Two Years Ago Today
Two years ago today a bad thing happened to me. I've been waiting to write about it because I was scared and I wasn't ready. I'm still scared about outing myself and the others involved, but then I remember what it meant to me to read other people's stories when I felt alone. And I remember that I would rather not be silent.
This is long. Trigger warnings and whatnot.
I'd been struggling with pain during intercourse for several years. My doctor had me try a bunch of things. Nothing worked. The pain fed into anxiety and the anxiety hypersensitized my nerves. For four years, keeping the pain in check was my overriding focus during intercourse. It made me aversive to sex, then to all forms of physical affection. This began a vicious cycle where my husband felt unloved, I felt guilty and ashamed and withdrew, which made my husband feel unloved, rinse and repeat.
I was debilitatingly depressed from July to September, when my husband started telling me how unhappy I was making him every single day. He berated me in our therapy sessions for not enjoying sex and not loving him. I slept a lot. The only person I could get it together for was my two-year-old son. I gave my husband my blessing to date his best friend, but they became sexually active in August (over my misgivings) and he continued to tell me how disappointingly inadequate I was as a partner. I was hoping things would get better if he had his freedom, if he knew that I loved him enough to just want him to be happy, even at a cost, but they didn't. He was done with me.
He told me to go to my housemate, since I was free now. My housemate and his wife had an open relationship already, and he was into BDSM. BDSM offered some hope to me. After all, I could not escape pain during sex. The possibility of this being erotic rather than a devastating show-stopper held some promise. But my husband found this possibility disgusting and twisted (and perhaps me as well, by extension). My housemate was also in an unhappy marriage, and gladly took up a willing participant too miserable and numb for much critical thinking.
Well, I was right about some things. Giving up any control over the pain calmed me down. And if my will was erased, I could be a pleasing partner at long, long last. And that was pretty enticing. I had just about given up on being a pleasing partner to anyone, and the practice of self-erasure was pretty damn effective, apparently.
I let the apathy of depression have me, marveling idly at my extensive bruises and just how fucked up I was. I did what my housemate said. I forgot about anything I might want. I walked passively along as my husband planned our separation and my housemate planned the rest of me. By their mutual request, I didn't talk to anyone about what was happening to me.
My housemate beat me pretty bad a couple of times, and it didn't make me feel better. It made me better at dissociation. I was on vicodin for a week after the worst of them. I stopped thinking it would make me feel better. Then it was just... some other pain to feel.
Then my housemate mentioned that he was divorcing his wife and planning to marry me. It was the beginning of October. After a couple of days, this slowly sank through my stupor. I didn't want to marry... anyone. Maybe ever. I grabbed at this conviction like a knife.
On October fifth, I screwed up my courage, swallowed a pretty good panic attack, and told him that I wouldn't marry him. Maybe ever. And that maybe he didn't want to be with me because of this. He thought about it and said he did want to be with me. He gave me a light spanking and, since it was about four in the morning by this time, I fell asleep in the bathroom. I don't remember how I got back to bed. I hadn't slept much in the last three days and had been very sick with a bad cough.
At six thirty the next morning, I was vaguely aware that I was being moved around. When I opened my eyes, my housemate was on top of me. He had taken off my pjs and my underwear and pushed my legs apart. I turned my face away as he began to rape me. I just wanted to go back to sleep, to be away away away. I just wanted it to be over. He ordered me to look at him. He ordered me to say if I couldn't stand the pain. But the pain wasn't too awful, so I said nothing. He asked me if I hated him. My face crumpled and I said no. What right did I have to hate him for raping me? I was a useless and unlovable failure. When he was finished, I started to cry and begged for him to let me sleep. He left.
Later that day he apologized and said it would never happen again, but it did. Six weeks later he again molested me in my sleep. When he told me about it, I started feeling not so good and said I wanted to be alone. He refused, followed me through the house, ignored me when I shut my door on him, ignored me when I screamed at him to go away. When he finally exited my room, he said over his shoulder that he would kill himself. I had to run away from the house in the middle of the night to get away from him. I called the Rape Crisis Center and told him we were done. My husband was really disappointed. My housemate was supposed to take me off his hands. That was his get-out-of-guilt free card. I told my husband what happened so he would stop telling me to go back to my housemate.
I was frightened for a long time. I had panic attacks whenever anyone turned my doorknob without knocking. I slept with a knife until about a month after my housemate left the house. I had nightmares for a long time. Every now and again, they come back. I still can't sleep unless fully clothed because I'm scared about my boyfriend touching me in my sleep.
My housemate moved out because I refused his request to never have male friends at the house. He had threatened to leave the house if I had male visitors (my two best friends were guys). I complied because I was terrified that losing the house would mean I'd lose my son to my husband in the divorce. I'd take any humiliation not to lose my son. I spent six weeks effectively imprisoned in my home after a foot surgery, unable to walk, drive, or have anyone over. I caught my housemate listening at my door a couple times while I talked to people on Skype.
In March, we put the house on the market anyway, so it didn't matter if I complied any more. As soon as I told him I wanted to see my friends, he moved out. My son cried when he left and asked if everyone would leave him all alone. Because by that time, my husband had moved out too.
It was an awful year.
I love my son. For his sake, I've gotten better as fast as I could. For his sake, I pushed away any self-destructive impulses. For his sake, I am rebuilding a family. For his sake, I find my voice. My son deserves a brave, healthy mother who knows where to put her anger and her energy. I am still vulnerable. Sometimes I still freak when someone touches me in my sleep. Sometimes I still have those horrible nightmares. But I am not silent any more.
For my son's sake, I talk to him about how other people's bodies belong to them, and he doesn't get to say what happens to them. He has to ask permission before climbing over people. He doesn't have to hug or kiss anyone he doesn't want to. This shit ends here. It ends with me. And him. And anyone who crosses my path.