I was 10, the summer before 6th grade. My stepbrother, a little more
than 3 years my senior, was babysitting my younger brother and me all summer.
It started with little things, like french kissing me in the closet. I am
not really sure how it went from that to almost intercourse. He would do it
on his waterbed in the afternoons before my dad would get home from work. My
little brother would have to keep watch and tell us if Dad was home. He would
do it at the park in those enclosed slides. He would slide to the bottom and
block the exit, and then I would slide down after him. He would do it in the
tent when we went camping. He said he wanted to sleep in the middle so he
could escape if bears came, but I knew the real reason. I am pretty sure it
only went on that summer. He was verbally inappropriate with me most of my
life, but I think the physical aspects happened only that summer. Then he
started high school and got a girlfriend whom he could have sex with. I do not
know if I forgot about it or repressed it or just really did not know it was
wrong. When I was 13, three summers later, I was watching a daytime talk show
with Marilyn Van Derbur Atler, a survivor of incest. I went numb. I went to
my room, laid on my bed, and was overcome by memories. I told a lady at
church a few weeks later. She told the pastor, and he told my parents. They told
me I was lying. I was promiscuous. I wanted attention. I needed to stop
talking about it because I would get over it, but it could affect him for the
rest of his life. I ended up in the office of my school counselor, who was the
one that reported it to child protective services. I attempted suicide,
wound up in the psych hospital, and was sent to a new school. When I told my
birth-mom (she gave me up for adoption to my stepmom when I was 7) she began
legal proceedings to get me back. I ended up back with her, which was not at
all a healthy environment, but it was definitely better than where I came
form, so I was not complaining. When I gave a statement at his sentencing, my dad
sat with him and my stepmom. He did not say a word to me the entire time,
and only looked back at me once as they were walking to their car. I tried to go
on with my life, but who was I kidding?
When I was 12, my aunts (birth-mom's younger sisters) came to talk to my little brother and me about something serious. They told me our grandpa (their stepdad) molested them when they were kids, and they were worried about us spending time with him. My birth-mom said they were liars. They just hated him for trying to take their dad's place. My birth-mom hated her real dad, and had her stepdad adopt her when she was an adult. I believed my aunts. They had no reason to lie to me, but it hurt me too much to think that my grandpa was a child molester. So, I decided that he had changed, and I put it out of my mind. It is hard for me to say that he molested me, but I don't know what else to call it. He was very discreet, so much so that I had no clue until I was 15 years old. He always treated me extra special because I was his only granddaughter among a few grandsons. He would take me places, just the two of us. I always felt a little funny about the way he touched me, but I never really knew it was wrong. I always thought it was me. He would talk about my bra size at the dinner table. I was the only one who thought that was strange. He always wanted me to sit on his lap, with his knee between my legs. He would hold me on his lap from behind, and put his hands on my breast area. When he hugged me he always rubbed his arms along my sides, feeling the edges of my breasts. He would also do this when he gave me back rubs. He would come in while I took a bath and give me back rubs. Once I said I was naked, but he said it was ok because there were so many bubbles. My grandma was a seamstress and made me clothes. He would measure me and he always lingered down in my crotch a little too long. I do not even know what he was measuring. If I was trying on an outfit, he would tell me to hold my arms up and he would feel my crotch to see if it was too tight. Right in front of everyone, and no one else found this odd. I do not know if he would have done more, but I think I may have saved myself from him by reporting what Kevin did. My grandpa did these things all my life. It was not until after I began developing that I thought anything of it. They moved out of state when I was almost 15, and we went to visit them at Easter that year. One night the two of us were the last ones to go to bed. I was on my way upstairs and he called me down. I asked what he wanted and he stumbled over his words saying something about dessert. He hugged me good night. I stopped hugging back a few minutes before he did. He was rubbing up and down along the sides of my breasts. I went numb and I just stood there. My freaking grandpa was feeling me up. He had done it many many times before that night, but for some reason I finally realized it. I felt totally sick and disgusting. I did not know what it was though. The things he did were not nearly as bad as what Kevin did. What the hell was the matter with me? That was the last time I saw him. Of course my mom did not believe me. I ran away the next summer and attempted suicide again, only this time I almost succeeded. I spent the rest of the summer, including my 16th birthday in the psych hospital. I eventually became a ward of the court and went to live in group homes. My grandpa had to go to the station where he failed a lie detector test, but nothing else happened.
