My Thoughts On Rape
I do not write to so that I can relive a horrendous, destructive, dark time in my life because I'm a masochist. I do it because I hope that my story reaches the right person. The one who needs to know that they are not alone. The one who needs to know that they are not at fault. The one who needs to know that they did not do anything to ask for this.
I know, personally, of some people with fantasies that are like this soul damaging event in my life. These people are masochistic and so look for the greatest amount of pain and humiliation possible. I do not look down on these people. They have every right to their fantasies. As I do of becoming a famous writer. Perhaps a few years down the road I'll start a memoir and I'll achieve my goal. I don't know if that is simply a pipe dream or if it is something that is a real possibility.
Anyway, to the event at hand. Let's call it what it is. To call it anything else is to deny it's vileness and seriousness, and it would only serve to undermine the gravity of the events. Long Term Serial Rape. I'm not speaking about being raped 4 times one right after the other by a group of frat guys, though that is a heinous a crime and tragedy, too. I'm speaking of being raped by one guy right after another more than once over a period of time. Long Term Serial Rape.
LTSR is a particularly ugly beast. It doesn't just rob you of your rights to your own body. It doesn't just make you feel unsafe. It doesn't just effect every romantic relationship you ever have after that. It doesn't just destroy your sense of order with the world. It doesn't just possibly give you an eating disorder, a body image disorder, or any other mental disorder.
LTSR crushes your hope repeatedly. It frightens and because you know, sometimes hours ahead of time, that it's going to happen. It's not a nebulous 'oh it could happen, I better lock the door.' You know it's coming. Like a train barreling down on you when your car is stalled on the tracks and you can't get the seat belt to unbuckle or the car to start. It's an all encompassing fear that lasts for hours making it seem like an eternity. You cry, you break out into a cold sweat, you vomit, you try to rationalize... you do everything you can to make things okay. Try doing this at the age of 14 for a period of 7 ½ months.
Oh, it wasn't an everyday thing. Sometimes they'd give me a couple of days to heal up and tighten back up. Something that seems like a small boon but is really just something that they do to increase their enjoyment. Rest assured that the day after the last day I had 'off' it would be particularly brutal. Undoing much of what the previous two or three days had done for my mind and my body. Muscle memory and all. I just had to relax. Stay relaxed and it would be fine, but it was never fine.
I can tell you that I knew it wasn't all going to be fine. I told myself it was. I deluded myself into believing that it would be alright. What else can you do but make yourself believe that things will get better? We tell ourselves that every day, “Today will be better than yesterday.” So I told myself, this time won't be as bad as last time. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the last time. That only came true once, obviously at the end of this 7 ½ months of hell, but I told myself that it might be the last time oh so many times.
I told myself, maybe this will be the last guy this time to rape me. An insidious thought, too. I'd get my hopes up only to have them dashed against the rocks over and over and over again. There were times where I wondered if it would ever stop. Then the 'session' would be over and I would be scared that while they were redressing, someone would make one last go of it.
After a while of this going on I gained a coping mechanism. A few minutes into the rape I'd drift off into my own safe little world. Far away from the humiliation and the pain and the fear and the laughter and, sometimes, the arousal. While rape is about power, not sex, that doesn't mean that there isn't arousal.
I suppose I should get on with the events that happened. I've talked enough about the how's and why's. Now it's time for the what's. I will preface this by saying that I will use descriptors, like “Swimmer” and “Ringleader” and not names. This is not to protect them or because I'd feel shame if I ever had to face them in court. This is because this is how I remembered them. Not by a name but by what they did. Because each had a different body type and style of raping unique to that descriptor.
I know, personally, of some people with fantasies that are like this soul damaging event in my life. These people are masochistic and so look for the greatest amount of pain and humiliation possible. I do not look down on these people. They have every right to their fantasies. As I do of becoming a famous writer. Perhaps a few years down the road I'll start a memoir and I'll achieve my goal. I don't know if that is simply a pipe dream or if it is something that is a real possibility.
Anyway, to the event at hand. Let's call it what it is. To call it anything else is to deny it's vileness and seriousness, and it would only serve to undermine the gravity of the events. Long Term Serial Rape. I'm not speaking about being raped 4 times one right after the other by a group of frat guys, though that is a heinous a crime and tragedy, too. I'm speaking of being raped by one guy right after another more than once over a period of time. Long Term Serial Rape.
LTSR is a particularly ugly beast. It doesn't just rob you of your rights to your own body. It doesn't just make you feel unsafe. It doesn't just effect every romantic relationship you ever have after that. It doesn't just destroy your sense of order with the world. It doesn't just possibly give you an eating disorder, a body image disorder, or any other mental disorder.
LTSR crushes your hope repeatedly. It frightens and because you know, sometimes hours ahead of time, that it's going to happen. It's not a nebulous 'oh it could happen, I better lock the door.' You know it's coming. Like a train barreling down on you when your car is stalled on the tracks and you can't get the seat belt to unbuckle or the car to start. It's an all encompassing fear that lasts for hours making it seem like an eternity. You cry, you break out into a cold sweat, you vomit, you try to rationalize... you do everything you can to make things okay. Try doing this at the age of 14 for a period of 7 ½ months.
Oh, it wasn't an everyday thing. Sometimes they'd give me a couple of days to heal up and tighten back up. Something that seems like a small boon but is really just something that they do to increase their enjoyment. Rest assured that the day after the last day I had 'off' it would be particularly brutal. Undoing much of what the previous two or three days had done for my mind and my body. Muscle memory and all. I just had to relax. Stay relaxed and it would be fine, but it was never fine.
I can tell you that I knew it wasn't all going to be fine. I told myself it was. I deluded myself into believing that it would be alright. What else can you do but make yourself believe that things will get better? We tell ourselves that every day, “Today will be better than yesterday.” So I told myself, this time won't be as bad as last time. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the last time. That only came true once, obviously at the end of this 7 ½ months of hell, but I told myself that it might be the last time oh so many times.
I told myself, maybe this will be the last guy this time to rape me. An insidious thought, too. I'd get my hopes up only to have them dashed against the rocks over and over and over again. There were times where I wondered if it would ever stop. Then the 'session' would be over and I would be scared that while they were redressing, someone would make one last go of it.
After a while of this going on I gained a coping mechanism. A few minutes into the rape I'd drift off into my own safe little world. Far away from the humiliation and the pain and the fear and the laughter and, sometimes, the arousal. While rape is about power, not sex, that doesn't mean that there isn't arousal.
I suppose I should get on with the events that happened. I've talked enough about the how's and why's. Now it's time for the what's. I will preface this by saying that I will use descriptors, like “Swimmer” and “Ringleader” and not names. This is not to protect them or because I'd feel shame if I ever had to face them in court. This is because this is how I remembered them. Not by a name but by what they did. Because each had a different body type and style of raping unique to that descriptor.