Mary Jo
What if I was wrong? That is the thought that I used to have when I would think about the night I was raped. What if I just don’t remember it right? I was 18 and pretty sure that I had a firm grasp on reality. But what if?
I met him online, his name was Chris. We got together in public a few times and talked on the phone daily. He was not someone I was interested in as a boyfriend, but I thought we had become pretty good friends. He wasn’t the first person I had met ‘offline’ and I felt like I had a pretty good feel for him.
One night he invited me over to his house to hang out. I agreed and we spent most of the night watching movies and TV. He played the guitar and even played a few songs for me. I thought he was a genuinely nice guy.
Sometime throughout the night we got closer to each other and spent some time making out. I was not sexually active at the time, but I had had a few boyfriends before meeting him so I was not completely naive. After a while he wanted to go to his bedroom and watch a movie while we lay down. It was late and I was tired, but he said it was too late to drive me home. I couldn’t walk; he lived too far away… so I stayed. I didn’t think I had much of a choice, it was 3:00AM and I knew my mom would be pissed if I called her.
We were watching Godzilla when things took a turn. The details become sketchy to me, I don’t remember everything that happened. When I see it in my mind’s eye, it’s like watching bits and pieces of a movie.
We went from kissing to him undressing me. I remember telling him that I didn’t want to do anything because I was a virgin. I wasn’t ready and frankly he wasn’t someone I wanted to give myself to. I remember him laughing about me being ‘tight’ and I remember how my thighs and arms were hurting from trying to get him off of me. I remember the tearing and the burning, because I was not ready.
I remember crying out no, no, no over and over… and I remember wondering why his neighbors downstairs didn’t call the police. I remember him laughing and saying ‘I guess you were a virgin, you should go clean off some of that blood’. I went into his bathroom and I tried to clean myself… I took my panties and shorts from the floor and tried to get dressed. I was scared he would come in because the bathroom didn’t have a lock. He laughed when I came back in fully dressed and made me lay back down.
I felt like I was in a fog the entire time, I don’t know if I slept that night. The next morning he woke up and again refused to take me home. The only way he would take me home was if I gave him a blow job. I felt so ashamed. I just wanted to go home, and I felt like I had no other option. I never heard from or spoke to him again.
He never questioned my tears that night. He never questioned my protests. I wonder if he realized that he raped me. I bled for 5 days after it happened, the tearing inside was pretty bad, and even today I have pain during intercourse. Even then I didn’t fully grasp what happened to me that night until many months later. I was telling my then boyfriend about what happened, and he is the one that made me finally realize I had been raped. It was crushing.
Many times I’ve questioned myself over the years. Did he really rape me if I lay down on the bed with him? Did he really rape me if I gave him a blow job the next morning? Did he really rape me if I didn’t call the police? Did it really happen the way I remember it, or am I just remembering it wrong? But I remember saying no; I remember trying to make him stop.
He was never punished for his crime. I often pray that he never had the chance to hurt someone else, the way he hurt me. I don’t consider myself a victim though… I am a survivor.
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Mary Jo blogs at Not a Momma and tweets at @maryjors
B
My mother was 21 when she was raped. She did everything right; went to the hospital right away, reported it to the police. She was alone, off at college without close friends or family nearby, and yet still she dragged her story word by word out of the dark place in her mind so that the man who did it could be caught. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work this way. They never caught him, and my mother lived in fear that her classmates – the ones she was partying with when it happened – hid a monster in their ranks.
She quit school because of this fear, got a crappy job at a crappy diner, and two months later learned she was pregnant with me. She had no reason to be ashamed of what happened, but she was. She hid her rape from our family, hid her pregnancy from everyone. Until, 8 months pregnant and homeless with no more money, she drove alone across the country to home. I don’t know if she ever told my grandparents all of it.
I tell you this so you understand there was no concerned daddy watching out for me. My mother was all I had, and when she remarried, hoping this man was better than the last that had touched her, she dove in already abused. She had been hurt, violated, and let down by the system that was supposed to protect her. Maybe this is why she ignored the warning signs. She just figured, “this is how it is.” Till the day she died, she never mentioned the abuse, not even in the divorce; I’m not entirely sure I know why she left.
