Aerin
The summer I met my first husband, right after high school graduation, was perfect and seemed to last forever. He was sweet and charming… the perfect guy. When summer ended, I left for college and he joined the Navy. Letters and poems filled my mailbox, sometimes two or three a day. What seemed sweet and sentimental at the time now seems obsessive and creepy as I look back. We married the following year and I transferred to a college near his military base.
I don’t remember how or when the really awful stuff started. It seemed he was in my face, insulting me constantly. Nothing about me was good enough and he found a way to blame me for everything. Within the first six months of marriage he threatened to kill me, and I knew he meant it. My life flashed before my eyes as he forced me to beg. At only 19, it wasn’t the life I had lived that I saw, but a future with children and happy times. I screamed and begged for a chance at that life, until my voice was so strained I could no longer make a sound.
He was obsessed with sex. “You make it such a game,” he would scream if I dared to say no. “You’re such a bitch.” He would argue and insult me until I broke down and gave in. “I’m just going to lay here and cry while you do whatever it is you want to do,” I would say. He was fine with that, with doing whatever he wanted as I lay still, tears silently rolling down my cheeks. “That’s all you’re good for anyway,” he would say as he turned his back when he was finished. On the nights I didn’t give in, he did it anyway. “I own you,” he would say. “It’s my body, not yours.” He did whatever someone who owned your body and was stronger than you might do. It seemed constant. I was so young and confused. Is it abuse if there are no bruises or broken bones? Is it rape if it’s your husband… or am I stealing words that don’t belong to me? Was this my fault? I wasn’t sure.
I lived like that for two and a half years. One night, he yanked me off the couch by my leg and dragged me toward the bedroom. I grabbed at everything I could get my hands on as I fought to kick free, but he was stronger and he raped me as I cried and begged. What I remember most about this incident is his laughter. There is something sick about someone finding humor in and receiving pleasure from your pain. It wasn’t that this time was physically so different or worse than the many times before, yet it was different because there was no denying he knew what he was doing. The maybe he didn’t understand I really meant no excuse wasn’t working this time. “Why would you do that to me?” I cried. “Because it’s all you’re fucking good for. Why would I not?” he said in a voice that was pure evil. I lay there naked, cold and alone, knowing I was going to have to find the strength to leave.
I confided in my two closest friends, and although they both agreed I should leave, they each said pretty much the same thing. “At least it was someone you know. Imagine how horrible that would be if it were a stranger!” They didn’t understand. He hurt me more deeply than I thought possible, and I have never found comfort in knowing it was someone I once loved and trusted who did those things to me. My soul was crushed and my heart ripped from my chest. There are times I wish it had been a stranger… a one-time thing in a dark alley somewhere. At least then I could talk about it without being told it was less than what it was… that I should be okay because at least it was someone I loved.
We separated a few months later and I quickly moved on, pretending the past hadn’t happened. I married a wonderful, kind, caring man and had three beautiful children. Life was calm and good. I went so far out of my way to hide the past that most people today don’t know I had a previous marriage. I have had problems with intimacy and trust, but thought I managed it pretty well over the years.
Fifteen years passed and I started having problems with anger. I decided I wanted to see him. I wanted an apology, some sort of acknowledgment of what he had done. Pretending it hadn’t happened had been hard, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I suppose I also wanted to see how horrible his life was turning out. The belief that he was somehow being punished was what had gotten me through the years. Certainly God was punishing him in some way. You can’t just step in and ruin someone’s life, strip them of all self-esteem and self worth, and then go on as if nothing happened.
