Over the years, as we get older, we forget small details about childhood events.
Distinct memories sometimes become little more than a passing thought when you smell a certain food or flower, but sometimes the things we want to forget most are vivid forever.
I want to stress to you that this won’t be an easy read, but it is necessary, not only for me, but for anyone else who has ever found themselves in this situation. One of the sharpest memories from my youth still haunts me, and while I can’t remember some of my friends’ names from school, or favorite songs, I can remember one particular sentence, spoken to me clearly,
“You shouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want it.”
I was 14, I was rebellious as many young girls are, I was very well developed for my age and I loved the attention I got from boys. I had a pretty dysfunctional family and I would take off a lot; I always snuck out and I started running away at an early age. I always ended up back home, but this particular incident ended my late-night venturing.
By most accounts, I consider “my first time” to have happened with my daughters’ father a year later, but technically I lost my virginity as a result of rape.
This is something I have never even uttered a word about in all of the 23 years since it happened. I never filed a report, I never told my family, I lied about the bruises. I felt it was my fault. I didn’t think anyone would believe me, and incidentally I was probably right, years later when I was punched by my boyfriend during a heated argument, in the aftermath when my mother and grandmother came to my house, my grandmother's first question was, “Well what did you do?”
Like I said, dysfunctional. But let’s not get off course, I want to get this out as quickly as possible before I delete it all and close my laptop. One of my “bad apple” friends had invited me to a party where a lot of older kids would be; of course I was excited and said "yes." She told me to “look sexy” since all of the guys were older and most certainly that must mean they were more mature.
We got to the party, it was at a huge house on the near north side of Downtown Indy, probably around 10 p.m. Naturally, like many girls do, I lied about my age all of the time because I looked the part and carried myself like a young adult. I wasn’t really. I was just a kid playing dress up.
We hadn’t been there long when a gorgeous light-skinned guy came up to me and introduced himself. He was familiar — I had seen him before and when he told me his name I realized he was the older brother of a boy I went to school with. I kept that to myself since I was supposed to be older. He offered to go get me a drink and I happily accepted, all while getting winks and smiles from my girlfriends around the house.
We spent a while talking and dancing and as the night carried on he said, “do you want to go somewhere a little more quiet so we can talk?” Well of course I did. I had a bit of a buzz from whatever fruity liquor concoction he had made for me and I was excited to be getting to know an older, seemingly sweet and mature guy. He was roughly 19 or so.
The conversation hadn’t been sexual or risky in any way so I genuinely thought we would be enjoying a chat. No. Not at all. We went to one of the bedrooms upstairs; he turned on a small lamp and coaxed me to have a seat next to him on the bed. I did. I was nervous. I didn’t really expect anything to happen, but before I knew it we were kissing and he had his hands all over me.
I guess one of the reasons I never reported it and always felt it was my fault is because I came there, to the party, of my own free will. I agreed to go to the bedroom. I did like kissing him.
But when I told him I wanted to stop and I was ready to go, things took a drastic, dark turn. As I was trying to wiggle free from his grasp, the bedroom door opened.
Two of his friends walked in.
My nervousness turned into horror when he looked me in the eyes and said,
“You shouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want it.”
That’s when I heard the hammer of a gun being cocked. I was forced to drink more liquor. Not a delicious fruity drink like before, this time straight vodka from the bottle poured down my throat until I gagged.
I was hit, I was choked, I was raped and sodomized for hours, by all three of these older, more mature young men. They laughed and joked and had fun all while holding me at gunpoint and raping me. The other two weren’t quite as engaged but the gorgeous one, the one that lured me into this hell, he talked to me almost the whole time, he made me look at him, he wanted to see my fear. I was told I loved it and I should thank them.
I was told I shouldn’t be such a hoe and maybe I wouldn’t be getting “turned out” and when they were finally finished, he looked at me, smiled and the last thing I remember is an explosion of pain across the side of my head, then darkness.
I woke up, fully dressed, but bleeding and battered, on the side of my apartment building. Apparently the nice young gentleman explained to one of my girlfriends that I had drank a little too much and he was going to drive me home. This didn’t apparently didn't seem odd to her so as far as I know I was loaded in a car and driven across town while unconscious. At least they didn’t kill me right?
They did. A part of my soul at least.
In case you’re wondering why now, after all these years I decided to share my story, it’s due to a chance meeting of someone on Facebook. We had been talking via inbox about some things and she mentioned she was in the process of getting her nonprofit organization off the ground.
She didn’t tell me the name of it, she didn’t go into any immediate detail. She started with,
“I’m a rape survivor.”
I just stared at the words and before I knew it my fingers were typing,
“I am too.”
Then a barrage of word vomit spewed from my fingertips. It was the first time in the 23 years since that night that I allowed myself to cry about it. It felt like a cinder block had been lifted off my chest. It was liberating to share this horrible experience and not be judged.
I was the only one judging me. I still felt it was my fault. For years, all I have ever heard in the back of my mind, ever so softly, was his voice saying,
“You shouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want it.” accompanied by the hammer of his glock.
I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I am a survivor. While it did greatly affect me, I didn’t allow it to break me. I want you to know I’m telling you this so that it can help you in whatever way is applicable to your situation, and if nothing else, bring awareness to date rape, rape culture and consent in our country.
You see, unlike some other rape victims, I know who my attacker was, at least one of them, and I still felt powerless and too embarrassed to do anything. Don’t make that mistake. If you find yourself in a situation you can’t escape, survive, by any means necessary, but shout your story from the mountain tops so people know, this isn’t okay.
As women so often we hear, “well, if she didn’t dress like that” or “she was asking for trouble.” Well, you know what? No we are not.
My clothing is not an open season invitation to take what you please. Once you say no and stop it goes from a make out session to an assault if he doesn’t stop immediately. Do not feel guilty and give in, you do not owe him anything.
Just because you are there doesn’t mean you want it.
If you find yourself in this situation — and I pray you do not, but statistically it is a possibility — please seek immediate medical attention and call the police.
If you have been attacked and never spoke out, know that you are not alone. You survived, you will persevere and you will move past this. Do not let it define you.
Talk to someone, write about it, and free yourself. I was able to write this without shedding one single tear, I won’t give them that satisfaction of ever hurting me again.
Listed below is the website and phone number for the national rape crisis center, RAINN, they can find you help in your home state.
1-800-656- HOPE
