Tuesday, July 17, 2012


I started this blog with the intention of having somewhere to verbally vomit all the crap in my head. Somewhere to throw it out and maybe, just maybe, it would get lost on it's journey back into my memory. Well ... in a way - it has.

I love getting up in the morning and spending a few minutes with myself and my thoughts and just being honest...and it's even nice to not have to hear any words of wisdom from anyone else. Just get it out there and poof - it's gone from my immediate memory!

I no longer feel the need to keep hashing through all of the garbage of my past. It's there and always will be - but I've dealt with it. I no longer feel handcuffed and suffocated by its presence. For that, I am thankful.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Mirrors Lie

Lately I feel so detached - like I am walking through the motions of my life but missing the feelings and emotions that go with it. Like I am watching myself in a mirror - feeling nothing - like maybe I am the reflection on the other side. I don't know if it is stress or just disappointment ... disappointment in people who should never disappoint you - family, friends, even my "reflection".

One lesson I have learned over and over again in life is that people disappoint you. It doesn't matter how or when, but they do. The importance of being perfect in every aspect of your life is crucial. One wrong step - poof! - they vanish! Not another word from them - no talking it through - nothing... you were disposable.

Sometimes you can't see it coming -- I just don't see how an innocent thing can be so devastating ... things are not always what they appear. Guess that's the trick with mirrors. They LIE. 

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

The Lucky One?

Am I lucky? Wait .. let me back up.

Most people who are raped don't have to see their rapist - ever again. They survive that one night of hell and he disappears into the night leaving the victim with a "larger than life" memory of himself.

For a long time I thought of him that way. I was terrified of him and the thought of him. Until recently, I had not seen him in 10 years.

At the moment I least expected it - as I thought he was far from my reality - he made his appearance and shook my world to the core. He needed to know he still had power over me - and he did. I crumbled under his gaze and his fingertips. The same familiar evil smile crossed his lips and he knew that he still owned me ... as much as he could.

Then something strange happened. The more he came around to intimidate me - the less he did. I began to realize that he is not the larger than life monster that I remember. He is a normal person - someone I can stand up to and someone I can beat. After his many appearances, he became a nobody to me ... a pest ... someone I was ready to dismiss away.

Time has passed and he has not made an appearance in my life recently. I don't know if he is bored - or I challenged him and won - or if he is just waiting ... but whatever it is - I don't care. I am the lucky one who got to face my rapist - no police - no court - no hospitals - just he and I - and walked away victorious.  He is an asshole - and that is all.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Changing Perspective

Things seems to influence my frame of mine constantly these days. Anything as simple as a new saying from a friend to a new sultry book ... it's ever changing.

What happened to me what disgusting - there is no "but" to this statement. With that being said ... I often find myself questioning my actions and reactions.

I am reading the book "Fifty Shades of Grey" and am completely hypnotized by both Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele. Her naive innocence reminds me of mine at that age - untouched and "vanilla". Christian Grey - the dominant, seductive, control freak that he is, fits the asshole to a T. The charming sweet side of him, completely captivating Miss Steele - her hunger for him and her desire to be what he wants her to be seems to be outlining the shadow that was once me. The darker side of Grey that emerges when placed inside his "Red room of pain/pleasure" stirs the uncertainty inside me and I watch the asshole emerge --- even so far as to accept 6 beatings with a belt ... all too familiar in my world of the asshole. Her explosion - her raw emotions - her lust for the sweet side of the man she and so many others have pined after.
What if I was this naive? She willingly took the beating just to please the sweet man she loved. Is that what I did? I have always thought I was completely innocent in all of the events that transpired that night - I didn't want it - but I didn't run either.

I willingly fell into the arms of the sweet man - and therefore accepted the asshole as part of the package. Is my view on this skewed? I am left with so many MORE unanswered questions and not enough energy to process and sift through the ashes to find an answer.

The entire view has changed - what if I was at fault? What if I allowed it? What if I, too, forgot the "safeword" and could have ended it at any moment ...

Tuesday, May 29, 2012


There are moments that I look back on and have no idea how I made it through. Thinking about it baffles me - even nauseates me. There is no explanation as to how or why I survived and so many others don't.

I am a normal person on the outside. I smile a lot and laugh a lot. I have a beautiful child and loving husband and a great dog! My life is picture perfect on the outside. You would never know the secrets that lay beneath the surface.

I think we are all like this in one way or another. We all have secrets and things in our past we wish would just disappear. I tried for a long time to push all of my secrets into a box and lock them tight forever. Sad thing is, once the box gets too full, the nasty, icky, slimy memories start to ooze out and you are no longer able to contain them. They stain everything and everyone around you. Some things are ruined - some stains wash out... reguardless of which - you are different ... flawed ... exposed.

Friday, May 11, 2012

What was I thinking?

None of this makes sense - at least to me.
There was a period of time where, during the dealing and acceptance of the rape, that I grieved for my rapist. Stupid right?

My rape (holy cow - it has taken me a LOOONNNGGGG time to say that) was very complex. There was nothing simple about it. I don't mean to belittle anyone else who has ever been raped or abused saying theirs was not as bad as mine - because no matter how bad it was - whether it was simple or not - to that person - it's lifechangingly bad.

My rapist was a sadist as well. He found arousal in the punishment and release in the sex itself. Mind games were huge with him - and I unknowingly fell right into my role as I was supposed to in his stupid plan.

Since he was so calculated in his actions - he had two sides. There was a sweet, attractive, funny man - who at times I desired to kiss. He was a protector. He saved me from the other man ... the asshole. The asshole was just that - an asshole. He was cruel and calculating and lived for the snap of his belt. Sex with him was not enjoyable - it was torture.

During the rape, there were many times where I longed for the sweet man to emerge and save me - and several times - he did. I fell in love with him. Stockholm syndrome - or so I've been told. Even years after, while replaying all of the horriffic clips in my head, I missed the sweet man. I felt as though my heart had been broken. To this day, I don't completely understand this.

Through therapy and long talks with a friend, I have managed to accept the reality. The sweet man was an illusion. He never existed. He was an act - and I bought a front row seat to the show.

I often feel foolish when I think back on my feelings through this point. I think of myself as a smart person - someone who is not easily fooled and a pretty good reader of people. Boy - I really read him wrong!

I'm not the stupid, scared, naive little girl anymore. I am a mother and a wife and a friend ... but down deep inside, that scared little girl still resides.

I am proud of the progress I have made and continue to make. It is all a part of my story - one that someday may be told to the world. It has made me who I am today - flaws and all.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

My wish

I wish that life was easy. I wish the world made sense. I wish that our friends were really our friends forever. I wish that hearts didn't break, feelings didn't get hurt, and people were good.

Little girls should not sleep in fear - ever. Innocence should not be lost stolen. Tears should not be the constant comforter for anyone - child or adult.

Parents should not lose their children. Questions should not remained unanswered. Violence should not be forgotten.

I wish the world was easy. I wish the world made sense. I wish our friends were really our friends forever...