We decided to meet for dinner. I slid into the seat across from him, looked into his deep brown eyes and suddenly I was 19 again. It was as if no time had passed. He did apologize, although not for anything specific, as he claimed he couldn’t remember the past. “God has spared me the memories,” he said through teary eyes (turns out he was lying… afraid I was going to call the police). He had been prescribed medication for bipolar disorder and seemed to be doing well. So at this point I’m thinking, not only has God not punished him for the things he had done, but he has also spared him of any painful memories. I had been wrong… not even God cares about what happened to me. It turns out you can do really horrible things and then go on as if nothing happened. I cried as I told him what I remembered and he said he was shocked to see that I was still upset enough to cry about it 15 years later. “Why didn’t you tell someone?” he asked. “Maybe I would have gotten medication sooner. I loved you and you left me when I was sick and needed you.” The sadness I held in for so many years washed over me and suddenly I was drowning. It was my fault, I thought. He was sick, he was my husband, and I abandoned him. I am still amazed at how quickly things can spin out of control. Fifteen minutes after walking into that restaurant my life was in ruins… again.
The emails started soon after and I was slipping deeper and deeper into depression. We started seeing each other and suddenly, in some crazy attempt to prove that I am worth more than sex… that I am lovable… that I do not deserve to be raped, I was having an affair with someone who sexually abused and raped me. Looking back, that makes absolutely no logical sense, but it did emotionally. It felt awesome to hear him say I love you. I was erasing the past… making it untrue. The need to hear him say I love you was desperate… the only thing that made me feel better.
It wasn’t long before he started with the blame again, “I never did it to anyone else, so doesn’t that mean it had to be at least partly your fault?” Does that make it my fault? I wasn’t sure anymore. My husband, who was furious about the affair, put his feelings and anger aside one evening to have a conversation with me. “You are having an affair with someone who raped you and that’s not okay,” he said. “I know you don’t believe anyone loves you, but I do love you and I’m still gonna be here when you figure this out.” You would think I would have thrown my arms around him in relief, but instead I rolled my eyes. Whatever, I thought. It’s just a matter of time before he figures out what the rest of the world realized long ago… that I am unlovable and deserve to be abused. As confused as I was, I did have the sense to stay with my husband.
A few years have passed and for the most part I am doing great. There are days I want to lay down and give up, admitting he was right… I am worthless. I still force myself out of bed on those days, and drag myself toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Even after all these years, I still can’t sleep with my husband’s back to me without having nightmares. I have a difficult time trusting people and keep them at a distance for fear they will find that unlovable part of me, and who knows what will happen. And of course, there’s the realization that I hurt the one person I do trust. That alone can be unbearable at times.
On a brighter note… most days are good days, and on good days I stop pretending it didn’t happen, admit I survived something truly horrible and believe I am one of the strongest people I know. On good days, I allow myself to see that it’s okay to be devastated after being violated so intimately by someone I once loved and trusted. I’m not even sure anymore where the logic is in thinking it would be easier to be raped and sexually abused by someone you love and trust… what is easy about that? You can deal with the past and move on, but you can’t go back and change or erase it. You also can’t expect someone else to fix it. He altered who I am and as much as I wish he could fix it, he can’t. I wish I had dealt with it years ago, maybe sparing myself the second half of the story. I still don’t like to talk about it, but pretending it didn’t happen or that it wasn’t a big deal is too much of a burden. It did happen and it changed my life and who I am forever. Today I can finally say I am thankful for those changes. I have been a rape crisis advocate for several years now, speaking up for those who aren’t strong enough yet. I am truly thankful for the opportunity to help others, using the strength and compassion my past taught me.
A huge thank you to my forever husband… for the best years of my life, for showing me what real love is all about, and for loving me unconditionally even when I don’t make it an easy thing to do.
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Aerin owns Sew Cute by Me Designs, and tweets as @MyLittleDreams7 .
Jenn
I was sixteen. I’d moved out of my dad’s house a few months before. I never really knew him anyway, and once again his wife had flipped her shit and he took her side. So, I left. I moved in with a friend, got a job and started having the time of my life.
I partied a lot. I had a lot of attention, some of it bad, not that I cared, I was free, sixteen and it was pretty nice to be noticed. I had an on again off again much older boyfriend. I wasn’t dumb back then. I knew he was sleeping with other girls. I knew I wasn’t the only one. I didn’t really care. He had a fast car, raced on weekends and when I needed attention, he gave it.