It started with words. Yelling, angry words he slung at her for being lazy, or slow, or a bad cook. She’d just apologize and go on with life. Then he yelled at me, and she wouldn’t stand for it; she’d step in, and up, like she never did for herself. That’s when he started hitting her. I didn’t even know it was odd until I was older, and observed the parents of friends who never hit. By that time, it was ingrained; my stepfather hit, and that was just… life. I don’t know if my mother knew he started hitting me. I played sports, had bruises, a few fractures. Even my pediatrician never suspected abuse.
If it had stopped at hitting, I probably wouldn’t be so messed up. But when I was 8, everything changed. I was beginning to develop; their marriage was cooling off to the point where they rarely even spoke. And he started looking at me differently. High on pain pills for some imaginary back spasm he used to get sympathy from his family – and drugs from his doctor – he came to my room one night, held a hand over my mouth, and touched me. I was lucky; he was flying so high that when he went to take his clothes off, I ran for the bathroom and locked myself in.
He couldn’t exactly break the door down without waking my mother, so he stood by the door and told me all the terrible things he’d do to me, to my mother, if I ever breathed a word. I believe he meant it, even to this day. So I never said anything, and by grace of some higher power, he never tried again. From that day on, I slept with a knife under my mattress, and told my mother I wanted to make my own bed. I learned to climb out my window in 30 seconds, found a neighbor who would take me in at any hour, for any reason, and kept a bag of clothes and a pair of old shoes stashed in a hidey hole by the side of the house.
I learned what no child should have to. I lived for two years past that awful night in the same house with him, terrified that I would have to use my escape route and leave my mother behind to face him alone. My only solace was that neighbor, whose daughters loved me like a sister, and who slept next to a 12 gauge shotgun. I’m thankful every day that I never had to ask him to go rescue my mother from a maniac. I just wish I’d had the guts to speak up then.
Though he never managed to finish what he started, the incident with my stepfather scarred me in ways I wouldn’t understand until I was older. I battled depression, attempted suicides, and massive panic attacks. I was home bound for nearly two years as a teenager. I struggled with my sexual identity; conflicting feelings of shame and desire lead me into dangerous sexual practices, while at the same time left me with no way to connect with my partners emotionally.
Somehow, I managed to get through. Today, though I still struggle with awkwardness towards sex, I have a wonderful relationship with a good man. One I never fear will harm me or our children. I have connected with him as I couldn’t with others, and he has helped me heal. And trust. While I don’t think the aftermath of that night, or the many years of physical and mental abuse will ever fade away completely, I’m whole now. And that means he didn’t win.
Anonymous
I ask to remain anonymous because I have never mentioned any of this
on my own blog.
For some reason what I remember most is the shower afterward. It was
my second shower of the evening, the first one having been minutes
before “it” happened. I was living in my dorm room at college at the
time, and while I had a single room (no roommate), I shared the
bathroom with the girl next door. Because of this, you couldn’t lock
the doors from the inside, only from the outside, so even though I had
long since kicked him out and locked my front door, I still felt like…
I don’t know. It was as if I kept seeing shadows out of the corners of
my eyes – movement where there wasn’t any – and I’d jump every time.
Normally I shower with the bathroom door open – who’s there to see me?
– but this time I wedged it shut.
I felt… numb. Cold, even though the air was warm. I stripped, and I
recall the feeling of his semen dripping down my legs.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything more disgusting in my life.
I showered with the water as cold as possible. I wanted to feel the
icy rush all over my body, washing his scent away from me. I scrubbed
so hard I thought my skin would peel off and be washed down the drain.
I remember the exact moment that it became rape.
His hands were FREEZING – they usually were cold, but they were more
so that night because he’d been outside. He kept squeezing my breasts
and kissing my neck and I was just staring, staring up at the ceiling,
trying to move anything, even a finger, and not remembering how. I
couldn’t even seem to THINK properly.
I’m not sure what I was expecting to happen. But when he started
fumbling with his pants, I think I knew.
To be honest, it was like I was watching a really bad movie with poor
taste and a drunken camera man. I just kept looking up at the ceiling,
completely focused on it, but I could hear his heavy breathing, and
the bed kept shifting with his movement.
He slid my pants down and fingered me for a minute or so before he
pushed my legs farther apart. Then he pushed himself inside of me.
And it hurt. It hurt so badly. And it was weird because it shouldn’t
have hurt – I wasn’t exactly a virgin – but it did; it ached and
scratched, like sandpaper.