I was screwed up for years. My mom disowned me when I was 16, and I disowned my dad when I was 18. I do not even have his name anymore (I am 22 now). When I was halfway through my second year of college, I finally decided I needed to deal with everything, so I found a GREAT therapist, and with her help, worked my butt of for the next two years (Thanks Patricia~I love you). I graduated therapy, and then college (with honors and a BA in psychology). I am now finishing my first year of grad school. In two more years I will have a master's degree in social work. I am in love at last. Totally and completely, hold nothing back, butterflies in my stomach LOVE. I think I am as healed as someone can get. The rest comes with time, helping others, and someday breaking the cycle with my own children.
My Story, My Vision
By Rebecca Butler
Just over three years after my rape, I am simultaneously pulling off a miracle and trying to grieve fully. In the four worst months of my life - November 1996 to February 1997 - my then-boyfriend forced himself on me five times. I'd loved and trusted him. To this day I still have the hardest time letting myself love and trust men. Though I have by necessity become a stronger woman than ever, I still have a pain inside that's burning to express itself - that never got a full chance to come out. I've learned to raise my voice in anger, pride and in solidarity with other survivors. I have many specific visions for changing laws and attitudes pertaining to sexual assault, and I work very hard every day to make them real. Yet, though I play Superwoman by day, I cannot sleep at night unless I imagine someone is holding and comforting me. At no moment, for better and for worse, can I ever forget what I've been through.
It all started in late August 1996, shortly after I graduated from college. A week after turning 23, I met my future rapist who I shall call "Dick." Little did I know what I was in for. God, was I trusting. He was only my second boyfriend. My first and I had dated nearly four years and never had sex. I was a virgin, not only sexually speaking but also in my idealism and optimism toward the world. When Dick began the relationship by showering intense praise on me, I suspected no ulterior motive. I fell in love and thought we were meant for each other. About two weeks into the relationship, however, he became emotionally abusive. Ironically, if I'd then identified his behavior to be abuse, I most likely would have averted rape. But I was naive, he never physically struck me, and his mental torture started so subtly and progressed so gradually that I literally did not know what hit me. So I blamed myself for the hell I was in. And I tried to change myself, in hopes of saving the relationship.
Try to imagine that you passionately and sincerely love someone who blatantly hits on your friends, repeatedly tells you you're fat, ugly and tense, and never lets you feel the relationship is secure. Imagine that he belittles you every time you express or assert yourself. Imagine that he repeatedly jokes about killing you but you don't feel safe to speak up because it's just a joke and he'd only punish you further for being "uptight". Imagine that he completely disregards most of your feelings and boundaries. Imagine him giving lip service to women's rights while making you feel progressively worse about yourself. Imagine him sneering at your fear of being raped by a stranger. Try to see him trivializing your caution about walking alone at night and your carrying a whistle. Imagine him devaluing all of your endeavors and convictions.
But while an abusive relationship is hell it is not an uninterrupted one, and that's the crux of the problem. He can be a complete demon most of the time but in that other 10% or so of the time that you see him, he'll lavish incredible praise on you. And you believe him because you love him and you need someone to comfort you from his abuse, which you want to believe will never happen again. Sounds illogical? Romantic feelings are powerful and not always rational. In my case, I simply did not want him to be an abuser or rapist. He became like an addiction to a hard drug. Being with him was excruciatingly painful most of the time, but on a regular basis he would hold out the carrot of hope that he was capable of treating me like a human being and having a healthy relationship. And for six months I followed it, never getting that promised respect, always believing that the real him was the man he pretended to be in our first two weeks together.
In many abusive relationships, the end product of all this fire and ice are confusion, neediness, distorted perspective, diminished self-confidence, timidity, fear, and the constant feeling of walking on eggshells. This was the context of my rape. The legal system and most segments of our society do not like to talk about rape in this context. But it was my reality and that of numerous women I've talked to in my year and a half of being public with my own story. Try to imagine rape in this context, if it has not already happened to you. Verbal abuse and intimidation serve as weapons before and during the rape. They are just as paralyzing as physical violence and they magnify the power of even the slightest accompanying acts of force.
Now let's go back to November 10, 1996, when unrecognized emotional abuse was my thorough reality, and enter marijuana. A week prior, Dick had coerced me to smoke it for the first time and now he was pressuring me again. I needed to be prettier, he told me, and that could happen if I would get high and relax. Implausible that an intelligent woman would tolerate this? Well, because he had been saying similar things to me over the previous two months, often adding that he was only trying to help me, I was starting to believe it and my confidence was not what it normally is. He also implied that to reach this goal I would have to have sex with him. My jaw dropped and I said an emphatic NO. He immediately backtracked on that intention but insisted I do as he said because it was for my own good and I would be a better person for it. So I gave him a massage, which had not been unprecedented as we had been celibate for our entire relationship and massage was an outlet for sensuality and intimacy. But this massage was different from the rest in that he was ordering me to smoke large quantities of pot - even when I told him it hurt to inhale, even when it was visibly obvious that I was in pain. He aggressively told me to make sure it gets into my system, again for my own good.