Saturday, May 5, 2012


There are times that I wish things were "easy" - less complex... Dealing with trauma is difficult, but when you add a whole other layer of difficulty and complexity to the mix, it seems to become almost impossible. One step forward, two  twenty steps back! I make progress (in my mind) and the next time I turn around, I am even further behind than when I had started.

A friend once told me that it is like the layers of an onion - layer by layer you peel away the emotions and memories until finally in the end - you dont have a huge, solid onion - you have paper thin layers. You will shed tears along the way - but in the end - it's over and done. I'm not sure which layer of the onion I am on at this point. I think my onion is regrowing new layers!!!!

My rape (HOLY CRAP - I can't believe I just called it that - blech ...) was complex...at least to me. Even now, trying to process it is difficult. I don't see it like others do. I see it as a movie - complete with graphic and horrifying images and scenes. Even when I read what I have written about that night - I still can't get through it in one sitting without the movie becoming too intense in my head. Will it always be like that?

Yesterday in therapy I mentioned that I wish I had experienced a normal rape. A quick "in and out" - wham bam thank you ma'am - and the end. I don't know how to process all that "my" rape was. There are so many levels to its intensity that I almost can't process it. I get so mad that it happened at all - then I immediately feel stupid. Stupid that I allowed it and stupid that I (at times) participated. I am SOOOOOO not looking forward to sorting though the layers, but I know I need to.  It's time.  I trust my therapist - I just wish I had a hand to hold through it. ......

Thursday, May 3, 2012


I've been doing a lot of cleaning lately - "spring cleaning" if you will! I have successfully gutted and purged every ounce of crap from the basement (oh yes I have a basement in Florida), the master bedroom and closet, my craft (aka "crap") room, the guest room and my sons room! I have very little left to do upstairs and still have to tackle the downstairs ... sigh ... but while cleaning today, somehow I managed to knock over a vase and watch it hit the ground and break into a few pieces.  No big deal - more of a pain than anything - just clean it up and pitch it. But I started really looking at the pieces and realized that some were missing. When I tried to piece it together, there were gaps - like those shards just disintegrated due to the trauma.

This made me think - how much of who we are/were does just this? Completely disintegrates when we are dropped and broken? How many times can we be broken and glued back together without there being some form of inconsistency in our appearance?

Does being continuously broken make us more fragile that the average bear? Once you have glued your broken vase back together, I would think you would make sure to take extra special care of it as it is in greater danger of shattering again ... Are we like that? Once broken, should we be handled with kid gloves and placed on the top shelf out of harms way? What happens when we once again hit the floor and shatter? Are our insides just as fragile as our outsides? For me, my heart seems to be broken easily - something as simple as not hearing from a friend in a month or two can cause me to go into a tailspin. Why? Am I too broken???

There are so many ways for us to be "broken". I wonder if people like me - people who have been to hell and back on a few occassions - are too broken to resemble what we were made to be in the first place. You can only glue a vase back together so many times before it stops serving its purpose (to hold water). What if someone can only go through so many traumatic journeys before they can no longer fulfill their purpose? Do they just find a new purpose? Maybe ... even a broken vase can serve a new purpose - a beautiful mosaic.

Is it time?

How do you know when you are ready to talk about everything? All the details ... I've written them out - but never spoken of them - even in therapy I tiptoe around it. I don't like to talk about it - partly because I truly am afraid that someone (in this case my therapist) will be disappointed in me - or will think differently of me. Stupid, I know - but it's still there. (Maybe that's a whole new therapy session!)

I've been told you know it's time when "it" keeps poking its ugly head out over and over to the point where you can't ignore it. What if it is ALWAYS there? It never goes away - HE rarely ever goes away. I can push him/it into the closet and when it starts to play in my head, I can usually change the channel and find a new movie to play in my head, but somehow, the horror film always returns.

So if it is time to talk about it, where do you start? Is it cheating if I have my therapist take the reins and lead me though this?! Even thinking about going through all of the details - I feel like a child just needed someone to hold my hand though it ... it is like walking though hell alone (see above pic - I am TERRIFIED of clowns)...

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Its Never Going to Make Sense ...

"Its never going to make sense because it doesn't make sense". I heard this the other day and it has stuck with me, popping into my thought stream every time I start to question "why".

I have so many questions - and all of them start with why ... Of course there are the usual "Why Me?" and "Why did he do it at all?' ... but there are others ... "Why wasn't I strong enough?" - "Why was I so stupid?" - and of course "WHY?".

I have never had any intention of telling my husband about the abuse I have suffered in my life. He knows that I was raped - that is all he knows. Somehow, the other night, he needed more. He asked questions and learned of my childhood abuse as well as the rape. His question - "Why didn't you tell your mom..."  I'm so tired of the Why's  -  mostly because I keep trying to make sense of it all. I am the type of person that wants  needs to understand why someone does what they do.

So here's to my short term goal - "Stop asking why" because it's never going to make sense because it doesn't make sense.

Saturday, April 28, 2012


Sexual abuse as a child and rape as an adult (if 21 is truly considered and adult) are both life changing things. As a child - it happened regularly. There was a routine that was followed - structure was present - and an understanding of "dont tell" was always in the air. Obedience was expected and demanded - disobedience was punished.

Rape, for me, was completely the opposite. There was nothing routine about it. There was no structure - for me it was complete chaos. He ordered - I fought - lost - eventually obeyed. I guess the last part was exactly the same. Obedience was expected and demanded - and disobedience was punished. As far as the "don't tell" part goes - yeah, that too was there. Although I often wonder WHY I didn't tell. Was it because he was the police? Was it because bad things happen when you tell? Was it because I was too afraid? Or too conditioned? It wouldn't have changed anything ...

Friday, April 27, 2012

Long Lost Friend

Cutting has always been my release - my coping mechanism - my "friend."  I don't remember how it started but I do remember how good it felt to release all of the pent up feelings of confusion and hurt and pain and numbness... the euphoric feeling immediately afterward was worth the scar it would leave.

I was around 14 or 15 when I started. I don't know how I heard of it, but the first time I ever hurt myself, I took a pair of cuticle cutters and snipped my skin all the way around my wrist. I had my own bloody bracelet. I felt better - relieved - and had something to show for it.

As time went on, I changed instruments from cuticle cutters to razor blades. If I couldn't find a razor blade, I would use anything else that was sharp. I even ventured into burning myself with an iron  few times - that, however, is much more difficult to explain. You can only "land" on an iron so many times before people get suspicious.

When my cutting got really bad, a friend of mine stepped in and "required" me to get help. I trusted one person and she "helped' --- ie held the can while I went through some major mental vomiting! (cue the purple crayon!) ...
            For some reason, anytime I've had to talk abot what has happened to me or what I was going through, I have always done it as if it were from someone else's perspective. I don't know that I have ever "owned" it and claimed it or accepted it as mine. Even the movies that play in my head are from someone else's viewpoint. hmmmm....

I have cut once in the past several years - I have a deep scar to show for it. It scared me a little - It wasn't a "surface scratch" (not that the others are but in comparison they are!) ... it was deep, clear into the fat layer of the skin cut.

