DISCLAIMER: This entry involves experiences of bullying, sexual misconduct and/or assault, and self-hate and could possibly trigger a reader who may have (or is still) struggling with any of those issues. Please be cautious.
As with all of my entries and stories, each piece of writing I post here is from my personal perspective, experience, logic, and truth. I do not, and nor will I ever claim, that I know best, or all there is to know, about any topic or experience another individual may have experience(d). These are my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my truth.
I don’t remember going home. I can’t tell you how I kept it hidden from my parents and family, I just did. Part of it was because, for a long time, I still didn’t believe I was raped. I’d always believed rape was something that happened on the streets, in the dark, by a stranger. Never by someone you knew, or thought you might love, or might love you. I didn’t react to it as most people would think a girl would react. I was still able to get up each morning. I was able to go on, live my life as ‘normal’ and pretend what had happened wasn’t a big deal. Clearly, if I was able to do that, what had happened wasn’t a big deal, right??? Of course, going on as ‘normal’ still meant partying, drinking, and doing more drugs than I ever should have. I just wanted to escape and hide from the world. And I didn’t suddenly hate boys, or distrust them. In fact, I became more determined to find my knight in shining armour. A boy who would love me unconditionally, protect me from the evils of the world, and make me feel whole. And I was willing to do almost anything to find it. No one had ever told me that actually, that is precisely one of the many ways a rape victim/survivor behaves.
I can’t even tell you when it was that I finally recognized it as rape. It just sort of happened, but it still didn’t affect my desperate need of love from a boy. But I was angry. For years, I punished myself and inadvertently those I loved, and I tried to punish the world. I hated myself. I hated everyone and everything. But throughout it all, I was only hurting myself. Yes, there was collateral damage, family, friends, random people I met along the way. But most of the damage I simply perpetuated to myself, and only I could fix it. But for most of my life, I looked for solace, forgiveness, worth, value, and acceptance in all of the wrong places.
One of my first boyfriends in high school (grade 9) was an ass hole. We met, and he was this seemingly good boy, with good manners, from a good family. He seemed nice so when he asked me out, I said yes. Within a few days, we were inseparable. We were always together. Before school, in between classes, break times, after school, sneaking out late at night to be together. It was foolish. But, I believed he loved me and felt worth in his want and need for me. It wasn’t long before he grew bored of just making out though and asked me to give a blow job. And despite wanting to keep him happy, I couldn’t do it. He promptly broke up with me and rumour quickly spread that I did in fact give it to him, but I was terrible at it. For weeks, boys at school would jokingly ask me for a blow job in the halls and outside during breaks, offering to give me pointers along the way. They honestly thought they were funny.
Clint, the next boyfriend (still in grade 9) was a boy I didn’t even like to begin with. He was a poor student who liked to smoke a lot of weed. But I’d started high school determined to be better. I didn’t want to party and smoke weed all the time. I wanted to find real friends, and real love, and be a good girl. And the previous boyfriend had really hurt me so I was nervous. So, Clint quit drugs. He wanted to show me that he wasn’t a bad boy and that he liked me enough to change. And I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. We began dating and it was a whirlwind. We were together ALL. THE. TIME. And he was so nice to me. He was fun. He was funny and seemed to really like me, so I was in heaven. By the end of the first month, I was convinced I was in love and he didn’t hesitate to tell me he was in love with me!
By the end of the school year, I was completely lost in him. He’d begun talking about having sex, but I never felt pressured. I wasn’t sure if I was ready. I remember having had many conversations with him about it. They were very shallow ones considering our age and situation, but still, we’d talk about it. I never felt he was overly manipulative or anything, but I could tell he really wanted it. Reflecting on it as an adult, he absolutely was manipulative. He used language that would insight guilt, like if I couldn’t express the love I had for him physically, then how was he to know it was real. It didn’t even dawn on me to wonder, let alone ask, about my own feelings about it. It was always about him. I think one of the many damaging side or after effects of the rape was truly believing my role in it was larger. Not the actual rape, but that if I’d done something differently, or if I’d been better somehow, KC would have stayed with me and therefore it wouldn’t have been rape. I honestly believed I wasn’t worth loving, and so only cared about proving to Clint that I was.
The first time we had sex, it was not special, but I worked overtime to convince myself that it was. We made what we thought were the right moves, but shortly after, he got up and moved on to something else (i.e. playing guitar, playing video games, etc.). I can still feel the words forming in my head, warning me “this is not love”, but I ignored them. Of course, it wasn’t really an expression of anything. It was a hormonal drive in him, and a desperate need in me. It didn’t take long for him to state he was bored. He wanted to be more adventurous, something like role-playing. I was hesitant but open to it, until he mentioned a rape-style fantasy, where he could dominate and overpower me. Alarm bells rung so loudly in my head it was a wonder I could respond, but the next time we were together, he started playing it. I immediately clamped up and shut down. He didn’t stop until he finished though, and I lay there crying. At first, I thought he was kind and caring when he asked me what was wrong, but he wasn’t. He was more upset about it being ruined than anything, because when I finally mustered up the courage to tell him what had happened to me, when I finally said it out loud, for the first time, “I was raped”, he went silent. I anxiously awaited his reaction. I was praying, even visualizing, he’d take me in his arms good and tight, and repeatedly tell me he loved me, and how sorry he was. That he was devastated to hear such an awful thing had happened to me and how I didn’t deserve it. And then he’d demand to know who it was so he could kill him. And then I would have to calm him from a jealous rage and he’d be brought to tears until we were both overcome with emotion and had to make love to feel better again. What a crock! I was so delusional! Instead, the silence lasted so long, it became uncomfortable. I asked him if he’d heard me. He nodded and then looked at me, a strange look of anger and disgust: “You mean, I wasn’t your first?”
Throughout our two year relationship (that’s right, I stayed with him) he verbally and emotionally abused me. He would jump from being madly in love with, to bored and indifferent. He cheated on me. He lied to me. He stole from me. And throughout it all, he gaslighted me and made me feel like I was crazy when I would confront him. I constantly made excuses for him because I didn’t want to believe it. I already felt unlovable and was worried believing he didn’t would confirm it. My mom hated him and tried so hard to help me see his abuse and what it was doing to me, but I wouldn’t listen. I just dug my heels in deeper and claimed she didn’t know him, and couldn’t understand our relationship. He was such an ass hole, but he was as clever as he was mean. He would be just nice enough to keep me dangling, begging for more. And whenever I got to a point where I would find the strength to break up with him, he would make some sort of grand gesture and win me back. It also helped (him) that all of his friends would contact me and tell me how miserable he was without me. I just couldn’t see the toxicity of it all because I wanted so much to be loved.
By the end of our relationship, it was at its worst. He was clearly cheating on me, but I refused to acknowledge or admit it. Not only was I still his girlfriend, but I was still sleeping with him! By then, I rarely saw him, unless it was for sex. And I still believed, as long as we were having sex, we were fine. Sometime that winter (grade 11), I got pregnant. I told him and he immediately accused me of lying and trying to trap him. Soon, that’s what everyone was saying. He officially broke it off with me and I was seen as the crazy bitch that couldn’t get over it. Again! I couldn’t believe it. It felt like just another lesson learned to keep my mouth shut. No one was going to listen or care anyway.
I don’t remember much else surrounding that time because I started doing drugs and drinking again. I remember going to some guy named Tyler’s apartment a lot, barely coming home. I remember feeling very alone, isolated, and unlovable. I have quick flashes of going to the abortion clinic alone, and then I dropped out of school.
Stay tuned for PART SIX
Ⓒ April 2022. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.
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