When I showed up in my therapist’s office, I’m not sure what I really hoped to accomplish. I was there out of desperation. After being given an ultimatum by my husband - get help or be homeless - I had to do something.
What I do remember was being exhausted. This was a mental exhaustion that I had never experienced. I was tired of thinking, but thinking was all I could do. My brain was fighting me every step I took, and I was losing the fight until I showed up for my first session with George.
I miss George’s office occasionally and yearn to be back in it - though I don’t attend therapy sessions anymore. He kept the lights off with only the blinds slightly parted to provide light. With the office being in Florida, the air conditioner was always on even in winter. It was dark, cool, and quiet. They soundproofed the walls to provide the highest respect for privacy.
When we started going over the traumas in my life, there were some truths I had to learn to accept. One of those truths was that, yes, I was raped.
In all honesty, I never considered it rape. I considered it a round of consensual sex gone wrong, but in the end, my therapist simply looked at me and said, “So, you were raped…”
It was like being hit in the face with my mother’s cast iron skillet she cooked cornbread in.
I was 17 or 18 when I went to visit a young man I had been speaking to. He seemed interested in me, and I was interested in him also. So, stupidly, I went to his house. I should have known better and put myself in a safer situation. That was how he wanted to meet up, however. So, we met at his house.
His mother had left for work, and it was just him, myself, and his cousin. His cousin looked me up and down and nodded his head to him in apparent approval.
“Yea, hit ‘dat,” his cousin said.
After small talk about video games and the usual getting to know each other “chit chat,” his cousin left. His cousin knew why he was leaving. He was leaving to let his cousin get some.
He took me in his bedroom. It was completely dark. I remember his sheets were sateen and cheetah print. His bed was big… bigger than mine. It looked so comfortable.
When we began having sex, it was completely consensual. I wanted it badly. I really did. However, as we gave ourselves over to passion and complete abandon, he became increasingly aggressive.
I started to worry. Something was going wrong. I didn’t know how wrong until he flipped me over, and he whispered in my ear, “Let me fuck your ass.”
I told him plainly, “No.” I didn’t play around. There was no hard to get. The answer I gave him was, “No.” He did not listen.
There’s a way to approach anal sex delicately with a partner so that you take care not to hurt them. He either didn't know this or he didn't care. I’m going to guess he didn’t care and at that point, it was about his own satisfaction and need to assert his power over me.
With no lubrication, he rammed himself into me. There was no introduction or working our way into it. He shoved his dick inside of me over and over while I begged him to stop. I was screaming in pain. He only stopped after he came inside of me.
He wanted to lay and cuddle. Normally, I'd relish in a moment like that. However, I felt like puking. There was a dark despair inside of my gut that was growing, and I couldn't explain it. I was in physical pain. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't cry in front of him. I worked myself up into telling him I had to leave. I threw on my shirt and ran out of his door. I actually left my bra.
The next day at school he gave the leftover items of clothing to my friend who gave them to me. I resolved to never speak to him again. He would later pass me a note in the lunch line that said, "We can either be friends, or we can be enemies." I threw it in the trash can, and he actually never contacted or approached me again. I've never seen him again, and I don't know what has happened to him since.
However, I never once thought I was raped. I'm not sure exactly what I thought happened. Perhaps, I thought it was just sex gone wrong? How that makes sense I don't know, but that's all I can come up with regarding my train of thoughts back then. It never once crossed my mind to believe I was raped.
And anyway, this was around 2005. In a small rural town, I had asked for it, am I right? You can't just start sex and then stop, right? Maybe in today's culture, I would have been able to seek justice; however, back then that would have never happened.
When I told my therapist this experience, it seemed so simple to him. There wasn't any, "Well, maybe you had led him on..." Nothing. It was just, "So, you were raped." So, I was raped. We talked about it more. We explored it.
On the long drive home, those words kept going through my head. "So, I was raped." I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. It was a two-hour drive of the same repeating thought in my head - "I was raped."
From that day forward, I knew and understood I was raped. Since then, there's never been any question of it. I do not let it rule my life; however, I will never allow myself to justify an explanation that could describe it as anything different. I said NO. He did not listen. So, I was raped.
On social media, the #MeToo trend is happening. Women (and some men) take to their social media outlets and post #MeToo to signify they have been sexually harassed or assaulted. However, even more individuals will see those posts and think nothing of their own traumas for one justification or another. Perhaps, they were told they deserved it or asked for it. Perhaps, they were told that's how someone shows their love to someone. Regardless, we have to remember those that don't realize they were sexually assaulted yet know something happened that wasn't right.
Image by Valeri Pizhanski via Flickr under Creative Commons License.