I was not r*p#d. I have come to realise that there is a huge difference between r*p# and what happened to me.
"Childhood s#xu*l ab*s£" is what they call it.
I wrote the following when I was about 18. (today, I am 27)
*****
So…where to begin? Well maybe I could explain why I am writing this.
Or maybe it would be best to say what I am going to write.
The latter is too difficult to put into only a few words, so instead you
will have to read this in its entirety. Sorry. As for my reason?
Well…my self harming has gotten a LOT worse recently, so I feel the need
to ‘release’ my, clearly pent-up emotions and all of the thoughts and
feelings that I cannot express verbally.
What are the main events in your life? In mine, there have been few. I
was born in 1984 on November the 5th. My first memory is (as for plenty of folk)
a happy one. It was my fifth birthday and I had met my Australian
cousins for the first time in my life and we were out the back garden
with sparklers. It was a fantastic day.
Where are we now? Oh yes, November 5th 1989. I have no more memories
that are vivid. I have no more memories from which I can recall exact
dates. And, to be blunt, I have no more happy memories as a child.
[this is me the 27 year old inserting into here that it wasn't that there were no happy memories in my childhood -there were millions with my family and friends- rather that they are all often eclipsed by...well...you'll catch it in a sec]
Sometime during the summer of 1990/1 (can't be sure which) there was a thunderstorm on a
Friday night. I was staying over with my best friend. We had had a
fabulous day. I remember playing ‘school’ were I was the teacher. I
remember when my pupil was bad or got an answer wrong I would give her
into trouble the way my teacher would have done had I been in the same
situation. We also played ‘Doctors and nurses’ and I remember having a
broken arm –which, incidentally, I have never had.
‘Doctors and nurses’ was never the same game after that night. Neither
was ‘school’. Why was ‘Doctors and nurses’ different? We’ll get back
to that…maybe…
As for ‘school’…after that night, I took every opportunity to hit her
when she ‘misbehaved’ in class. Every time I saw her; I saw him. Every
time I saw him, I felt numb.
Who is he? You may want to know. He is my reason for wanting to crawl
into a hole and die most days. My reason for being so scared of males.
My reason for having panic attacks when left alone in a confined space
with a male. He, was my best friend’s big brother.
I looked up to him. He could play the guitar –which I have tried to but
fail miserably. He could sing. Also, he could do both –AT THE SAME
TIME! We would sit in their garden and sing while he played guitar. It
was excellent!
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Thunder woke me. I got out of my pal’s bed (we were top-to-toe). I
went into the toilet. Then it dawned on me –she wasn’t in the bed when I
got up. In a dreamy-daze I went into the room directly opposite the
toilet. I don’t know what possessed me to do so, but I did.
I saw a bundle of clothes on the floor. Another messy pile by the
wardrobe. And only the light from the toilet crept into the room.
I froze.
She was in bed with her him. Her big brother. They were cuddling
–something our family rarely did/still do not. What they were doing –
I’ll never know. Whether she was scared from the thunder claps and just
needed a hug, I do not know for sure. However, the events that
followed do not allow me to believe that.
She jumped out of bed and ran through the door. She didn’t even look at me.
I remained glued to the spot.
He shut the door quietly and…
I have never told or written about what happened next…
Like I said before, I have no clear memories. But I have had flashbacks
of that night. They have helped me to fill in the blanks and lead me
to believe that I dreamed it and made it up and that I’m crazy.
Maybe I AM crazy. We are all products of circumstance –so they say.
Maybe, if people hadn’t betrayed my trust and told me they believed me, then maybe, just maybe, I’d be sane.
Lightning sporadically filled the room. That was the only time I could
see anything. And that is how the flashbacks come –in short, sharp
bursts.
Me, being led to the bed. Me, sitting down and saying nothing. My top
being lifted off me. Me, being pushed to lie down. Him, removing his
bottoms. Him climbing over me, to lie down beside me, in at the wall.
All the while I do not utter a sound –so I must have liked it. Dirty,
rotten, evil, spoiled, filthy, little bad girl. She deserved it. I
hate her. I hate the fact that she didn’t tell anyone the next day, or
week, or month. Or ever until eight years later. Stupid cow.
A hand. On my stomach. Then on my chest, squeezing. Harder.
Pain. But still no sounds escape my mouth.
Confusion. He’s my friend so it can’t be bad or wrong.
Silence.
The hand moves to my face. It turns my head round. Stops me from
facing the ceiling or looking out of the window. Makes me look at him.
His expressionless face. No smile. Just a face. One that will remain
freeze-framed in my head. Even now I can still see it. I think it
will haunt me forever.
He kisses me. It was horrible. I remember a shiver shooting up my
back. I guess that’s why, unlike my old friends at school, I was in no
rush to kiss anyone else. They saw it as fun, some made it into a game;
but for me, it was not nice. I did not associate it with happiness. I
thought it was, like me, filthy. To this day I still think that way.
He was my friend, but everything changed that night. I never considered
anyone to be a friend after that night. I no longer looked forward to
weekends –I dreaded them. Knowing I’d stay at her house, have to behave
‘normally’ in front of their parents, but eventually, night would fall
and the fun would be over. Fear would set in. Panic, even. But not
once did I say “no” or ask for help. Did I ask for it then???