Then, without my permission started taking my clothes off.
This is as far as I'm going.
Just relax.
I'm fine with this but I don't want to have sex.
You're tense - it's like you don't trust me.
We'll both regret it we have sex.
Relax!
I don't want to have sex. I thought you felt strongly about this too.
RELAX.
You're getting too close. Your fluid...
Next thing I knew, he had me pinned down and was raping me. I cried out, questioning his actions, and he finally backed off. But the damage was done. He'd entered me even though I had said NO so many times and in so many ways. I could have gotten pregnant. He could have given me a disease. Through pure luck, neither of those scenarios ever came true, but I was to have several unbearable scares in the months to come. What quoting the verbal exchange cannot convey is that the anger in Dick's voice became more apparent with each "Relax" statement. Looking back, I believe he first tried to seduce me but ultimately raped me because he could not deal with a woman saying no to him.
Ironically once again, had I expected other people to validate the fact that I had been raped, that would most likely have been the only assault. But I knew most of our mutual friends would say he didn't intend to violate me (even though he did) or that I didn't communicate my boundaries clearly enough (even though I went above and beyond doing so). I also loved him and could not put him and the word "rapist" together. Therefore I blamed myself and started internalizing what I knew people around me would say. I was also still deathly afraid of pregnancy and disease, so I ultimately fell into denial. He made that easy, telling me the morning after this first rape that he did not enter, that the marijuana was making me freak out. The deepest part of me knew better right away, but for a long time it was easier to believe him and lie to myself than to confront my fears and new reality as a rape victim. So I continued my efforts to save the relationship for four more months, during which time he raped me four more times.
To make a long recovery story short, not only have I regained my strength in the three years since, I have become more empowered than ever. It was a matter of necessity - a choice between rebuilding myself to the utmost or dying a slow emotional death for the rest of my life. Some things, most obviously my virginity, I will never get back. There are other parts of me, such as my consciousness of innocence, that will probably take years to return. Other things, such as my capacity to feel a full range of emotions including love for men, I am in the process of reclaiming. Yet I know that there are still more aspects of me that I've already taken back, such as my self-respect, confidence, ability to get through the day, and most importantly my voice.
To that end, I have dedicated my life to changing the legal system so that survivors who choose to take that route will have a fair chance for justice. I pressed criminal charges in January 1999 - two years after the rapes. Instead of being congratulated for going forward - after all, the stats I've read say that 5-15% of survivors ever feel safe to do so - I was vilified for not making an immediate report after the first rape and not ending the relationship right there. It's not that simple, I tried to tell them, but most of the legal personnel would not hear me. Hindsight is 20/20. Believe me, I went through a long period of thinking I deserved to be raped again because I supposedly did not handle the first set of traumas "correctly." But my main motive has always been to reclaim myself - not to get the rapist thrown in jail. And I have succeeded in this first and most important goal. And I know now that it is not survivors like me who need to change, but society, the legal system, and most importantly men who rape.
I am now 26 and I've committed my life to fighting sexual assault and supporting fellow survivors every way I can. What I feel most passionate about right now is changing the laws and system. This is rape prevention in that it closes the loop, so to speak. I know of many programs design to help young women and men prevent violence in their lives, and I feel an appropriate complement to such work is to make rape a crime that's actually taken seriously by the justice system. If a man is not motivated by respect for the woman's boundaries to hear her NO, he will at least be held in check by the viable possibility of going to jail or at least standing trial for not doing so. We need to change working legal definitions of consent, force, and rape itself so that the system does justice to the psychology of a woman in a rape situation and holds men accountable to the fact that no - or anything less than a freely given, non-coerced yes - means no. We also need to require all legal personnel to be thoroughly trained in sexual assault and partner abuse as the survivor experiences these crimes. And finally, we must somehow reform the system so that factors that are not at all related to whether a rape took place cannot legally be used against survivors in any stage of the legal process. Such factors that often are so used against us include prior relationship with perpetrator, sexual history, time taken to come forward, the absence of biological evidence or corroborating witnesses (apparently our word is not enough), mental health history, a survivor's decision to remain in an abusive relationship (which often results in subsequent rapes), and prior consent to acts short of intercourse with the eventual rapist.
