I think it should go without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway. This post is going to talk about sexual assault, sexual violence and rape, and may be triggering for some in our audience. You read at your own risk.
I’ve decided recently that I’m going to become a rape crisis counselor/advocate. When I was raped, assaulted, whatever you want to call it (as it was ongoing), I never told anyone. I was 14 and I was terrified that he would make good on the threats that he told me. He certainly made good on the ones that involved me and my best friend, so how was I to know he wouldn’t hurt my family or my animals?
It was ridiculous and incredibly naive. So naive because my mother worked for the town’s police department. I don’t know if everyone was aware of just how sociopathic this kid was at 15 – and I do not say that lightly, I truly believe he is a sociopath – but I don’t think that anyone would have believed us just the same. He was the son of a preacher. Yup. Lost my virginity to the preacher’s son. The preacher’s son who was an absolute insane bastard.
Last time I talked to him, maybe five years ago, he still had the bed sheets that I bled on when I lost my virginity. He was charming up until the point I lost my virginity; after that, it was a whole different ballgame.
He dumped me the next day – yeah, that’s always good for the ego. Somehow turned my friends against me. Then after about maybe a month or so, because I was “so in love”, he and I started a friends with benefits situation, even though he was supposedly dating someone else – I didn’t care – and people told me that she looked like me. That should have been a red flag, though, but it wasn’t. Funny what you see in hindsight.
But it wasn’t friends with benefits. It was abuse. It was holding me with my back against him, knife to my throat while I was on the phone with a friend or parent, while he fingered me, challenging me to make a sound just so he could hurt me. Or chasing me around the house with the same knife.
I used to be a cutter – I wasn’t exactly the best at being discreet about it, I chose my inner wrists. I was never trying to commit suicides, I was just trying to get him to leave me alone and I thought, I guess, maybe if someone decided he was being bad influence or I wasn’t getting work done then it would stop.
It never did.
I remember my father confronting him once because he left a mark on my neck. I don’t remember if it was a hickey type mark or if it was from his hands being around my throat. Either way, my father definitely was stern with him and I remember being somewhat embarrassed that my father had acted that way (because I was a teenager, I was rebellious) but at the same time, incredibly, incredibly grateful. Then again, at the same time, dreadful because I knew those marks, those “claims” would only be made somewhere else on my body.
I believed his threats. Why? Because I was a stupid, silly, teenage girl.
I want to be a rape counselor/advocate to help women not make the same mistakes I did.
I waited years, YEARS, to file a report against the “man” who raped me. I believe I waited 8 years. When I went to give my statement, I experienced first-hand exactly why women don’t go to report rape or sexual assault – especially if they are having to report it to a male officer.
No, the officer was not immature, he was not rude or condescending. He just had this tone, this air, this aura, about him that made it quite clear that he believed he was wasting his time and was only there because he was asked to by the Chief to take the statement of the daughter of a longstanding member of the force. I don’t know if I could have pressed charges – they never told me or gave me an option to.
I’m terrified that he’s going to find me, no matter where I move to, no matter where I live. I live in the middle of EBFnowhere and I am still afraid every day that I’m going to see him. I had a full blown panic attack walking into a store that I go to nearly weekly because I saw someone who; 1. matched his height; 2. matched his voice; 3. matched his eyes; and that was all I allowed myself to see. I didn’t even get what I was in there to buy – I just ran out to my car as fast as I possibly could and sat in my car and cried and screamed. I was so panicked I couldn’t drive straight on my own so I had to call home and have my parents tell me ridiculous stories just to keep me distracted from all the memories that were rushing to the front of my mind.
My mother accuses me of dwelling on what happened. I don’t dwell on it. I try like hell not to even think about it. But it pops up – most often in my nightmares. Oh, Christ, so badly in my nightmares. I would give anything not to dream again if I could just not dream those dreams and the other subsequent dreams I have. He just turns into other men, which makes it seem like he could be anyone, which makes dating and such terrifying. I don’t much like that prospect.
Part of it, for me, is I think that if I could find him on some prison roster or sex offender list, I would feel better. But I haven’t found his name anywhere. It seems so unreal to me that he’s not been caught – at all – by anyone – yet. After all this time. Every time I look, I come up empty handed and I don’t like that feeling. I want to know where he is. I want the fucking monster locked up in a cage.
Even that’s too good, but it’ll have to do. They don’t accept my methods of justice around here.