His hand moved slowly, lower and lower. Another shiver. More pain.
But not mentally this time. Oh no. I wish. But my wishes are never
granted.
Why did I return there week after week? I do not know. That fact
coupled with my never speaking out leads me to believe that I did ask
for it. That I wanted it…but I did not. Did I?
Something brushed against my leg. But…but his hands were on my body. I couldn’t understand.
That reminds me that I was a child. An innocent little girl who did not
deserve to find out how harsh and cruel some things that go on in the world are, at age 6.
But it happened…such is life.
So…yes, it was his penis. He took my hand and put it on it. I could
feel it throbbing. He closed my hand around it. It was weird. Boney
and thin. Another shiver. I don’t know how long we lay like that…too
long…
I don’t know if that was all on the one night. I doubt it. All of my
‘memories’/nightmares and flashbacks have sort of manifested themselves
into this one, long, horror-filled night that refuses to come to an end.
Rubbing up and down and up and down. And I don’t know what this is
achieving. And I have no clue why he is making these noises. Quiet,
too awful for words.
His thing. Inside me.
Definitely not the same night. I don’t think this night happened until I was about 8. but I can’t be sure.
His thing. Moving?
His thing...was alive?
Another shiver. But not from that night. I was numb then. But now, I
can still feel him inside me. And it is…horrible. It makes me shake my
head and shiver.
And, occasionally, shake.
As I am just now.
Shaking and shivers are never a good combination, especially not when my muscles tense up on top of that.
I remember him removing himself from me and ‘finishing’ the job himself.
But I also remember a few times (I don’t know how many) when he didn’t.
The first time I felt sticky, and gooey I went calmly to the toilet, and threw up.
After that I just got used to it I guess. Which leads me back to
thinking that I liked, wanted and asked for it. That’s what everyone
else thinks. Why else would I have returned time and again? It
couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the fact that I was just a
little girl who did not know any different…oh no…I WANTED it –or at
least, that’s what everyone else thinks.
Pain. In my stomach. I guess everything’s connected.
But pain, high in my tummy? I didn’t and still don’t understand that. And I will never ask.
I hate him.
Why? Because now, even when I touch anyone, it hurts. In a way that words will never be able to describe.
Even with the people I’m supposed to only feel love from.
Only one person doesn’t hurt me.
That CAN’T be a good sign.
It’s taken almost two months to write what I have so far. I knew it was going to be difficult, but this is gruelling!
I love skin-to-skin contact. And only recently discovered I could hold
hands with someone without wanting to scream. Instead, I just want to
cry. But not because it hurts; because it feels good.
I hate that the one person that I could talk to makes me feel SO happy that I cannot stop smiling when she’s there.
Thus, I can’t talk about evil and nasty things either.
Besides, I could never say words that would hurt her –she’s too precious. She’s my star. My angel. My friend.
“Too much time alone” – I just know that’s what they are thinking! They
mightn’t say it, but I know that’s what they’re thinking.
Just now I am in hospital, writing and thinking, and let’s not forget –panicking!
I tried to call “Breathing Space” just to talk about talking about things, you know?
The nurses in here are ace –random, I know!
“You cannot blame him” … “It wasn’t his fault” … “You don’t know what he went through” … “He was only a child”
Then what did that make me? I figured that out when I was 14 –negligible.
“You cannot blame him” … “It wasn’t his fault” … “You don’t know what he went through” … “He was only a child”
I hear this every time I feel sad about my past. Then the sadness turns
to anger and I want to punch someone. But I have no one to punch. I
have no one. So, instead, I hurt myself. When I was 13 it was only
ever with things in my pencil case. I remember using a rubber in my
mathematics class and looking out of the window and seeing him with
several girls, laughing and smiling. So I put my hand onto my lap and
rubbed furiously with the eraser. I did that until the bell rang,
which, fortunately wasn’t too long because it didn’t bleed. But it did
hurt like hell!
It’s amazing how a small change in a situation can alter the way in
which a person leads their life. Perhaps if the person who sat beside
me in maths class had not been off sick I would not have hurt myself.
Maybe if I had been seated at the front of the class, on the opposite
side of the room from the window, I wouldn’t have been able to see him.
It is also possible that had I been seated in the middle row and
noticed him, I would have started to hurt myself but a classmate would
have noticed and I would not have continued…or maybe, if my teacher had
noticed, they could have talked to me, or asked that I be referred to
someone for help –urgently– and given proper help and I would have never
hurt myself intentionally again. If anything other than what has
happened had happened then maybe, just maybe, I would be a happier, less
scarred (no, it’s NOT a typo) person.
Of all the people with whom I have come into contact, very few have been
decent human beings. That, to this day, is still true. The majority
of nurses have been amazing people; I think you have to be, to do a job
like that. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Doctors. I can
honest-to-God count on one hand the number of nice Doctors that I have
met. Sure, I know it’s bound to be a difficult job, and also psychology
is a difficult area, it involves a lot of guess-work but…
~~
that's all I have so far.I have it in my mind just now that my purpose
in life is to write a novel.I would love to do that, even if no one
bought it -I wouldn't care.
Does that make sense? Does any of this make sense?
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