We have a long road ahead of us, but I see this as the beginning of a revolution. One day, the laws and the system will take a meaningful stand against all rape, and ignorant statements such as that the survivor "asked for it" or is making a false rape charge out of vengeance or sexual guilt will hold no water in court of law or in society at large. And I believe that such legal change is inextricably bound up with corresponding social transformation. Each will be a catalyst for the other. Some day - perhaps in our grandchildren's lifetimes, pushing for sex without two enthusiastic YESes will be unthinkable. I believe that with the increasing number of survivors sharing our stories on even the most private level, we are approaching critical mass. The more we speak, the less excuse society has to ignore us. I am optimistic that these dreams - all of which now seem to utopian to attain - will become a reality. In spite of my own experience with both rape and the callousness of the system and much of society, I believe people are good. Specifically, I insist that no boy is born a rapist. It is our world that condones violence and sexism that causes so many men to become rapists. It's far easier said than done, but cultivating a world in which women are truly valued as full human beings and in which violence is completely rejected as a way to solve problems will take us far up the road of eradicating rape.
In the meantime, I'm quite amazed at the capacity of survivors to pull amazing things out of the worst of adversity. My story, I believe, is a case in point. My recovery has made me even stronger and even more passionate and committed towards ending violence against women than I was before the rape. Even my legal saga turned out to be empowering. While my rape case is in limbo - I am writing to a judge as my final chance to be heard - my perpetrator has not gotten off so easy for violating my restraining order. While, legally speaking, he has so far received only a slap on the wrist in spite of convincing evidence that he repeatedly violated this order, I was able in these hearings to twice say in front of the entire court that he did indeed rape me. In my second speech, I specifically told him - again amplified in front of the entire court room - that no matter what happens legally, I know what he did, and that I believe, deep down, so does he. I call that creating my own justice. This is what we as survivors do every day just by being ourselves, living our lives, sharing our stories as we are ready, rebuilding and reclaiming everything that was taken from us, and refusing to die that slow emotional death. Again, I believe it is only a matter of time before the rest of the world realizes that they cannot ignore us, if for no other reason than that there but for the grace of God go they.
In my personal life, I still have nightmares on frequent occasions. I still struggle with trusting men. I still want healthy romantic, sexual experiences but somehow push them away. But I know that ultimately my rapist could not take away my voice, and that I have committed my life to raising that voice for the purpose of stopping this and other forms of violence. And he could not forever take away my capacity to love and my belief that people are good. Rape does not have to be a reality. This world can change.
This is very weird for me. I've only told one person, my husband.
It also feels weird because unlike most of the people on here, (from
what I've read) I wasn't molested, raped by a stranger, or beaten.
He was my boyfriend. We went out for 5 months before we ended up
having sex. It was my freshman year, and he was two years older than I was.
I thought I was in love.
At first, everything was pretty okay. Sex hurt, but I figured that was because I was a virgin. I know now that it's because I was never turned on first, and he was very thick. But at the time I just assumed it was okay, because that's the way I understood sex. I was pretty naïve. Until Rick (I'll call him Rick so no one knows who it is) told me, I didn't even know what ejaculation was. I thought he was joking.
Anyway, everything was normal. One time we were at a retreat for a school group, and we were walking down the path in the woods. I was mad at him, and mouthing off, and he got mad and hit me. He had never hit me before, so I hit him back. He got mad and started pushing my head down to give him head. I was still angry, and so I bit him. That really pissed him off, and he slapped me and pushed me to the ground. He started to unzip my pants, but I somehow managed to push him off, and I ran. I hid behind this bridge for awhile while he was yelling at me, and finally he calmed down, started being nice again, and asked me to come back out. I came out, and we walked off holding hands, and we didn't talk about it.
Then everything was normal for awhile, until one night when he snuck over. He had to sneak over if we wanted to see each other, because I was always grounded and my parents really didn't like me going to people's houses. I was drinking Peach Schnapp's, and he drank some, too. Then we got ready to have sex, and for some reason, he couldn't get an erection. So he got mad, hit me, and told me that if I wasn't such a "fat fucking pig", he wouldn't "have this problem." I started crying, and he hit me again, and then he started unbuttoning his pants. I wasn't ready, I kept telling him, but then he was unbuttoning mine, and I couldn't seem to get away. He got on top of me and started raping me. I was crying, and I kept saying, "Please don’t, you're hurting me," but it was like he couldn't even see me. Then he asked me if I liked it, and I said no. So he hit me and asked me again, and I said yes. Then he made me get on top of him and it went on. I feel bad because I should have gotten away then, but where would I have gone? I didn't want my parents to know he'd snuck in, and I didn't want him to hit me again. He kept calling me names, and then he pushed me off of him and pushed my head down to give him oral. I had stopped crying by this point, and I just did what he said. The thing about Rick was that it took him forever to finish. I think it's because he masturbated 6 times a day. (I'm not kidding or making that up.) So he kept pushing my head down and telling me to "worship it", and then he had me give him a handjob until he finished. This is sick, and I'm sorry I'm writing it, but I have to. He made me lick it up.
