This is hard for me to say.
But I want to say it.
I hope you don’t think I’m seeking attention or pity…
It’s just talking openly about my childhood and my mental illness has helped me cope so much better.
And I’m not coping well with the fact that I was raped.
I was 20. The main reason I tell you this is because I don’t want those of you who know me personally to think it’s someone it’s not.
It was a guy I had been seeing for a few weeks. He lived far away from me and I put so much effort in to our “relationship”
I drove hours to see him every weekend. I cleared up so much time for him.
One weekend, he told me to come see him.
He didn’t tell me he worked all day. I got upset that morning and told him I was leaving. I didn’t want to spend my time alone in his house when I could be doing something productive.
He took my car keys to work with him.
He told me to stay in his room because his roommates didn’t need to see a fat ugly bitch like me.
I had no way to leave. He worked too far away to walk to and cause a scene.
There were no uber’s out there.
So I stayed. I stayed locked away in his room all day so his roommates didn’t have to see my fat ugly face.
When he got home, I was furious. I screamed at him. Demanded my keys back.
Instead, he pushed me on the bed.
I screamed. I cried. I hit him. I did everything I could to get him off me.
He made his way in to me anyways. He held me down. Covered my mouth.
When he was done he tossed my keys on me and told me to leave.
He said he was done with me.
I drove the few hours home in shock.
I wasn’t sure what had happened.
I didn’t believe it was actually rape.
I probably did something that suggested I wanted it, right?
It took me a few weeks to fully comprehend that yes. Yes. That is rape.
That is the thing so many women fear when they walk down the street at night.
That is the thing so many people say they never want to happen. They’d rather die than be raped.
And it happened to me.
I felt like I was a used piece of paper towel crumpled up in a corner.
It broke me.
After that, I became promiscuous.
I wanted to see if I could take control of myself somehow.
Like somehow, if I was able to have sex again, I was fine.
I’m not fine.
I was with someone I’ve been seeing for a little bit recently.
I had a panic attack. I started crying mid-coitus.
Because I’m not fine.
Thinking about other’s stories made me think of my own at the worst possible time.
a secret I’ve been keeping.
That makes me feel so sick thinking about it.
I don’t want to be broken anymore.
I want to talk about it openly and freely and show that it did not ruin me.
I can be rebuilt. I can stand strong and confident and not let this become a part of who I am.