Lately I have felt this urgency to cut return. It seems to surface when my life gets shaken up. My friendships change (although nothing has happened, I just feel abandoned), my job has changed, I've lost my father and a child unexpectedly - and things start to all around suck .... Cutting will make me feel better - hmmm... only temporarily. I have to keep telling myself that it isn't worth it.

I miss my dad - I miss my baby that I will never get to know - and I miss my mirror ... Guess it's just one of "those" days.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Six Hours

I have always had a hard time talking about things - and still do. Who would want to listen to someone go on and on about the trials they have been through in their life? We have all been through garbage, and if you are reading this, you have come out the other side. Whether it’s bruised and scarred or completely unscathed, it’s a remarkable feeling when you step back and realize that you did it. You went into hell and came out the other side… but at what cost?

That has always been my question to myself. Six hours isn’t a very long time in the scheme of things. Most people sleep more than 6 hours in a night. We usually work more than six hours on any given day. So six hours isn’t much … but when you are face to face with a demon, six hours is an eternity.

So why is six hours taking me 11 years to get through and still going? It took me a long time piece together the events of that night. It took me even longer to put those events into words. Immediately following that night - I told 2 people what happened - just that I had been raped ... I thought. One told me to sweep it under the rug and get past it - the other told me that it was a serious accusation and many girls who choose to have sex for the first time end up regretting it and call it rape. I'm pretty sure that I was raped - battered and bruised - ... yep.

Did I want it?
Maybe being hurt and violated as a child made the entire thing seem less of an issue than it really was. I NEVER contemplated calling the police - he was the police. I obeyed and did as he instructed - still to this day not completely understanding why or how I could just do it.  I still get disgusted that I willingly participated in pieces of that night - whether it was truly willingly or not. He told me over and over that night how much I wanted it ... I participated in parts - deep down, did I enjoy it????  That part goes back to that "forgiveness" piece - I still wish I had fought harder or been smarter. Really - how does this happen to someone twice? Losing your virginity unwillingly as a child - and again as an adult - no sexual partners in between.  It makes me tired to think about this ... I feel my brain shut down. I'm sure I need to talk about this more openly and deeply in therapy - it's easy to talk about it from someone else's perspective and not own the feelings and memories. It was a movie I saw - a bad, terrible movie that leaves that awful feeling under your skin when you walk out of the theater - but that feeling goes away with time. This will too - Its only been 11 years ...


I've been hearing and thinking a lot about forgiveness lately. Whether people who have experienced rape or abuse are capable of forgiving their abuser is even possible? How do you forgive someone who knew better? Someone who was calculated and planned out every detail - even someone who went as far as to "practice" on others.

I was not the first person the asshole raped - far from it. I am sure there were many more after me - and there are days I feel guilty for those - but I did what was best for me after the attack. For that, I do (on most days) forgive myself for not reporting him.

Knowing I was not the first or last person the asshole raped - how do I even begin to forgive him? He knew what he was doing - calculated every detail - and ripped me apart. He left satisfied and I was left bleeding, sore, scared and numb ... among many other things. How do I forgive that? 

How do I forgive the things he did and said? I was humiliated and broken. He was powerful and demanding and cruel. I don't forgive him ... not now, not ever.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

To delete or not to delete ...

Ever since posting the details of that night, I am often feeling the urge to sign back in to my blog, edit and/or delete that post, and carry on. I am proud of myself for NOT doing so. I promised myself that when I started this, I would be completely open and brutally honest with myself. My own personal online journal where I can just be the "me" that is in my head instead of the pretend "me" wearing the many masks that I have in my closet.

11 years later - I still struggle with reading those details. I still can't make it though the entire thing in one sitting. I have let 3 people read these details in my entire life ... one of which is my therapist ... and one my mirror. I cannot help the shame that I carry around - although my brain understands that it was not my fault; that I could not have prevented it; that he knew what the night would hold even before he rang my doorbell. How could I have been so naive? So stupid? So trusting???

 That seems to be my biggest fault in life - I am too trusting - which is odd considering my past.  Even with friendships, I pour myself into them, jumping head first when I truly trust someone - and the moment they hesitate - I bolt. I don't know why so many aspects of my life are affected by this. I don't want to be hurt - so if I think you are going to hurt me, I beat you to the punch. Even now with my mirror, I feel abandoned ... My heart knows she is probably just busy - but my head is saying - Slam the door and run...

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Happy Anniversary, Asshole

It's been almost 11 years ... I am stronger than I was but far from where I want to be.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

The path you choose

Everyone reacts to trauma in different ways. Some like me - I strived even harder for perfection. It was my job to make everything look even prettier on the outside than it really was. I had a perfect home life, made perfect grades, was the perfect daughter ... that was my fiscade.

My sisters, however, was quite different. She became withdrawn and joined "the vampires of the night" - sneaking out of the house and being as eccentric as she could (black fingernails, black hair, white make up, etc). She flunked out of school and was ALWAYS in trouble.

I don't know why I went down one path and she went down a compeltely different one ... we were having the same experiences - or so I think.

Eventually she ran away from home at 15, got drunk, shaved her head and was taken to a youth shelter. That youth shelter changed my life - as strange as that sounds. It was at that shelter that I met my mirror - although little did I know how our lives would be so entwined.

I went there to meet with my sisters counselor. To drop off school books and tie up loose ends. I clearly remember the way her office looked and felt. The way she looked - She was nice - but she challenged me too. "Why are you the one coming out here instead of your mother"...ohhhh - she hit a soft spot. Protect the family - at all costs.

I was the adult at this point ... I came to the family counseling sessions - I brought things to my sister as she needed them - I got a tour of the facility. At some point, I got comfortable - I told her my secret.

The next image I have is sitting on her living room floor, drawing a picture of that night with a purple crayon.

She didn't judge - and little did I know she would turn out to be my nearest and dearest friend - the one who would get me though another night of hell - my mirror.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Lessons learned

I still have frequent flash backs to my childhood and the many nights that I endured him. Laying in bed, the air is cool, my sheets are clean and have that "fresh out of the dryer" smell. I snuggle down into the bed and close my eyes ... and boom - there I am. 13 years old - in my old house - in my old room - in my old bed. I remember everything about that room. I had a beautiful teal and maroon and white quilt/bed set - I had painted a wall in my bedroom a deep teal and the others beige. I had a huge poster of Reba on my wall - She would watch but never stopped it ... I would imagine crawling up into her lap and being rocked through it all. That was much better than what I was going through.

My dresser was on the wall next to my bed and my mirror reflected everything that occurred in my room - after the house went to sleep. That's how I see pieces of it - as if i am watching it in the mirror.

Looking back - the beginning wasn't so bad. It started with him coming in just to look; to touch.
It was always at night - I was never allowed to lock my door or completely shut it. He did that when he entered.

I never said anything to anyone - I've grown up protecting the secrets of the family. What happens in the family - stays in the family. You protect it at all costs - all costs.