I too had another boyfriend. He was good to me. So good that I pushed him away more times than I can count. I married this boyfriend and have only told him parts of my story. It’s time now that I tell the rest. Even if it helps just one sixteen year old girl, it’s worth it.
The on again, off again’s birthday was that weekend. He was having a huge party at a hotel. Lots of drinking, lots of people in and out. I went with a friend. I remember asking him to fix my drink and handing him my mountain dew bottle. I went to the bathroom. When I came back I drank about three sips of that drink and passed out.
I wore extremely short shorts that night. A baby doll t-shirt, flip flops. It was summer in the south. I woke up and he was on top of me. It was so hot, my hair was sticking to the back of my neck. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the air. His breath was hot and smelled like stale beer. He was heavy. I wanted to scream and nothing would come out. I wanted to kick and hit and bite, my limbs were too heavy. I whispered the word no, over and over again until he was done. He just rolled over and laid next to me like it was normal. Like what he did was okay.
When I finally woke up, he was gone. A lot of his friends were still there. The girl I came with was asleep in the other bed. I told her what happened, she was passed out all night. I still worry that the same thing happened to her. I never knew if it was a date rape drug or the alcohol that made me pass out cold.
I actually went back later that afternoon to confront him. He wouldn’t open the door. Wouldn’t answer my calls. I wasn’t scared of him, just disgusted, pissed off. I was so independent, I was strong, I was smart, how did I let this happen to me?! Never did I think of going to the police. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was sixteen after all. He was twenty and had a room full of “buddies” to back him up, and the fact that I had consented in the past.
I regret to this day that I didn’t say something. That I didn’t put him behind bars. I didn’t use my voice, so it’s as if he won. He got the best of me.
Not anymore. My words are out, I am free of the reins he had on me.
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Jenn blogs at Mom Dun Went Crazy, and tweets as jennscrzy.
Titanium
The Archeology of a Divorce
The house is eerily quiet, now. The walls are still echoing with angry words–layers of arguments mingle with a fresh coat of paint. Pieces of fractured seashells and broken glass linger, swept carelessly under the cove base; remnants of a broken dream. I’m here to gather a few personal items. Baby clothes, my purse, a few photographs. All that remains in the aftermath of violent conflict. In my home.
Wearily, with feet that seem to weigh a thousand pounds each, I climb the stairs to the master bedroom. A ceramic doll, hand-cast by my grandmother, lies twisted and broken on the carpet. Face smashed, arms destroyed like it was swung overhead and bashed against the dresser. Up until now, I’ve been numb. Heavy, ponderous and thick–moving like a mummy wrapped in layers of bloody gauze–stumbling toward oblivion.
The broken doll elicits a choked sob from the core of my being. She was the only gift I received for my tenth birthday and her delicate handmade dress and little tights were the most beautiful thing I’d ever owned. I never played with her, unless you count straightening her dress and adjusting her long curls before replacing her on a corner shelf in my bedroom. She is precious and now she is shattered.
Something inside me splinters. I run to the master bathroom and barely slide across the cool tile in time to vomit into the toilet. Sobbing and gagging and wasting a week’s worth of food coupons. I don’t live here anymore. This used to be my sink, that’s where I used to put my shampoo. I bathed my baby in that bathtub, brushed her soft curly hair and listened to her giggle.
I scoop the remains of the doll and with her, the pieces of the life that was, and put her in a plastic bin. I leave her in the walk-in closet, next to broken picture frames and a torn wedding portrait.
The escorting officer is getting impatient. I’ve taken too much of his time. He’s here to ensure my safety, now.
My borrowed jeans are falling down, the hems slipping under my shoes as I make my way to the front door. The one I picked out from Home Depot with the frosted oval glass window. Across the front deck I built, down the gravel driveway, past Baby’s tricycle laying on its side on the grass. I have a free hand to turn it right side up; everything I’m taking with me fits in one small suitcase.
The officer gives me a ride back to the women’s shelter. The temporary orders issued by the judge give me the right to gather personal effects, but that doesn’t include my car.
