“I fucked you so good you’re going to walk funny tomorrow.” – Abusive Ex.
Sigh. It’s 2:45 a.m.
Fucked me
It Happened to Me
I am not really a Lady Gaga fan, but her new song and video really spoke to my soul. If you are a survivor of sexual assault or rape, it might speak to you too. Be prepared though, there are depictions of assault/rape and it could definitely be triggering. View it at this link:
Thank you, Lady Gaga.
I broke up with abusive Ex when I was a freshman in college. I went home to do it and immediately after breaking it off I went back to school. I looked like absolute shit. I hadn’t showered that day, I had done a lot of crying, I was wearing an old sweater and pair of jeans. Basically I was a hot mess in every sense of the word. My roommate and best friend had gone home for the weekend as well so I did not have her to lean on; however, several of my friends who lived on my floor looked at me and suggested I go out partying with them. I went.
When we went out we usually decided who looked the hottest that night and put her at the front of the line in an attempt to get into parties without paying the $5 cup charge. That night I was definitely in the back of the group, but the guy at the door recognized me. He was a few years older and had gone to my high school. He immediately let us all in for free and brought me over to a table of guys who were playing a drinking card game. I knew several of those guys from high school as well and joined them immediately. I started playing the game and actually having a great time. My girlfriends saw that I was with friends and drifted off to dance. They thought I was ok and so did I… I was for the time being.
I left the table a few times to go outside and smoke. Several times I noticed a guy really watching me. It was creepy, but he didn’t say anything and I went back inside to the card table. At the time I was an 18 year old freshman and probably weighed about 103 pounds. Pretty quickly I was extremely drunk. I realized I was going to have to throw up and I excused myself to the bathroom. I ran in, closed the door, and proceeded to be sick. I think I might have passed out on the floor for awhile.
I didn’t lock the door. That was a failure. Creepy guy came in and did lock the door. He picked me up, sat me on the counter next to the sink, and proceeded to start kissing my neck and undressing me. I tried and tried to fight him off and I tried to yell no, but I was so drunk I was fighting to stay conscious. I don’t remember too much other than thinking to myself “Well, I guess I’m going to be raped now.” It felt hopeless. I felt powerless.
Luckily one of my male friends realized I had been gone awhile and decided to come and check on me. I believe he broke the door in when I didn’t answer. I remember him pulling the guy off me and yelling. Other guys came in and grabbed Rapey dude and threw him out. I think they may have beat him up, but I’m not sure. Male friend got my clothes back on me and somehow got me back to my dorm room. I remember him pulling my mattress off my lofted bed and putting it on the floor. I remember him taking my shoes off, getting me a glass of water, bringing me a bucket, and holding my hand. I remember him telling me that he would stay until I felt safe. At some point I must’ve passed out.
If it wasn’t for that male friend my sexual assault would have been another rape. It happens on college campuses all the time. I thought I was safe. I was with at least 5 girlfriends and I knew the guys who lived in the apartment. I wasn’t safe. There was a predator there and he was just waiting for an opportunity. I’m sure that was his MO and that I probably wasn’t the first girl (or last) that he victimized. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even go to my school. He was just a college aged guy who scoped out parties.
That male friend of mine is a good and decent human being. I have thanked him over the years, but I don’t think he fully understands just how grateful I am. There are good people in this world and whenever I start to question humanity I think of him.
That’s a little part of my story.
Letter to Ex
The following letter is a homework exercise my therapist asked me to write. It just occured to me that in addition to working through it with her at therapy that I could post it here. So here goes:
Ex,
Fuck you. Fuck you because it’s 12:35 a.m. and I’m not sleeping peacefully in bed with my husband. This is about the 20th time this month and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not being able to lie on my left side with my husband at my back because of you and your insatiable sexual appetite. I’m sick of flashbacks and the extreme anxiety they cause. I’m sick of middle of the night IBS bouts brought on by that anxiety. I’m sick of Xanax and depression medication and PTSD and RA and IBS and migraines and everything else that’s wrong with me at least half of which I’m convinced is your fault. Fuck you.
I never said yes to you. Not once that I can remember. Then again, I don’t really remember you ever asking. You certainly didn’t the first time. After that time you badgered, harassed, cajoled, quid pro quoed, and coerced. I didn’t deserve any of it. I didn’t want any of it. You should not have done it.
Sometimes when I get really upset I zone out completely and sit and stare for a while. I had a moment like that just now. It’s like my brain shuts off and when it’s over I feel almost dizzy. It’s like I’m back in dance and I’ve done one too many pirouettes, but I don’t actually fall. It’s not pleasant, but at least it’s not anxiety. I don’t know why I’m telling you this; you don’t have a right to know that feeling.