My sister broke that rule - She spoke out - DCF came to investigate at the house - he laughed his way out of it - and they left us to pick up the pieces that would quickly shatter. "It can always get worse ..."  I learned what "worse" was that night.  ...  and I would never again talk about it with anyone - until I met my mirror... but that's a whole different story.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Less than perfect days

There are days where everything is fine - the world rotates on its axis and makes perfect sense. Fear is not hiding in every dark corner or staircase and every man does not have "that" look in his eye. Today was one of those perfect days. My spirit feels free and alive and often unaware that danger may be lurking close by.

There are, however, many days where "he" haunts me. "He" watches me and knows the moves I make even before I make them. How does he do this? How does he still have so much power over me after all this time? It's been 10 years - not all of them terrible. For a while I chose not to acknowledge what had happened. It happened - ok - I am ok - move on. And that's what I did ... until I slammed face first into a brick wall and had no option but to sift through all the shit in the box that I thought was locked away forever.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012


Originally the idea behind this was for me to have a place to release all of my thoughts out into the  great unknown - not knowing where they might land was and is part of the excitement...but as time moves on, I am realizing my life is not all about what happened to me ... About rape and molestation (yuck I said it). I am complex! I am creative! I am so much more than a victim - and I hate to say it - but yep - I'm a survivor (cue Beyonce!).

Oh I haven't always felt this way and I can admit that there are many days where I don't feel that I deserve a strong title like "survivor". Sometimes I feel like I should wear the title of "chicken shit" and hide under my covers until the boogeyman disappears.

(This is so true for me!)

 I'm learning each new day is just that - a new day. If you screw it up, there's always tomorrow ... as long as you give yourself the chance to fix it tomorrow. It has been difficult for me to accept believe accept that this statement is true. I almost didn't give myself the chance of tomorrow. I know how hard it can be to wake up - to not live in constant fear - to not freeze or run away in fear everytime the asshole makes another appearance in my life ... I'm learning ....

Wednesday, March 21, 2012


trig·ger (trgr)
a. The lever pressed by the finger to discharge a firearm.
b. A similar device used to release or activate a mechanism.
2. An event that precipitates other events.
Anyone who has ever sufferend any type of trauma in their life knows the tangible definition of this word. It isn't that thing on a gun that causes it to release a bullet at the speed of sound or the mechanism that activates a bomb to explode and level everything in its path ... although it kind of is.
This word, trigger, has a two sided meaning to us. It is a mechanism that activates a bomb (usually one we never saw coming) to explode and level everything in our path, killing a piece of us - or at least temporarily wounding us.
Pinpointing our triggers can be incredibly difficult, for they usually appear without warning. Anything from a smell to a movie to an article of clothing and even an album cover can cause the trigger to fire. Identifying your triggers is the first step - or at least recognizing them.

I know that certain triggers for me are a belt, the movie "My Best Friend's Wedding" and even someone walking around with a pocket full of change. I am immediately transported back to that time and place where life was awful and I was empty. When I would cringe as the sound of jingling change came closer and closer from the hallway, into the bedroom, and eventually next to me - opening the door of his hellish pleasures and slamming closed the door of my innocence.

No matter what your triggers are or how steemingly harmless they appear to the outside world, they can be devastating ... it's taking the time to work though them and accept them for what they are - meaningless, harmless things that we can overcome.

Does this mean I have done this? HA! I still cringe at the sight of that belt - and when I see someone wearing it all I can picture is the asshole's face as he swings it though the air quickly followed by that unforgettable feeling on my backside, legs, and lower back. Even now...

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Split personality

I don’t understand how I got to this place. I have feelings of extreme sadness that are accompanied by a broken heart. That doesn’t make any sense to me. How can my heart be broken by him? But to me, that answer is easy. I am crushed because I am accepting and realizing the fact that the man I fell in love with; the man I was sure would save me, is the same man who wanted to destroy me.

The sweet guy was just that – sweet. He was caring and loving toward me. His touch was gentle and his smile was kind. I felt safe in his arms … even loved. The first time the asshole disappeared and the sweet man came forward, I felt relieved. He saved me from that asshole and the pain that he brought. As we sat on the couch, his kiss was light, even intriguing. It lured me in and I was hooked. I was intoxicated there in his embrace, feeling his mouth all over my body, getting drunk on the pleasure he was bringing me. We made love on the couch and it was incredible. His kisses were powerful yet gentle, deep yet passionate.  There’s no way this man is the same man who hurt me. No way the sweet man is anything like the asshole.

The sweet man comforted me in a way that only someone with a soul could. He cleaned me up time after time when the asshole was finished with me for the moment. He whispered calming words of encouragement into my ear as he held me and I cried. He kissed me and held me and I felt loved. That is, until the asshole made his appearance.

The asshole was different from the sweet man in every way. The asshole had evil in his eyes. His facial features changed.  His lips were persed together tightly, his shoulders and arms ridged and angry. He watched me with judgement and condemnation, just waiting for the moment to punish me. There was absolutely nothing loving or nurturing about the asshole. He was all business all the time … He had no soul to tell him otherwise.

The pain that the asshole brought was real and physical during that time, but the emotional pain that was left from the sweet man is what is hardest. The broken heart and feeling of emptiness and questions of a relationship ended are what haunt me now. The images of the beatings and rape are no longer terrifying. Yes of course they are not fun to “watch”, but I am no longer paralyzed by fear. I am instead left with questions as to why the sweet man left me. Where is he?

My newest task is trying to make the truth a reality in my mind. I have to retrain my brain to see the asshole and the sweet man as the same person instead of two separate people. That is much easier said than done. How do you replace someone so important in your mind? Part of me is afraid to do this – afraid that the sweet man will in fact be gone forever. How do you say goodbye to someone you love? It sucks. The other part of me is frustrated as hell. I know that the sweet man is an act. He is a character in a play that was used to merely control me and make me obedient. He wasn’t real. None of it was real. That too, feels like a blow to the stomach. Like dating someone and falling in love and then learning they are married themselves with a family of their own – you look and feel foolish, devastated, and angry at yourself for falling for such a cheap trick. Is my intuition really that broken?

Trying to retrain my brain is difficult, in that making it see that the two people were in face one and the same, I have to replay scene after scene. Not only do I have to replay it in my head, but I have to watch it, pause it, consciously make an effort to evaluate it, replace the sweet guy with the asshole, and then feel everything in that scene all over again. The shame, guilt and pain all return, twofold. Perhaps it would have been better to have dealt with all of this way back when, but I wasn’t ready. I’m not always sure I am ready now … but ready or not, I’m determined to win. RIP sweet man.

The hardest part of this recovery is trying to piece together all the pieces. Trying to replace the image of two separate men that night into the truth, that there was only ONE man is difficult. Let’s be real – it’s impossible.  The logical side of me understands what it means to have someone pretend to be something else. It was all an act. The sweet man never existed … it was merely a way for him to regain my control over and over again. He knew I would be obedient to the sweet man. I hate that he was able to deceive me that way. I hate that I fell for his trap. I hate all there is about him … the asshole … yet I love what I thought was there … the sweet man who was going to save me.

