content warning: description of sexual violence/rape/assault
in the days, weeks and months following the night I was raped doesn’t really matter. See it wasn’t just that night that really traumatized me.
Yes I was violated and treated like a fleshlight. My body was a cum dumpster. Nothing but a piece of flesh that was to be used for his relief. His pleasure. My groin ached, my thighs cried. The folds of my labia screamed each time I moved…
I hate using the language “my rapist”. I don’t own him. He doesn’t belong to me. He raped me, yes–he violated me. He committed a crime, a violent crime against me. Yet in no way or function is ever at all a part of me. I don’t want the word “my” and “rapist” or the object and subject in a sentence to involve him and I ever again. See he doesn’t deserve to be given the same respect as me. The compassionate person inside me understands that his violent acts are the result of his sickly upbringing and environment yet I still hold him accountable for what he did.
The thing that was probably most traumatic, besides him forcing his penis inside my clenched vagina–as any vagina owning person will tell you, an unaroused vagina is locked tight like a vault, while a aroused vagina expands with pleasure and excitement–so when you’re being raped the reason you experience a shit ton of pain is because an object, be it penis, fingers, or what have you is being forced into this part of you that is so personal, so vulnerable, so holy that you never knew it could destroy you so much.
He broke me.
I wasn’t anything but an object once he raped me.
But the worst part, the worst part besides the physical rape was the fact that for the next 4.5 months I attended class with him…5 days a week, every single class.
Let me repeat that. Every single class. How could this be? We were in a highly selective, specific major with only 25 people per year and that’s how we knew each other. I tried to switch my classes but they wouldn’t let me (illegal). I was forced to withstand class with him, reliving the rape everyday, my body constantly fighting to stay alive as he stared at me and begged me to believe that what happened wasn’t rape.
When I didn’t side with him, he convinced my classmates that I was lying. When I reported to the school he was able to convince all of our mutual friends that I was lying.
Either way…the fact that I lost all form of human trust and connection made life exceptionally painful. This is when I was taking tranquilizers to get through the day, since my game plan was to finish the semester and then transfer. I don’t remember much except how hard I tried to zone out of class every time that scab looked at me in class or something would trigger me….
When the depression and numbness and pain got so bad I remember I never changed my clothes and I could never shower. I felt so skinny because I couldn’t eat. All I could do was wait for time to past. For the year to be over. For that moment when I would stop feeling so scared. I would spend anytime I could watching netflix, binging seasons a night till I fell asleep in front of my computer. I dropped classes, my grades plummeting. I couldn’t talk anymore. I was a small whisper of existence.
Things that kept me alive during the darkest period of my life:
and my fantasies of Them…
so silly and strange.
My dog I got the day after I survived my second suicide attempt. I woke up after surviving an intentional overdose of klonopin and I concluded that the universe wanted me to stick around. So I headed to the shelter and adopted my dog for $30.
Best decision I ever made.
I’ll tell you the story about my horse another time.
I’m just glad I could write this without getting triggered.