I have realized that I have invited others to share their story, but have yet to actually tell me own. I have hinted and generalized, but that 's it. It may feel like a rant, a vent, a story that makes no rhyme or reason, but I can promise you this: it is true. And maybe one day I will be able to actually forgive and forget. Not only the abusers. But myself.
As I have mentioned in the post "Does any of it help", I found out recently that I was, in fact, sexually abused as a little girl. Five years old, to be exact. I was told that when the abuser came out and confessed, my parents recieved a call from the childrens justice in the neighboring town, and that it would be avantageous for them to bring me over so that they may do their children interrogations. My parents complied, and at the children's justice building they did the play-interrogations, and following my parents were told that whatever I experienced, I apparently did not percieve it as a traumatic event, but more of a game, and that I will be fine. So my parents, to my knowledge, did nothing. I have scattered memories. I remember holding someone's hand down the stairs into the basement of the house, going into the back bedroom. Someone, blonde, telling me to stick my tongue out and put it in his mouth. I remember taking off my clothes. I remember the blonde man brushing my hair and whispering into my ear. I remember in later boasting to my friends in second and third grade about having frenched kiss before. I remember telling my mom these memories, and her telling me they are just bad dreams. But I remember the dreams. The dreams were different.
That's the beginning.
Next, I'm in sixth grade, my group of friends found together. It started as innocent games of "Truth or Dare", which became not so innocent. As we grew older, our little band broke apart. Those not being affected by the boys greed of flesh off the loop, moving away or just refusing to be friends anymore. The other sufferer sharing my pain being able to break away summer after seventh grade. And I was left alone. With them. The two boys that held the same name, but spelt different ways. I won't lie, for a long time I was enamoured with the taller and more handsome of the two boys with the same name. I had also known him much longer before the other boy joined the group. I guess that's when the group fell apart, and our innocent play became less and less innocent.
Where do you cross the line? Where does it go from just playing to not something fun anymore? I never liked the truth or dare games that ended with someone kissing or losing clothing. But then, summer before seventh grade, it wasn't truth or dare. It was Him, telling me to take off my shirt and lay on the bed. Take my pants off. Let me touch you. Kiss me. Now. The first few years, if I said no, he would ask and beg and plead and bribe until I complied, and if I still said no, then the rumors would start. I would get weird looks at school, the people who I thought were my friends would turn their shoulder. I was constantly trying to find new friends, friends that haven't heard the rumors. And I found a few, but, just my luck, they were my friends because they were infatuated with Him. He even "dated" a few of them, as much as you can date in junior high. Much later, I learned this was peer pressure and cohersion. Then ninth grade... Oh man, puberty can do some messed up stuff to ya. I guess this is when the two boys thought they were men. Because all of a sudden, it wasn't pressuring me to say yes. It was yes, or I will take it from you, by any means. And I guess you can say the real abuse began. It kept on climbing and climbing, They continually thirsty for more. And now it wasn't just Them. It was all their other guy friends "wanting some". The group kept on getting bigger and bigger. Some I only saw once and can't remember their names. Some came again and again. His house, His bedroom, had become my hell. Then, May of 9th grade, it came to a climax.
This whole time I would fight and fight, no matter what they threatened to do and the actual pain they inflicted, I would fight for my virginity. That, at least, had stayed in-tact so far, and I was determined on keeping it that way. But my plans for myself aren't what they had in mind. That day in May, they took what I had protected to my utmost. Him, his friend with the same name, and their friend took it. I remember bits and parts of that day. I had a fountain drink, and I remember feeling woozy and tired. I remember laying down on the bed, feeling exhausted. Things from there are blurry. I remember vaguely that my clothes were removed. I remember feeling pain. And I remember black. Next, I remember being woken up several hours later. I remember seeing the clock, but not comprehending the time, until I realized a phone was being pushed to my ear. I remember hearing my dad on the other end, furious that I am 2 hours late for curfew. I remember being in a daze, putting my clothes back on, and walking slowly home. My head felt stuffy, like someone had stuffed it with cotton. And I was so tired. I got home and was chastised for my untimely arrival home. I couldn't tell them the real reason I was late, so I lied. I lied so much. No one could know. A week later, I go to attempt suicide by jumping off a cliff. Suffice to say, it did not work. I ended up walking home, confused and depressed. I had apparently started an uproar at my family home and at my school. He came by my house later that day, to make sure I was alright. He squeezed my arm, which I knew to mean to not tell anyone, so I didn't.
