It's only been three years since I was raped, but sometimes I forget
that it ever happened. That's how I deal with pain. I forget about it. But
sometimes I see something, or hear about something, and the memory comes
back, and it sticks in my head and I can't get it out again for a long time...and
I cry.
The year before my mother and her boyfriend and I moved into a new apartment,
my boyfriend dropped me off at my house from a date, kissed me, and went
home. It was around 9:00PM on a Wednesday, during the summer. I remember
going in my house, smiling, and waving to my mom's boyfriend, whom I liked
and respected very much. He was kind, and funny, and laid back, but he had
his share of rough edges. Sometimes he got drunk, but he wasn't a violent
drunk, until my mother pissed him off. Then he threw things and hit her
and screamed at her, but sitting in my room, listening, I knew she deserved
it. My mother is very hate-worthy, but I love her when she's not a bitch.
I looked into the kitchen to see my mother's boyfriend at the table,
reading the paper, and I waved, asking where mom was. He told me that she
was called into work for the night shift and that she'd be home in the morning.
I nodded and went into my room, changed into a night gown, and flopped on
the couch in the living room to watch some TV.
A little over an hour later, I jumped when I felt hands on my shoulders, and my eyes were wide with
surprise as I tried to sit up and he wouldn't let me. He felt me up from
behind, and I smelled alcohol in the air. I was scared...I didn't think
anything like that would ever happen to me.
I remember staring at the TV as the magic show I was waiting to see came
on, and he slid onto the couch in front of me. I was too afraid to move,
and I get so angry at myself sometimes when I think of how I never fought
back...I should have fought him. I said no, over and over, but he didn't
listen. The alcohol clogged his brain...and he raped me. I had only had
sex once before that, so it hurt, more than the loss of my virginity had...maybe
because I was scared. Maybe because I knew there was no love involved...maybe
because I didn't want what was happening.
I don't know how long it was until he finished with me, but the magic
show had gone off when I sat up. Maybe an hour...maybe an hour and a half,
or two. He went back into the kitchen, sat at the table, drank more and
passed out. I stood, watched him through the far off door way to the kitchen
until I knew he was asleep...and then ran into my bedroom, closed and locked
the door, and cried for the rest of the night. I was afraid he'd come back
for more...I was afraid he'd kill me...I was just afraid.
I never mentioned anything to any of my mother about it...she would never
have believed me. It took me a year and a half to even tell my boyfriend
about it. I made him promise to say nothing, and he never did. After the
move, the man lived with us, and he still lives with my mother now, but
I moved away. I couldn't stand the fighting, or the abuse from my mother,
or the fear of my now step-father.
I was raped, but I do not see myself as a victim or as a survivor...I
see myself only as myself who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong
time. I don't ask why, and I don't blame myself...but it still hurts.
I forgave the man who raped me, but I still haven't forgiven myself for
not fighting back.