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That was seven years ago. Today, because I walked away, my daughter and I are alive. Strong, well-adjusted and healthy, I’ve gone on to grow self-esteem. Climbing mountains and kayaking rivers, exorcising my demons one.step.at.a.time and learning to love and trust again.
When the plywood palace of a carefully constructed dream burns to the ground, three things remain: faith, hope and love. The greatest of these is love.
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Titanium writes at She. More Than a Pronoun.
Brian
***TRIGGER WARNING*** and editorial opinion: While Brian is clearly a victim himself, the following may be difficult for some survivors to read–particularly survivors of incest and/or sexual abuse at the hands of siblings. I post this only after a great deal of careful reflection. I have a tremendous amount of respect for Brian as a writer and a friend, and I have seen him in action as a loving husband and father. My heart aches for Brian, and for little boys like him everywhere. Though my intention is never to cause any survivors further pain by what they read in this space, I believe Brian deserves respect and support as a survivor. Who knows how many boys grow into silent men with this weighty, misplaced guilt? –Maggie
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I saw him recently. Clean shaven for a change. Hair cropped close and receding. His voice booming as he drew numbers and rattled them off during the gift exchange. His laughter infectious. We exchanged surface pleasantries about work and family. Ate greasy chicken, homemade noodles with beef, and store-bought pie. Went our separate ways for another year.
I’ve often wondered if he remembers The Great Blizzard of 1978. Not the snow but the little things. How we spent an eternity shoveling snow from around the front of my dad’s hunter orange Scout with the chains on the tires so he could fetch groceries for the elderly neighbors. How we carved out snow angels with our bodies and pummeled each other with snowballs in the back yard of the small house with the lath and plaster walls that my parents rented for a year.
The year he and I lived on the same street.
I wonder if he remembers other little things. Like the sunny afternoon he spent looking after me and my two sisters. I was nine and naïve. They were seven and six and innocent. He was fourteen and convincing. He told us it would be fun to watch us take off our clothes and roll around on the floor wrapped up in patches of old carpet. He took out his penis, wagged it around like some great thing, and then showed us how people lie down on mattresses with the lights off and the curtains drawn and put it between a woman’s legs. He’s to my right, on his back, with my sister on top, his penis sliding atop her buttocks. I am on top of my other sister, doing my best to penetrate, listening to him cheer me on. Perhaps it’s a small blessing that I cannot recall which sister was which.
I remember no “Don’t tell your parents!” speech. I don’t remember anything similar ever happening again. But I can easily recall many incidents since that time where inappropriate sexual advances occurred. Amidst Barbie dolls and pink pillows, I forced my youngest sister to snuggle on the bed with me as I kissed her. Sitting in the living room during an evening home alone, I manipulated my other sister into show me her breasts when she was in middle school. They were the easy targets of my misplaced affections. Other conquests were purely mental. Girls were objects to be ogled in person and later smooth-talked and bedded alone, in the privacy of my bunk bed. When I finally met someone demanding to be more than just an airbrushed image in a magazine, I nearly sabotaged it all with my wanton and fumbling dorm-room advances.
Experts agree that while many sexually-abused children turn their confusion inward, others become abusers themselves. Did I become an abuser? My sisters don’t think so. We talked about these things several years ago. I wept as I apologized for my actions, and they assured me that I was not a monster. They live close, say that they love me, and welcome my hugs. But in their eyes, as though through a blindingly dark snowfall, I see a lingering pain.
And I look at my own daughters. For years I lived with the notion that God would never bless me with girls. Believed it with my whole heart. And now I spend sleepless nights fearing that someone will touch them. Someone like me, who learned too young and yet knew so little. I am teaching them where to kick, and to kick hard. To yell and scream. Yet I’m achingly aware that doing such things work to foil only the stupidest of predators. And how they can seem so inappropriate until it’s too late. So I’m trying to be the kind of man they’ll be drawn to. Someone who will look beyond their beauty and see the treasure inside.
I wonder if memories ever fade. If guilt ever recedes. Like a blizzard in the Heartland….
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Brian blogs here, and he asks that you please keep comments here on VU, rather than on his own site.