How do you get to a point in the middle of hell that your brain shuts off and you just act instinctively? Where is the line drawn when you can say that you aren’t responsible for your actions? That it was your body reacting to the pain or pleasure and you had no control? That line is invisible to me. I don’t understand how I am not completely to blame for the events that unfolded that evening. Why didn’t you fight? Run? Scream? Anything???? When the asshole left and the sweet man appeared for the first time, why didn’t I try to get away? Those questions haunt me every time I stop to process the events of that night, followed by the guilt, shame and repulsion I feel toward myself.
Realizing the sweet man was a con – nothing more than a character in the asshole’s play is crushing. The one thing I clung to that helped me through that night is/was nothing more than just another lie. Every time I started to get independent or brave, the sweet man appeared and sucked me back in. How do you not feel foolish for falling for the game? I was sucked in time and time again … to the point where I made love to the sweet man – freely and whole heartedly. What an idiot. I think a piece of comfort is found in the fact that this has a name – Stockholm Syndrome. The fact that it has a name means many people have made the same choice that I did… to survive by any means possible. What I didn’t expect are all of the residual feelings that dangle from my heart strings, making my heart ache.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Night of Hell

It's taken me a while to get to the point where I am willing to share anything about that night ... especially the gory details. It was hell - it really was - at least to me. I think I have always feared that by putting my story out there, details and all - someone might tell me that it really wasn't that bad. It was bad for me ...

**This is my story of that night - It is graphic - be advised**

Normal nights can turn into nights of hell in just seconds. One look or threatening response can envoke a night of pure terror.

It was a normal rainy night. The smell of lavender filled my house and the dim candle light provided the perfect atmosphere for my movie night. I was ready for a night of nothing. Just me and the movies I had rented. I hit play and snuggled in to the futon that I had laid out and filled with pillows and blankets. The ring of the doorbell brought a visit from an unexpected “friend”.  His explanation was simple – he needed to use the phone to call his parents as he locked himself out of his car and his house. It made sense to me. He came into the house and used the phone while I got him a towel. As he talked on the phone, I admired how handsome he looked. Close shaven and clean cut. He had on nice jeans and a button down shirt with a sharp tie. He smelled of cologne that was almost intoxicating. With his phone call complete, he asked to stay for the half hour it would take his family to return. Of course I agreed. Looking back, the biggest flashback is of the front door – seeing the incredibly large sign left on it from my roommate explaining to me (and any passing car) that she was gone until Sunday in Georgia. It’s easy to blame her for the events that unfolded that night – although the blame would be wrongfully placed.

We made small talk discussing everything from work to the police academy to his girlfriend who lived down the street. He complained about the lack of sex in his relationship, and I am sure judging my lack of response, he knew I wasn’t experienced. He prodded a little more saying that she had been sexually abused as a child and that was her hesitation – and then asked me if I had been, stating that he realized so many girls are. I didn’t respond and I could tell that he sensed how uncomfortable I was. He quickly changed the subject and offered to go. As we reached for the door, he asked me for a kiss. His smile was genuine and sweet.  I really thought he was joking. I laughingly pushed him away saying no and that he had a girlfriend. Immediately the mood changed. The asshole made his first appearance of the night. He pushed my arm away from the door, locked the deadbolt, and demanded a kiss. I asked him if he would leave after one kiss and he assured me he would. I kissed him, and I remember thinking what an incredible kiss it was … until I stopped kissing and he didn’t.

He became more violent in his kissing – deeper and harder and faster. With a handful of my hair and his arm around me, he forced me backward onto the futon, already laid out with pillows and blankets for my evening retreat. I tried to pull away from his kiss, but I couldn’t. A quickly passing thought that I had when he entered the house was that he looked so handsome and I had wanted to kiss him – and now I was – and all I wanted was for him to stop.

Once he had me on the futon he quickly managed to get my wrists pinned to the cold metal frame. I was yelling and fighting and kicking and doing everything I could to get my arms free. He let one hand go and I thought I was winning. I didn’t realize he was undoing his belt. He used his roughly braided brown belt to tie my arms to the futon. I fought, somehow believing that if I could keep my arms free, he would just let me go. He would give up. As he secured one wrist tightly to the frame, I managed to hit him in the side of the head. Time stopped instantly. I think I was waiting for the GAME OVER to flash across the screen. I won. I hit him and he was dead. As he grabbed my arm and slammed it down and secured it, I realized that the game was far from over. I had not won anything … in fact, I had lost.

He sat on my stomach as he tied my wrists to ensure I wouldn’t go anywhere. Once secured, he sat smiling at me, like a hunter admiring his kill. He was so proud. He started asking me if I was ready. He told me how much fun we were going to have. I kept squirming and wiggling to break free, but it wasn’t happening. I was stuck. He asked me if I wanted to fuck him. I said no and continued to yell and kick. He asked again and amidst my yelling, he slapped me in the face. I was stunned. My face stung and then started burning. My eyes met his and I knew I would have to fight like hell to stop this. I continued to fight and yell and he continued to slap me. You would think after multiple slaps across the face in the same spot you would start to go numb … you would be wrong. The first slap hurts just as much as the last one.

He continued to tell me that I was making this so much harder on myself than it really needed to be. He tried kissing me – my mouth, my face where he had slapped me, my neck … anything to turn me on. The tone in his voice changed. He was appealing, drawing me in. I almost wanted to kiss him.

He slid his hands in my shorts and I was immediately brought back to reality. The drunkenness that I had felt moments before, almost giving in to him had become instantly sober and again I was screaming and fighting to be free.  His hand quickly found my throat and started to squeeze and the air escaped my lungs. Now I was filled with panic. He was yelling at me telling me to behave. I was tired of being hit and my body ached from his weight on top of me. My arms ached and burned. I wanted to fight. I wanted to win … but instead I gave up. I allowed him what he had been asking for. I gave him his permission that he demanded. I repeated every vile thing he asked me to repeat. He rewarded me with a kiss and then climbed off of me.

He returned moments later, naked and holding his tie in his hands. The look that I would grow to recognize quite well was back in his eyes. He upturned corners of his mouth gave me the chills. He asked again for my permission – had me tell him that I wanted to fuck him. I wanted him to please me in every way possible. When he was satisfied with my answers, he kissed me – and quickly replaced his lips with a tie wrapped securely around my mouth. He gently leaned in, his lips on my ear so I could feel his smile, and reminded me that it isn’t rape if I don’t say no after I have said yes. He kissed the side of my cheek and sent chills down my body. I knew that sex was inevitable at this point and just wanted him to hurry and do it so he could leave and it could be over. I gave in.

He started removing my clothing, covering my body with his mouth where my clothes once were. He did this quickly, as if he couldn’t wait any longer to devour what he had been wanting so badly. He pulled off my shirt and left it draped over my arms. He never spoke as he removed things. The only noise was his mouth and the moans escaping it. He removed my shorts and quickly slid his fingers inside, smiling and commenting that I was enjoying this and calling me a whore. As he slid his fingers deeper inside, he started stroking himself, smiling as he looked up and down my body.  I turned my head away and tried to get lost in the movie, only to quickly be brought back to this reality by a pinch or slap on the thigh and the order to watch. He constantly asked me if it felt good or if I liked being his whore or his bitch or his whatever, and instinctively I would nod yes to him.