Then he started, well, moving. Going through the motions. And I just
stayed there, still staring at the ceiling. I felt like I was chafing,
it hurt so bad. He made the most awful grunting/moaning noises…
He finished very quickly. Then he rolled over onto his side and curled
up into a little ball, breathing deeply. I didn’t know what to do. I
think I was in shock – just sort of lying there.
I’m not sure how long that lasted. At some point I sat up and told him
to get the fuck out. Those were my exact words – “get the fuck out.” I
remember he looked at me like he was going to reply, but he just left.
I just sat there for a minute, staring at the TV, which was directly
across from my bed. I’d been watching NCIS – the weirdest detail to
remember from the whole experience, but there you are. Eventually I
got up and locked the door behind him. Then, without even pausing to
think about what happened, I started up the water for a shower.
Cathy (Arkie Mama)
The following is a post I wrote two blogs ago, when I was writing and editing for a mama website in Texas. It dates back to 2005. This post is made up of two open letters — one to the man who abused me; the second to a friend who, at the time, was involved with her own abuser. I haven’t updated it. Can’t bear to. But I thought it might reach someone.
To D. —
Nearly 16 years have passed since I escaped from you.
In recent years, you’ve rarely crossed my mind. (OK, well, there have been a few times when I’ve indulged in fantasies involving your death by cement truck. I’ve imagined sending yellow tulips–such happy, sunshiny flowers–to your funeral. And dancing joyfully, in a ha-ha, fuck-you sort of way on your grave.)
Most of the time, however, I keep my memories of you tucked away, in part, I admit, because I’m ashamed that I ever allowed someone to treat me as you did. Today, I’m pulling out those memories, shaking off the dust and offering them up for very public view. Why? Because one of my closest friends is involved with someone who reminds me of you, and I’m worried about her.
He has a temper just like yours, although I still contend you’re the only human being I’ve ever met who actually froths at the mouth when angry. Still, each time I’m around this guy, I get the same fluttery, panicky feeling I always experienced around you.
I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing these days. You had a medical scare many years back, shortly after our breakup. You almost died. At the time, I felt only relief. I would never again have to worry about bumping into you when I went home to visit my family.
I heard you moved to Houston. Good. Stay there. Lose yourself in that big, stinking, polluted city.
I also heard you don’t have any kids. You’re the only person I would ever say this to, but I am glad, glad, glad.
Just look at what you did to me. I can only imagine–and it makes me shudder to do so–what someone like you would do to a crying newborn.
The rest of this isn’t addressed to you. You can keep reading if you want, but I doubt you’ll be able to stomach it. After all, what I’m about to share isn’t in keeping with the image you always tried to present. Well, at least up until the very end. Then you didn’t care who knew, did you?
Just know that once I’m done describing my years with you, the memories will go back into the deepest, darkest place I can store them. I now have a busy and fulfilling life, with no time to waste on thoughts of your pitiful and worthless existence.
Cathy
P.S. I hope your wife has left you. No woman deserves the misery of a life with you.
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Dear M. —
You can see from the above paragraphs that the anger lingers.
But at least it’s sporadic, rather than constant, and its emergence these days requires a specific trigger. Like your current situation, for example.
I tried to broach this subject with you a few weeks ago, but you shied away from it. I know you’ve asked someone else with experience in this area about “signs” and “clues.” I know you’ve asked if your boyfriend is a “good” or “bad” man.
If you have to ask, you’ve already answered your own questions.
You didn’t want to listen the other day. But maybe you’ll read what I have to say–if, that is, I work up the nerve to show this to you. Right now, I’m worried that doing so would scare you away from me, rather than him.
Regardless, I’ll go ahead and write it. Maybe it will help someone else in the meantime:
I was 15 and he was 24. I see your eyebrows shooting skyward. Yeah, it’s a pretty big age difference, especially when one of the parties happens to be a teenager.
But D. went to our church, you see. His mom was president of the missionary circle and his dad was the Sunday school superintendent. He was one of three sons, all of them tall, good-looking and charming men.
I started “dating” D. the summer of 1985. Actually, what happened is that he encouraged me to sneak out of my house, night after night, so that I could meet him at the foot of our driveway, where he waited in his car.
Please understand–before D., I was a straight-arrow, straight-A (well, except for algebra) upper-middle-class virgin. So my parents were pretty floored when I finally confessed, over Thanksgiving dinner, no less, that I had been skulking around with this older man.
For some reason–and yes, there is still some residual anger at my family here–my parents decided that it would be better to allow me to see D. once a week than to forbid me from seeing him altogether. Now that I have a daughter of my own, I marvel at their naiveté. But anyway….