I was back in your room tonight, in my head at least. Don’t let that get to your head. I’m sure you’d love to know that I’m thinking of you. You’d turn it into some sick fantasy about how much I still wanted you. I never wanted you. I just wanted a way out. Funny thing is that I still want a way out; only instead of my parents’ house I want a way out of my own head. I hate you for trapping me, but I hate myself more for not being able to stop it. I couldn’t stop it then, I didn’t stop it then, I can’t stop it now, it’ll never fucking stop. Sometimes I wish I was stupid. If I was stupid, legitimately stupid, then I think I could let myself believe that this wasn’t all my fault or something I somehow deserved.
It’s stupid. If any of my friends told me about a HS boyfriend that did to them what you did to me I would feel badly for them and tell them it wasn’t their fault. I’d tell them that they were young and that everyone makes mistakes, and that it’s natural to want to trust someone they think they love. I’d mean it too. I just can’t bring myself to really let myself believe that for myself, especially when every day I remember more and more about the things you did to me. I stayed. I stayed! You sure picked the right girl Ex, you sure did.
Me
Followed
I was followed yesterday and it is haunting me. I haven’t seen my perpetrator for 13 years… until yesterday. I was headed to my therapist’s office for my weekly appointment and got on the freeway. There is construction just north of my onramp and the lanes go from three down to two. I noticed the car in front of me because of its bumper sticker and then the license plate caught my attention. It was a vanity plate that contained my Ex’s name and the year he graduated HS. I passed the car and looked at the driver and it was him. And of course he fucking looked and realized it was me too. He followed me from that point until I exited the freeway 30 miles later. It could have been a coincidence that he was going the same way I was, but frankly I have no way of knowing. He stayed behind me the whole way.
I am kind of amazed I didn’t get in an accident. I pretty much drove watching my rear view mirror. By the time I got to my appointment I was practically in a full blown panic attack. I sat in the car shaking for a few minutes before I was able to get up and walk in. Thankfully, my therapist was waiting for me and I didn’t have to sit in the waiting room. She said she could tell something was really wrong when she saw me. We worked on breathing and talking about where in my body I felt the anxiety and where I felt the fear. She asked me what I needed to say to my Ex as the grown up woman I am today. I told her that I would tell him that he didn’t deserve me then and what he did to me was unacceptable. She noted that I didn’t tell him that he could no longer hurt me.
Can he still hurt me? She says no, but my body screams yes. I wouldn’t have been so fucking afraid if that answer is no, would I? She reminded me that I am now a capable adult. If he ever came after me I could 1) call the police, 2) drive to the police station, 3) carry and use mace, 4) call my husband, etc. She said that I need to let the part of myself hear the rest of me when I tell it that we’re safe now. I understand that on a theoretical level, but it’s just hard to from an emotional level. I guess that’s what fucking trauma does.
The PTSD flashbacks have been bad today. I have a project to do and I’ve been completely unable to work on it. The fucking reverberations of this shit are so hard to handle.
Another Restless Night…
Triggers and insomnia… It’s another night where I just can’t sleep. Lately I feel like I cannot escape my triggers. Every time I start to relax and get into a better mental space something jumps out of nowhere and sends me over the edge. This doesn’t feel random because my triggers are fairly specific. My main triggers are music, but only very specific songs and albums that aren’t very popular anymore so I don’t usually hear them. The last few days have been particularly bad.
Today on my Facebook feed a friend quoted a line from “Anna Begins” by the Counting Crows in her status. It was so unexpected it took my breath away. I was instantly transported back to the blue room with the white ceiling and I was swirling and floating away. Pulling myself out of that kind of trapped dissociation is really difficult especially because lately that is when the memories roll out in waves. They crash into me, knock me over, spin me around, and throw me to shore feeling battered and angry. I suppose I should just be grateful I haven’t drowned.
He had a stereo in his room with a three disc CD changer. Whenever we were in the room it was on and the discs cycled over and over. One disc was August and Everything After, by the Counting Crows, the second was Candlebox, and either there wasn’t a third disc or I have completely repressed it. I feel like I need to plainly say that we were never in his room unless we were having sex. He was not allowed to have girls in his room, so we were only up there when his parents weren’t home. Unfortunately that was pretty often.
Saturday nights were the worst. His parents played cards with a group of friends and left for the night at about 8:30. They didn’t usually come home until after 2:00. My parents never expected me home before about 12:30 so that left about three and a half hours (we had to get dressed and he had to drive me home) where he expected me to prove that I loved him. Why I stayed, why I tolerated it, why it all happened is such a very long and exhausting story – one half remembered, but coming back more and more lately. I’ll get around to telling it, swear to God. Mostly I was just very young, very scared, very vulnerable, and really looking for someone to love me. I remember wondering why people called it making love when it was so terrifying and empty.
If anyone is reading this, do you have triggers? Do you mind sharing? Have you managed to conquer them? How? I’d really appreciate some perspective on this.
Might as well…
*Sexual coercion/rape trigger warning*
I don’t remember much about the night I lost my virginity. There are facts, facts are easy. Memories are something completely different.