In their frantic to find where I might have gone, my parents read my sparatic journal entries. Some confessing what acts happened that particular day at His house, some confessing how much I hated and loved him at the same time. Some complaining about life, some just ordinary days. But, in lou with reading these, the next day I was sent back to my parents room and lectured about the content in my journal. I was sent to our bishop and made to repent for my terrible sins. I knew then that I couldn't ever tell them what was really going on. If they wouldn't let me explain what was in my journals, they would never understand what happened only the week before. So I remained silent.
That summer felt like bliss. They were back to the pressuring tactic after my suicide attempt, and not once did they ask for sex. It helped that both were "dating", and that another, more beautiful and sensual girl was there, ready and willing to share her body with them. That's how we spent the summer. But then school started. High school. The few friends I had, decided I was to blame for their sorrows, and I found myself friendless in a school 3 times as large as the previous one.
And then His girlfriend broke up with Him, and the carnage that followed would make a serial rapist proud. The beatings began again. But they were so much worse than before. Bruises showed up on my legs, upper arms and back and sides. I always wore several layers of clothes, trying to hide everything. Alcohol would be slipped into my drink, in hope it would make me more compliant. For a short while, They would force a cigarette into my mouth and threaten to burn me with it if I didn't smoke the whole thing. That was too easy for His mom to detect though, so they had to change to chewing tobacco. He, nor his friend with the same name, had jobs, so they paid for all of their whiskey, beer, cigs, and chew with my body. These... People would come up to His house, and they would have an alloted time to do whatever they wanted with me, and use whatever means they wanted. Life was hell. Along with the cuts They gave me, I started cutting myself. I had done feeble attempts before, but now this was the only way to get through the day.
The means in which my body was shared was horrendous. I was the debt paid, I was the victim of a bored afternoon, and the common favorite was the poker games. Each chip had a different sexual act, and when the game was done, I was locked in the room, and each player came and got his dues. After one game, when I refused, I was hit in the back with the baseball bat. Whether from this onslaught or the other multiple times my back has been punished, I still have back problems.
As the abuse became worse and worse, I kept on trying to get out. I would make feeble attempts to convince Him I couldn't see him any more, that my parents wouldn't allow me. Always written in notes, or using someone else's phone and sending texts during lunch. But these feeble attempts never got anywhere. So I started to look for other outs. I tried overdosing on different drugs, but all of them ended up just making me sick. I would cut my arms so deep that the blood flowed freely, but only would for a short while. I always wanted out, but I was too scared of death and Him to ever go through with it.
I have only mentioned a fraction of what happened in the hellroom. If I wanted to go into depth, it would take me a whole book and several years to describe everything. In the end, almost half-way through my junior year of high school, I finally had the courage to get out. Shortly after, He moved, and I never saw his friends unless we randomly ran into each other, in which I would run the other way. But I don't think I ever really got rid of him. In all honesty, if he called me today and told me to meet him somewhere, I would most likely go. He is the waking demon of my life. I can never get rid of him. He's always on the back of my mind.
I was pregnant three times, all ended in miscarriages. I never knew who the father was but once. I only told my mother and Joyce of one, my junior year of high school. But there was once my sophmore year, and once my senior year. Like I said, if he called, I would most likely go. He called during my senior year, once I had started to really think I was finally rid of him, and I went. 8 weeks later, I miscarried.
My life was ravished by Him. He had taken everything from me. So when I went down to SUU, I thought maybe here I could start a new life, start anew, freed from Him at last. I was freed of Him, but intruded by another. Week of finals the first semester I was there, I was raped in my dorm room by who I thought was a friend. Just like the first time I was raped, I don't remember much. I had been on my own sleeping medication. I remember falling asleep with him there, and waking up naked and cold. He had sent me a text message saying he had fallen asleep and had woken up with me naked and him in only his boxers, and got scared and left...
It had seemed I could never find peace. Could never find a safe place.
I am safe now, with my amazing husband. I haven't heard from Him nor is friends in a long time, and this other SUU is no longer anywhere where he could hurt me.
And I am ready to speak out.
Here is my story. Laid out for you to read. Maybe one day I can confide in more details, but as of right now, more details is exactly what I don't want to remember.