He went down on me moments before sliding into me, moaning the entire time telling me how good I felt to him. He made me watch as he slid himself deep into me. I felt my body tense up and his grip on my thighs tightened. He smiled and moaned as he slid in and out, quickly picking up speed. The faster he got, the rougher he got, causing me to squirm. This only made him smile. I kept squirming to get away, inching closer to the top of the frame of the futon. Somehow the only fear I had was becoming pregnant. “Please don’t finish inside me” … I remember that thought as if it were yesterday.

I felt relief when he pulled out and came all over my stomach and chest. I remember the feeling of being repulsed as his body shook and the moans escaped his lips. Being covered in his pleasure was disgusting and I just wanted it off. I turned my head to look away and instantly felt his strong hand pull my face back to admire his work.

After a moment he climbed off of me and retreated to the bathroom. I laid there, naked and covered in his disgusting fluid feeling relieved. It was over and now he would leave. He returned from the bathroom with a wet towel and cleaned himself off of me. He removed the tie from my mouth and kissed my lips telling me I was a good girl. I could play this part for a few more minutes. He was done and leaving … I could do this… or so I thought.

He never untied my wrists from the futon frame. Instead he helped himself to a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat on the couch, quietly watching the movie that was just less than half way through. I felt my heart sink with complete disappointment. He wasn’t leaving. I tried not to cry, but after a few moments the tears refused to stay inside. They poured from my eyes and nothing I could do would stop them. I was angry at myself for letting him see me cry.

After a few moments he realized I was crying. He emerged from the couch having devoured the entire bottle of water and approached me. His eyes were angry. How dare I cry? He slapped me across the face and quickly shoved himself into my mouth. He told me that if he felt teeth I would surely pay for it. He held my head as he picked up the pace, fucking my mouth fast and hard. I gagged several times and struggled to keep my breath. He came quickly, telling me to swallow every last drop. As it hit the back of my throat, I choked and started to vomit – he held his hand around my neck squeezing telling me that it was a bad idea to lose it. I forced myself to swallow it down.

At this point in the night I was feeling exhausted and beaten and bruised. I just wanted him to leave and was determined to do what he wanted to satisfy him just so he would leave. I didn’t contemplate running or fighting at this point. Just give it to him and he will go away. That was my mantra for the evening.

He smiled while he stood over me asking me if I enjoyed it. I told him I did. He asked me if I needed a break. I felt my heart sink. A break meant we weren’t finished. I said yes a break would be good. The next thing I felt was the belt being ripped off my arms and I was being hauled into the corner. I was completely confused by this but did as I was told. He started to yell and pinned my nose into the corner as he held a handful of hair. He called me names and told me I was to respect him. When I didn’t respond, he jerked my head back so that our eyes met. He told me to say “yes sir” whenever I was spoken to. I, of course, replied with “yes sir.”

He told me he was going to be sure that I remembered this very important lesson. That good girls didn’t need to be reminded of lessons because they behaved…but bad girls are to be punished. He taught me to stand with my feet a few feet off the wall, slightly bent forward at the waist and both hands pressed on the wall. I was to always look down at the floor. This was the position. I was never to break position, ever.

As I stood in position I had no idea what was about to happen. Within seconds I felt the sting of something across my backside and immediately broke the rules. I quickly turned around and grabbed my stinging rear end and started to rub. I saw the belt in his hand folded, ready for another swing. I saw his face, the anger that quickly appeared, and the underlying smile and joy that seemed to rest there as well. I broke position.

He yelled at me and turned me back around forcing me back into position. He told me I had earned an extra punishment that would be given later in the evening. He only hit me 5 more times with the belt. I was then ordered to sit on my butt, facing the corner and think about how I could make my misbehavior up to him.

I sat facing the corner, staring at the small crack in the paint that ran from one side of the corner into the other and back almost like a slithering snake. He returned asking me if I was sorry. His voice was sweet and sincere. He stood me up and asked me if I was sorry. I told him I was very sorry and kissed him. He returned my kiss and I was forgiven.

He walked me to the couch and got me a bottle of water. I was not allowed to dress at all, and was joined by him on the couch. We snuggled side by side, arm in arm, watching a movie that by this time was almost over. As it ended, he quietly got up, rewound the tape, and joined me back on the couch.

This is where I started to learn of the dual personalities that he had. The sweet man who was sincere. He kissed me and took care of me. He seemed to love me. I may have loved him back. But there was another side as well. The asshole.  I feared the asshole. He usually emerged during sex and had a definite way of doing things. He demanded things and expected things of me. I hated and feared the asshole.

Thankfully, snuggling on the couch, I found myself sitting with the sweet man. He told me how sorry he was that he had slapped me. He gently kissed me and started stroking my bruised face. He gently kissed my wrists and face that were burning still. As he kissed me, I found myself kissing him back. I liked the sweet man and quickly found myself willingly having sex with him on the couch.

Even the sex was sweet. It seemed very loving and passionate. My body responded all the right ways and our lips rarely parted from one another. As he finished and I didn’t, he quickly became the asshole. He was offended that I had not finished. He was screaming at me calling me a cunt and bitch and threw me into the corner. Here was corner time #2.

Corner time #2 had rules of its own. As he threw me into the corner and I assumed the position, I was made aware that I now had a job to do. I was to choose a number to select how many times I would be hit with the belt. I was informed that if my number was too low, he would double that number and I would receive that many lashes with the belt. I felt like I was going to vomit. I was also informed that I would have to not only accept my punishment, but that I would have to earn my way out of corner time as well. As that thought circled through my head, I tried to come up with a number I could handle. 5 hurt – a lot. I felt like 8 was doable.

He asked me how many strokes I wanted and I told him 8. He laughed and called me a coward. “16 it is”. I remember feeling like I was going to pass out when I heard that. I didn’t dare break position, as I still didn’t know what my extra punishment was at this time. I closed my eyes and prepared myself for 16 lashes of the belt on my already sore backside. I kept telling myself I could take one more … just one more … until I no longer felt the belt.

When the belt stopped swinging, I quickly felt his hand grab the back of my head and holding a handful of hair I was thrown to my knees. He shoved me to my hands and knees and quickly entered me from behind. He started fucking me like a dog, panting and moaning. As his pace quickened I struggled to keep myself up on my hands and knees. He grabbed my hips and started to rub his hands over the welts that the belt had created. I started to cry when he slapped my already welted ass as he fucked me. It was the first time during the night that I wished he would just kill me. It hurt so badly, I just needed it to end.

