Today marks the anniversary of a day that will forever live in infamy inside my mind, Sunday the anniversary of when I tried to kill myself over it. I warn you; this story is not a happy one. If you’re under the age of 15, I ask that you stop reading now. While I will not go into significant detail, I still prefer you do not read this post, partially, because this is too personal, and, in part, due to the fact that rape is not a pleasant subject.
As many of you well know, I have a flirtatious personality, something I have been working on controlling. If I hate myself for anything, it is this fact. To make matter worse I also have the problem of not knowing how to just say “no”. For most of my life this has been a problem and during this particular time, that inability and coquettish nature was in full effect.
I was suffering from a painful breakup and in need of male attention. I met him through a friend. He was funny, charming, and we got along swell. You have heard, I am sure, the quote “If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything.” Unfortunately, most guys know how much truth there is in said statement and do their damnedest to make her laugh. A few days went by of him giving me the attention I craved before the subject of sex came up. I, being the virginal whore I was, acted as though I had performed the act many times. He told me I needed post-breakup sex. I said I needed a friend. He offered friendship. I accepted. I got much more than I bargained for (therapy, antidepressants, trust issues…. Etc). Feeling foolish, I agreed to meet up with him for a late-night chat. God. Even writing this now I cannot believe how stupid and naive I was. And to blame. Who goes out to meet someone they barely know at midnight and not expect something of a sexual nature to occur? Apparently, not him. As soon as I arrived at our meeting place, he said, “Let’s to somewhere more private.” So he and I drove off and parked behind a church. Even as we pulled up to the parking lot, I could feel my heart hit the floor… I was not naive any longer. I knew what was going to happen. Still, I kept my mouth shut, hoping I was wrong, hoping my head was mistaken.
I sat facing forward in my seat, staring into the blackness that was before the windshield, glancing around for possible escape routes but saw none. He started to speak, but I only heard the rhythmic pounding of my heart. He made no move to touch me, but my hands started to shake. I sat there numbly, wishing I could find my voice. He stroked my arm and something in me snapped. For a brief moment, I forgot who I was, where I was, and thought he was my beloved. His hand ran up my knee and he kissed me. His touch felt like my love’s but it could not be. Could it? My hesitation was all he needed. Pulling me into the backseat he began to undress me. No, I whimpered. I am not doing this.
He whispered sweet nothings in my ear. My heart pounded. He told me it was going to be just fine. I cried. Over and over I told him I didn’t want to do it; over and over he demanded. I can only say no so much before I cannot say it any more. I tried to be assertive but his aggression hindered that. Finally, and with apparent anger, he looked at me and told me that since I would not have vaginal intercourse with him, he would still have me. I cried and told him no and pushed and clawed but he pushed me towards the window and proceeded to do anal. My writing sucks now but it is so hard to write eloquently when all I want to do is forget.
Skipping ahead, he apologized profusely for three days straight, begging me to give him a chance to prove he wasn’t an animal. Like a fool, I consented and we met up for coffee. That coffee date ended just as horrifically and I have not spoken to him since.
The moral of my story is this:
Learn to say “no”.
Don’t give a rapist a second chance…. And if you must, don’t be naive about it; always take someone with you.
Never compromise your desires for the desires of others.
And you can heal from any wound in time.
I cannot write this anymore, but here is part of my story.