For the next four years, D. abused me emotionally, physically and sexually.
I never told, not until the day I came home with fingerprint-shaped bruises on both arms and my mother saw them. (That time, he had shaken me so hard, my teeth rattled.)
Why, people ask, do women stay with men like that?
Because men like that rob you of your confidence, dignity, friends, and, in my case, the remainder of your childhood. Because men like that are truly talented in making apologies and can convince you, time and again, that they have “changed.” Because men like that make you–yes, incredibly, YOU–feel guilty or responsible for everything that happens in the relationship. Because men like that are manipulative and cruel.
Example: During one of the many times I tried to leave him, D. faked a suicide attempt. He ran, sobbing, into the bathroom. When I walked in, he was sitting on the floor, crying, and clutching an empty medicine bottle. The water was running and a couple of pills lay in the sink. I ran for the phone, panicked that I would be responsible for someone’s death. Just as I began to dial, he emerged from the bathroom, laughing.
Yes, laughing.
“I was only kidding,” he said.
So let’s talk about how men like that will mindfuck you into a numbing, crazed sort of existence, one in which you’ll find yourself asking almost daily, “What is normal, anyway?”
Let’s talk about sex with men like D. For them, it’s a truly selfish act, and if it involves force, then so be it. Sex doesn’t reflect their love or passion for you. It’s all about control. And guess what? You’re on the losing end. If you’re lucky, you won’t have bruises on your thighs when he’s through.
Let’s talk about how they keep track of your hours, calculating how much time you spend with family and friends vs. how much time you spend with them.
Let’s talk about how their behavior only grows worse and more erratic–because they’ve realized just how much you’ll put up with.
My moment of clarity arrived in two-part form. First, there were the bruises D. left on my arms, the ones my mom saw. I finally had to tell someone what was going on. I saw the horror on my mother’s face, and suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t the one who was crazy.
A few weeks later, D. showed up at my parents’ home in the early-morning hours, pounding on the door and shouting. It no longer mattered to him that other people might witness one of his rages. He was that out of control.
By now I was completing semi-secretive plans to transfer to a new college in another town. I knew I would need that 200-mile buffer, as well as the safety of my all-girls dorm (with its strict male-visitor restrictions), in order to break up with him.
I did it by phone. Told him it was over. Really over. And yes, I meant it this time.
It took a lot of counseling and years of “practice boyfriends” before I finally figured out what normal relationships feel like.
Here’s the thing, M.–I don’t know how your boyfriend behaves when you’re alone, but I’ve seen how he treats you in public, in front of your friends, the very people he should be trying to impress.
You’ve described tantrums and dramas that reek in their familiarity to me. He’s mean to your dog. He’s mean to other women.
Lastly, and most disturbing, I’ve seen the changes in you. You’ve never been the type of woman to sit there, meekly, while someone berates and belittles you in public. But now you do, and I know why. You’re doing whatever it takes to keep him from getting angry. You haven’t realized it, but each time he starts in on you, there are two of us sitting there, thinking, “Please, don’t make him mad, please don’t make him mad.”
I do it out of sad, pathetic habit and worry for you. You do it to survive this facsimile of a relationship. I lived that way for four years. Trust me, you don’t want to do the same.
I’ll tell you what’s most frustrating: You may be reading this, nodding to yourself, saying, “I knew it wasn’t me, he’s the bad guy here,” but even so–I can tell you’re still not ready to leave him.
I believe you will, one day, I really do. But these relationships are so difficult to get out of, and that’s what most people don’t understand. Society is, for the most part, unforgiving and judgmental of abused women.
I remember my stint as a volunteer at a local women’s shelter, and how one night I was called to pick up a woman and her kids. When I arrived in my two-seater pickup, a brusque and unsympathetic cop loaded the woman and her four kids, one of whom was an infant, into my tiny truck. Two of the kids sat on the floor. Another straddled my gear shift. The baby sat in his mother’s lap.
The cop muttered something and slammed the door. Clearly, he considered this woman’s plight a waste of his time.
This attitude, along with the shame of having been that kind of woman, has often made me reluctant to discuss my past.
I’m doing it now because even if you aren’t ready to leave him, I want to make sure you know that when you do, I’ll still be around, waiting, and so will your other girlfriends.
There are several outstretched hands. Please, take one. Soon.
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Cathy blogs at Little Rock Mamas.
