think, though, that there's also another thing to add to what I'm still having trouble believing. That the fog has cleared, and the road ahead has become more visible. There is no longer any debris for me to navigate over, around, under, etc. There is once again - a straight path from here to where my degree awaits. I'd taken a serious detour - but now, there is a part of me that is back where I was when I was seventeen - standing at the beginning of the road (be it made out of yellow bricks or not) and eager to get started on the rest of my life - and then there is a part of me that is fearful of that road unexpectedly changing AGAIN. It doesn't even have to be in the form of trauma - change is brought forth in SO many different ways and I've too often seen things not work out the way people hope they do. I'm just so used to things not happening the way I'd expect them to - why should this be any different? In closing, I am asking for all of your good thoughts and well wishes as I begin this brand-new walk; there's still much to be done to put my butt into a chair by the time September rolls around. In the meantime, I've decided that now that I've had a chance to write on them, I'll say no more on my 'unreasonable' fears and instead just focus on what I CAN do to make it all a reality. Still, some motivation wouldn't hurt! That'll be it for today, I think. I've a date with the online FAFSA tonight and tomorrow with filling out some more paperwork for the VR counselor - slowly but surely, and despite the unwelcome self-doubts, I am getting the needed steps taken. And here's another thing I cannot believe I'm hearing myself say - but I'm proud of myself for getting to this point. Hoping you're all doing well. Until next time, friends. - Capulet

Urm.. i don't what to say.. but i guess i need help.. 😢 i need someone... listen to my story.. how hurts i am.. i just can't take it anymore.. i have no one to talk to.. about what happen to me.. 😢😢 Even my family don't believe me.. i don't know who else to believe... i never ask to be rape.. i never ask that... 😢 but no one listen to me... they put blame on me.. I hate myself.. i hate my life.. 😢 i live with trauma and depression.. and it's getting worse.. i do self harm... to getting rid of that feelings... 😢 I don't know what else to do.. i feel like wanna die.. wanna run away.. wanna dissapear... i can't take it anymore.. 😢😢 It hurts me... 😭😭😭 god.. i totally hate my life... this isn't fair... what should i do... why no one trust me???? 😢😢😭😭

I've had a difficult life so far. When i was eight i started to show the dirst signsof depression but of cpirse, my family didn't notice. They didn't notice a lot. When i was eleven i was raped and i kept it to myself for years because i was ashamed and i didn't want anyone to know. I dealt with the depression shame and disgust of my own body by myself. I Iet it destroy me so that it didn't destroy anyone else. At 12 my father started to sexually abuse me as well aa emotionally and mentally. He accused me of things i would never do and it's still happening to this day. At 14 i suffered a hip injury which the root problem started from my rape but of course, i didn't tell anyone that. I suffered extreme agony for 2 years, became addicted to prescription drugs which was tramadol methrocarbonal and cocodomal. I was an addict at 14. Earlier this year i had my surgery and I've been off my meds for a few months now. It's extremely hard but i know i have to resist the temptation. Truth is i just want to fall back into that oblivion where i don't remember my rape... where my father doesn't abuse me and actually wants my company just for me... where my mum is happy to see me. Ive never had an amazing relationship with my mother... i think she's always seen me as the burden of the family, but just shortly before my 16th birthday my father was arguing with me and my mother because cominf back from our holiday i was still in crutches (i hadn't got my operation at this time) i slipped on a wet floor and hurt my hip again. The pain was blinding and i had to be given an extreme dose of my meds to knock me out on the flight. My father took a different flight home and he had demanded before we left that i was to be there whenhe was getting collected. After my fall i was sent straight home with my sister and my father was NOT happy to say the least. He caused a massive argument, valling me a w**re amoung othet things and when it all came to a head and i was sobbing i told them i was raped in the heat of the moment. I thought when i told them that i wouldn't have to deal with it alone anymore. But my mother accused me of lying she doesn't believe me and my father makes rape jokes. That completely destroyed me. I need help i can't do it alone anymore... I've contemplated suicide and I'm trying to convince myself that it'll get better in time but it's been nearly a decade I've been suffering with depression. Im only 17. I just... i have no where else to turn and i thought that if there was someone going through the same thing they might be able to help. Thank you for taking the time to read this. - lonelyladybug x