He came inside me and as he withdrew, he admired his creation on my ass. His fingers traced the welts and were sometimes replaced by the hard slap of his hand. He enjoyed hearing me whimper…he loved hearing me scream. He admired the outlines he created on his blank canvas. He was creating a piece of artwork like an artist, constantly adding to his piece. The blank white canvas that slowly starts to get raised welts and red striped lines, and eventually adding the outlines of red handprints. He smiled at the pinkness that he produced as he slapped over and over. It was his masterpiece.

He sat me down and I spent corner time thinking, of what I assumed was how I could earn my way out. He disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes and I was looking forward to the break I was sure was around the corner. I was, however, very wrong. His hand grabbed my hair and threw me to a standing position in the corner. I was ordered to get into position and warned again, that if I broke position, an extra punishment awaited me. I knew I had already earned one extra punishment which I still had no idea of what that entailed. As I stood in position, the belt started swinging again, and it took every ounce of focus I had not to break position.  He asked me if I had learned my lesson, and through uncontrollable tears, I said “yes sir”.  He told me to make it up to him and show him how sorry I truly was.  Although I didn’t know what that meant, he grabbed my hair and threw me to my knees and I quickly understood.

I cringed at the sight of it. He was already hard and I knew he would be rough. I sucked as he kept his hand on the back of my head. I tried everything I could think of to make him finish, but he didn’t. He eventually slapped me in the face calling me a stupid bitch. He threatened to call his friends to come play because I obviously had not learned anything. This thought terrified me. This was a man I trusted. If he could do all of this to me, what would someone I don’t know, a stranger, do to me? I begged him not to call his friends. I promised to make it up to him. Fighting back hysterical tears, I told him he could do anything to me … anything. Little did I know what he had in mind.

As I said this to him, he smiled. His demonic face lit up and he licked his lips. He ordered me to bring him the tie and the belt. I stood and quickly brought him both. He led me over to the futon. I willingly laid down and allowed him to restrain my wrists once again to the frame. He started to explain things to me, such as why he was tying my arms in an X. He explained that he was doing this to make it easier to flip me over. I assumed he wanted to flip me over to hit me…I had no idea what he had in mind.

He put the tie back around my face and in my mouth, securing it tightly. He grabbed the outside of my thigh and squeezed, yelling at me to scream. I did, partially due to the pain and partially due to my fear of being disobedient. He laughed that my scream was so quiet and muffled.

He climbed off me and came back carrying a small capsule of liquid. He put it on himself, stroking himself slowly as he did it. He flipped me over onto my stomach. He spanked my ass and shoved himself into it as he did it. He ordered me to scream, smacking it even harder. Screaming and crying came easily at this point. When my screams subsided, he pounded harder and deeper until they resumed.

He pulled me onto my elbows and knees and reentered me. My entire body hurt so badly. I just concentrated on not breaking this position as I was sure that would lead to a punishment of its own. He held my hips and fucked me until he came inside me. That was my first experience with anal sex ever and I truly believe he knew it.

He untied my wrists and removed the tie from my mouth and led me into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and we stood, waiting for the water to warm up together.  As we stood, he put his arms around me and kissed my neck. I was so relieved. The sweet guy had returned. He helped me into the shower and held me. He kissed me gently and apologized for being so hard on me. He told me I was making it way too hard on myself. Much harder than it had to be. He gently washed my body and I welcomed the sweet touch. I started to feel clean, feeling all of this nastiness wash away and go down the drain. I longed for him to hold me and protect me from the asshole. Somehow I had completely separated the two. I hated the asshole and loved the sweet guy. I trusted him.

Unfortunately it was the sweet guy who reminded me that I had an extra punishment coming from the first corner time.  He explained that if I would take it quietly and behave, I could have a break. I trusted the sweet guy and didn’t think he would let anything bad happen to me. Stupid, na├»ve little girl.

The sweet man got out of the shower and the asshole jerked me out. He bent me over the counter so that my face was inches away from the mirror. I gazed into the mirror, looking at the pitiful girl I saw there. Her face was starting to bruise. Her neck was red. Her lip was cut just a little bit. Her hair was soaking wet and needed to be brushed. Her eyes were sad and desperate. I wanted to hold that girl and comfort her, and yet I reached out to her for help for myself.  He warned me not to break position. He reminded me that this could get worse. He told me to count his swings out loud. I watched the mirror and saw the asshole swing the belt and begged the girl in the mirror to keep count for me. Watching his reflection, I only saw a smile on his face and watched him get hard. The girl in the mirror stopped counting at 5 and I watched her get fucked from behind while the asshole, again, admired his work on her ass. I felt him rub his hands over the new welts and searched the eyes of the girl in the mirror for strength.

It finally ended. I had earned a break. The sweet man returned and allowed me to get dressed. I found a nightgown hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I put it on and was able to brush my hair. He walked me out to the futon where I sat, very carefully, and pretended to watch the movie. I saw people sitting at a large table singing “say a little prayer for you” and watching people with giant lobster claws on their hands waving them around. I thought it was so stupid. I started cussing them out in my head, calling them names.  I was angry at them for being so stupid, but I would have given anything to be there instead of here.

I heard him pick up the phone and order a pizza. He never acknowledged me at this point and I tried to pretend he wasn’t there. The doorbell rang and he answered it. I never turned around. The pizza guy told us to have a great night. He replied telling him not to worry, that we would and our night had just begun. My heart sank at that point. I turned and looked at him. It was the asshole. I didn’t want him to see the fear in my eyes, although I am sure he did. He blew me a kiss and sat at the table to enjoy his food. I, again, tried to get lost in the movie. I knew that crying would be a bad idea at this point.

I watched a lot of the movie at this point. I had glanced at the clock trying to figure out how long he had been here. I assume it was somewhere around 3 to 3 ½ hours. It was now around 10:30 pm. I was pulled from my thoughts by the asshole grabbing my hair and throwing me into the corner. I didn’t move once I stood there. I obeyed his every command. I removed my nightgown without hesitation when he ordered me to do so. Naked again, I stood facing the corner listening to him tell me how disrespectful I was being.

Once again, I had to pick a number. I picked 10. I received 10. I was so relieved although I did not dare show any relief on my face. I have no memory of any emotion during this corner time. I don’t know what I was thinking or feeling. I only remember being there, watching it – which doesn’t really make sense. I know I was sat down to think about it again. I refused to let any tears fall, even when sitting was all but unbearable.

I was relieved when it was time to earn my way out. I could be on my knees and off of my backside. I started kissing every part of his body telling him I was his. Convincing him that I wanted all of this. He grabbed my neck and pushed me into the corner. He shoved himself into my mouth and fucked it, as my head hit the corner with every thrust. His hand never left my throat. He came on my face, telling me dirty sluts get what they deserve. I was happy I didn’t have to swallow again. He cleaned me up and told me to go to the couch. I liked going to the couch. Even though it had meant sex in the past, it was unrestrained and loving. It was the sweet man and not the asshole.