The facts are this: I was 15. It was June 30, 1995. My city had a very large fireworks display that night. I wanted to go to that display very, very badly. My boyfriend didn’t want to. I don’t remember his reason for not going, but that doesn’t matter. I have a feeling that he knew what he wanted that evening and that he planned to get it no matter what he had to do.
It was a Friday night and his parents should have been home, but they weren’t. Were they on vacation? That’s another thing I don’t remember. I suppose it isn’t important. They weren’t there. The fireworks were televised – I told you they were a very big deal in my city. Since we weren’t going in person I still wanted to watch them on TV. He suggested that we go upstairs and watch them in his parents’ bedroom. He didn’t have a TV in his room. I must’ve agreed, but I don’t remember that either.
I don’t remember how we started messing around and I don’t remember getting practically naked. I don’t remember him putting a condom on, but he did. In the past when we had seriously messed around I had insisted that he wear a condom because I was so terrified of getting pregnant I thought that maybe if some sperm got on my leg it could possibly get into me somehow and then I’d be pregnant and life would be ruined. I was so young – so smart in some ways and yet so dumb in others.
I remember the fireworks going off on the TV and the patriotic music they were playing over them. I remember the colored shadows on the walls. I remember him grinding against me with nothing but the fabric of my underwear between us. Then somehow the underwear was pushed aside and I felt a stabbing pain and a few thrusts. I remember feeling shocked and thinking that he didn’t even ask.
I remember saying “no” and “stop.” He did for a moment. I think I told him it hurt. I think he said it wouldn’t after a minute. I think I told him I didn’t want to. I say “I think” because I don’t remember what exactly I said. I do remember him telling me that it already happened so I might as well let him finish. “Might as well let me finish.” Wow. Did I say yes then? I don’t remember. I do remember that he finished. I don’t remember anything else about the rest of the evening. In fact, I don’t remember anything about the next several days.
At that point in my life I religiously kept a journal. There is an entry from June 29, 1995, but the next entry isn’t until August 25, 1995. I find that highly significant. It is significant, right?
Haunted
*Sexual abuse content – trigger warning*
I wonder if I think of my abuser more than he thinks of me? I bet I do. I can’t help it. These stupid body memories resurface and it’s as though he is still in the room. Still on top of me. Still hovering. Still breathing. Still grabbing my ass and biding his time until his parents left to play cards. Just waiting until he could chase me upstairs.
My therapist tells me that controllers don’t think about their past victims. That he’s focused on whoever he’s controlling now… his wife, probably. That I am just someone in his memory that probably provokes anger if he thinks about me at all. I’m sure she’s right. I’m sure he feels like I wronged him somehow. After all, everything was always my fault when we were together. It wouldn’t be any different now. And the few times he ever spoke about any of his past girlfriends it was never nice. Even at the age of 17 he held a grudge. I’m sure I’m just the dumb cunt that he used to date.
I wish I didn’t feel like such a dumb cunt. Damn it. Why am I haunted by this? Why can’t I focus on my life as it is now? I have a wonderful husband who is my best friend. He is respectful, he’s careful, he listens, and he wants me to be happy. This broken brain of mine should focus on THAT.
White ceiling in a Blue Room
*Sexual abuse content – trigger warning*
Every now and then a thought pops into my head. My panties on his floor. His sweat dripping in my face. The color blue his room was painted. The white slats of the closet door. Shapes, images, smells, sounds. Sounds are always the same, Candlebox and Counting Crows on constant repeat mixed with his panting and my own fake moans. Make sure he thinks you’re happy. Make sure he thinks you love him. Make sure, oh my God, make sure. A sense of dread creeps up my throat and I feel as though I can’t breathe. The only thing that clams me down is white. White ceiling, white noise, white ceiling. Stare at that ceiling until you are no longer there. Fade into the ceiling. Let the ceiling swallow you and wait for it to end. Hours, days, minutes? Who cares, just let it end.
I’ve only recently been able to remember some of these things. Mostly I just remember that white ceiling and how it felt like the only real thing in the world. My island. I’ve been told that’s dissociation and I’m pretty sure it saved my life or at least (temporarily) my sanity. Why do the memories seem worse than the reality did at the time? Is that even possible?
Stupid Girl
Do pictures lie or do memories? If a picture is worth 1,000 words and that picture captures a bright! shiny! phony! super! smile does that smile lie 1,000 times? What about the picture taken 10 minutes before a forced blow job? Was going to homecoming really worth the price of admission? The photos sure are pretty. You were a beautiful “Stupid Girl.”
Sometimes I wonder how it was that no one knew I was screaming inside. Was I that great of a liar? An actress? Or did my parents honestly buy the perfect girl bullshit? Is that what a MENSA IQ, straight A’s, school involvement, anorexia athletica, and a part time job really purchase? You know what, I’ll refund my ticket. I just don’t want to go to this dance anymore.
Obsessively Perfect Grrl 