When it was all over, he kind of brushed off my face, fixed my hair a little, and he held me. He rocked me, and he kept saying, "It's okay, you're alright. It's okay." He never said he was sorry. After awhile, he left.
This was the first time it happened.
Well here goes nothing. Besides my best friend, 4 other good friends, singer Tara Maclean and a few others on the internet no one has ever heard this story. I can safely say that I have never given this many details ever before. Lately, these past few weeks I've fallen apart. No one seems to understand or care and I'm feeling like I'm drowning so I figured I'd post my story here.
A year ago this past March, on St. Patrick's Day, I was at a party at my school in St. Petersburg, FL. I went to the party with my roommate and a friend but when the party got boring they took off. I stayed behind and ran into a guy a new pretty well. We started talking and eventually he asked me up to his room to see something (I can't for the life of me remember what). When we got up into his room it was pretty loud in the dorm so he closed the door, I didn't think anything of it when he locked it. The next thing I knew he was on top of me holding my hands above my head. I thought he was kidding around and I jokingly told him to get off. It was then that I looked in his eyes and saw the anger and realized how tight he was holding my wrists. The next thing I knew he was unbuttoning my jeans and pulling up my tank top. I remember begging him to stop and I started to cry. I remember he had a map of the world on the wall and I looked at it and thought of Barbados and Me and a Gun started to run through my head. I just lay there singing to myself and crying. I felt like I left my body and was watching wondering why was this nice guy doing this to this poor person. I didn't even realize it was me. It hurt so bad... I was a virgin and had never felt this before. When he finished he got up and yelled at me to get the hell out of his room. As I pulled my clothes back on he told me that if I ever told anyone he would kill me...he was so angry and I remember thinking why are you mad at me...what did I do?
I walked back to my dorm crying the whole way. I tried to call me best friend in Montreal but she wasn't there, I tried to find some other friends but no one was around. Finally I went to the bathroom. After throwing up I sat in the shower with my clothes on for a good 2 hours. When I finally got out I tried to call my best friend again and then finally called RAINN. I couldn't say the word rape and after 20 minutes of talking to the woman I got frustrated with myself and hung up and went to bed. When I woke in the morning it wasn't true...I swear it wasn't.. I felt like I was in a dream world.. just kinda floating along. I never got my period that month. About 9 weeks later I got my period finally...it was so heavy I thought I was dying I had never seen that much blood or been in that much pain...I realized later that I probably was pregnant and miscarried. That thought came to me the first time I really dealt with what happened. I was listening to Tara Macleans album Silence to a song called "Let Her Feel the Rain". I swear that song was written for me. I felt like I was outside my body watching this person who I didn’t know anymore and singing this song to her to try to comfort her. But once again I pushed the thoughts away.
In August of last year I was in Toronto for Lilith Fair and I was at a private show the night before. Tara Maclean was one of the artists playing and I don’t know where I got the courage but I walked up to her told her my story and thanked her for the song...it was the first time I used the word rape. She just held me and we both cried for a good 20 minutes and she told me the story behind the song. Later that night she sang the song and dedicated it to me...I remember never feeling so free before. I went back to my hotel and told my friend the next morning. But something happened...I didn’t like the way she reacted...it was like I realized she didn’t understand and I bottled it up again. It wasn't until December that I told my best friend and then it slowly trickled out to the other 3 people over the last few months. I still can't face it though. There are so many people I want to tell but I cant say the words. I thought the guy left my school but this past May before I left school I started to get messages on my door like "I've missed you" "Again?!?" and "Tomorrow?" and footprints inside my room. All descriptions match his. Then the day before I left I was in the copy room in the library and I turned around and he was there asking if I had change for a dollar. I was petrified and ran off. I'm almost afraid to go back this year. I don’t want to report him ...its complicated why...but I just don’t want to deal with it...plus no one would ever believe me he's such a "good guy" . So here I am lost in myself...not knowing who this person is...the last few weeks have been awful I cant stop crying and I feel like I'm losing my mind. I just keep thinking about it. Every time I see a baby I think "what if I was pregnant...I lost it" I feel like I'm dead inside...a totally different person. There are a handful of people I want to tell so bad but I still cant. Hopefully some day I'll be able to deal with this and tell everyone.
Kris
ICQ: 53249451