I know that once on the couch, sex was instigated again. It started off loving and caring as it usually did. He kissed me and comforted me. I started to relax and feel safe yet again. At some point during the sex, he became rough. Something flipped and somehow the asshole had taken over. He started pounding harder and was getting rougher. He started calling me a slut and a whore. He withdrew, grabbed me and bent me over the couch. He quickly entered my ass as he covered my mouth with his hand. I screamed, as I was already hurt from his previous entry earlier. He didn’t even prepare this time. No lube, just the wetness that he had produced moments before. His hand started smacking my ass as he fucked it hard and fast. The more I screamed the faster and harder he went and it. Eventually he withdrew and came on my back and butt. He took me to the bathroom and cleaned both of us up, telling me what a dirty bitch I was.

He leaned against the wall facing the mirror and pulled me into him. As he held me, he admired my striped ass in the mirror. I didn’t want to watch him in the mirror but I almost couldn’t take my eyes off of him. His eyes were glued to my ass as his finger traced the welts and red lines that he had created. He turned me around and bent me over the counter and started spanking me with his hand. I closed my eyes as I did not want to face the girl in the mirror. He hit me and I started to cry. After he was satisfied, he turned me around and started to admire his new handprints that were forming outlines on me. He was fixated on the mirror and our eyes never met in the mirror.

He turned me around again and fucked me as he watched himself in the mirror. I cried and struggled at this point. It was unbearable. I was raw but was too terrified to ask him to stop. He didn’t care and did it anyway. I don’t remember if he finished.

The asshole was still there and threw me into the corner yet again. I was lectured on how sluts and whores are punished repeatedly. I was asked if I was HIS whore. HIS dirty bitch. I always answered “yes sir”. Again I was forced to pick a number. My mind raced as I didn’t think I could handle even one. I picked seven, and I received 14. I broke position twice. I started crying and begged him to kill me at this point. He laughed and asked me how we could do this again if he killed me. Who would his friends play with if he killed me. My spirit was crushed and I wanted to give up. I didn’t want to play his game anymore.

He asked me if I was having fun. I lied and said “yes sir”. He told me to prove it. I thought I was going to have to seduce him again but he was changing the rules. He told me to lay down and I did. He said he wanted to feel me finish. He was going to use his fingers so he could make sure I wasn’t faking an orgasm. Somehow I was expected to perform and enjoy it and finish. I had to participate and pleaded with my body to please give him what he wanted. As his tongue danced in and out of me, I released and he was pleased. He kissed me, forcing me to taste the pleasure I created for him. That was the only time I ever finished the entire night.

He ordered me back into the shower and watched me as I scrubbed my entire body clean. I just hoped he wasn’t holding the belt when I was finished. As I stepped out of the shower, the sweet man was holding a towel for me to step into. I longed for his embrace but I was angry at him as well. All of the sudden I didn’t trust the sweet man. He had abandoned me when I needed him so badly. He allowed the asshole to hurt me, and I was angry.

He had me put on new clean clothes and put everything into the washing machine. I stripped the futon and placed all of the sheets and blankets into the washer as well and turned the machine on. I wiped down the table and chairs where he sat to eat his pizza. I did everything he asked me to. I cleaned the crime scene. I protected him.

He kissed me again as he stood by the door, his hand on my throat. I didn’t kiss him back. I felt betrayed and it was the only thing I felt I had any control over at this point. He slammed me into the wall and with his hand tightly on my throat asked me if I wanted to start the evening over again with company. I immediately panicked, begging him for forgiveness. I kissed him doing everything I could to get him to respond back with a kiss. He started kissing me back and I knew I was forgiven, but at what price?

He stood at the door and reminded me that he had friends that wanted to come play. That I was beautiful and I would make them very happy. He reminded me that it isn’t rape if you don’t say no after you say yes. You have to audibly say no. He was right – I had not said no after I said yes to him. He smiled when that realization sunk into my brain and asked me who would believe me anyway. It would be my word against a cops. He threatened me that if I ever told, this night would be nothing compared to what he was capable of. He leaned in and kissed me again and I immediately responded with a kiss back. He unlocked the door and exited. I immediately locked the door as fast as I could. He was gone. He was really and finally gone.

I walked over to the futon and sat down between the couch and futon. It hurt so badly to sit down, but somehow I couldn’t lay down. Like he would be there if I did, belt in hand, ready to punish me again. I sat and rested my head on the side of the couch and watched the movie end and the blue screen appear. I watched the blue screen for hours and I never shed another tear.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Losing my blogging virginity ...

It's funny - I have never considered myself someone worthy of listening to ... learning from ...who had something to offer from the experiences I have had. I still am not sure that this is something that is necessary in my own personal healing, but somehow I feel compelled to do this - so here I am.

They say that acceptance is the final step. To me that seems so defeating - how can you work toward the final goal/acceptance when I cannot fathom how I could ever "accept" what has happened to me? I'm going to work toward the goal of accepting that I am a survivor - NOT accepting I was molested and raped. Two stories - two different people - one crushed spirit over and over.

Someone once told me "talking is power" ... so this is my way of talking - at least right now. I don't know if I feel protected in this environment or vulnerable. Quite possibly both! There is something completely freeing in sharing your story - a kind of release that feels so incredible, there is nothing like it. As the pendulum swings in the opposite direction, there is also something completely terrifying in sharing your story - open to judgement and introducing someone into your own personal hell. A place that you wish would burn to a crispy pile of ashes and cease to exist - a place all survivor's know too well.

I don't want anyone reading this to think that I feel like I have the answers. It's absolutely the opposite!!! If anything - this should be a "How NOT to handle" example! I have been lucky that the right people have been in my life at the right time, whether I knew I needed them or not. My biggest piece of advice to anyone handling any type of trauma or abuse - deal with it now - it sucks sifting through 10 years of dusty boxes and locked away emotions.

Sharing my story is something that I have just recently been able do. It only took me 10 years to release ANY details of that night. She is my mirror - a reflection of me in her, and her in me - and although I hate that she knows pain as I do, I find comfort in knowing I have a hand to hold when I need it.

So, a little about me ... I am your average girl woman. Looking at me, there is nothing special. I wasn't the stunning prom queen or center of attention. I am the oldest child of three and have always been the caretaker. When you look up "People-Pleaser" in the dictionary - that picture you see - yep that's me. Sacrificing myself for anyone and anything - and even now as an adult, I tend to put others first, me second. I am also very determined - I am a fighter - I am a survivor - I am NOT a victim.

Maybe that is part of the reason for this mental vomiting blog. A way for me to put my feelings and thoughts and experiences out into the eternal abyss of the internet world - maybe they are read and nurtured - maybe they float around in the endless sea of binary codes... Maybe this is how I can continue to heal from all of this. Someone needs to create a workbook to follow - one that I could pick up, start beginning to end completing the questions with my own insightful answers, and after my 8 week course on "Overcoming the Assholes that step into your life" I would magically be healed. The fires of my hell would be extinguished and all would live Happily Ever After ... The End... Well - all except for the bad guy... 

I want to heal. I want to be able to feel settled when I reflect on that night. I am determined to do the work it takes to survive - .but in saying that, I am one of those people that once I make up my mind to do something - I am going all out, even if it kills me. Balls to the wall - sink or swim - here I go...Because after all - survival is a lot of work.