Be quiet

You know, some people actually think I have it bad. Some people have indeed pitied me, apologising for my tough life. The truth is, I'm living the high life compared to certain people. I have it great. Any emotional turmoil I have had, I brought upon myself. Sure, others take part in the blame, but seriously---it could all easily trace back to me. Maybe I'm just being humble, or maybe I just don't want to seem like some cocky little drama queen. Both are probably true, to some extent, seeing as I hate drama. Yet, somehow, I'm the most dramatic person I know. 

      I suppose you could say I've been psychologically bullied by strangers and loved ones alike, but hasn't everyone? Besides, it could be way worse. The thing is, I absolutely hate complaining. I hate it when others do it and I hate it when I do it. I hate seeming arrogant, too, or pulling the whole 'woe-is-me' act, but I can't help but notice the times when I do end up silently begging for attention. It's a trait of mine that really gets on my nerves.

My mom says I was raped. You have no idea how much I would love to believe that, but I can't seem to do it. I've never looked at it that way because I feel like it was my fault. And honestly? It's not just a feeling; it was my fault. I've always thought more along the lines of, "If I hadn't been so naive, so stupid, it wouldn't have happened." Which, isn't that true of everyone's mistakes? 

   I mean, it wasn't like I had been pushed and pinned down with a gun to my head. I wasn't exactly drugged and then mistreated. It wasn't as if I didn't know the person. To me, what happen just doesn't meet my definition of 'rape'.

"Unlawful sexual intercourse or any other sexual penetration of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person, with or without force, by a sex organ, other body part, or foreign object, without the consent of the victim. 2. statutory rape."

 -dictionary.com

"The penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part of object without the consent of the victim." - Justice.gov 

So, yeah, I was raped. Two months into the age of 13, I was mistreated by someone I hated --18 years of age, if you're curious-- and I lost my virgin title. Not even a week before the incident, I had promised myself that virginity was something I'd never loose. I hated even the thought of sex. To be honest, I still do.

I find it hard to tell myself that I've been raped. "It was my fault," I'll say, "I shouldn't have put myself in that position." 

Another reason I can't quite allow myself that excuse is the fact that I knew the guy. All the stories I've heard usually consist of some stranger or distant acquaintance taking brutal advantage of someone completely helpless. Someone who would be screaming bloody murder if there wasn't a gun trigger waiting to be pulled just inches away from their face. I don't typically think of the predator being the victims best friend. Or at least, thinking they are.

He felt bad, and for a second I almost believed him. He felt bad not only because of my feeling of violation, but because he couldn't honestly say he regretted it. I, on the other hand, was disgusted with myself. Everything about what happened I still wish I could change. Maybe if I'd been more conscious, things would have been different. I'm almost positive, but not completely. 

   You see, the reason it was all my fault is the fact that I let myself get drunk. I'd had a fair amount of alcohol before, and it barely had an effect on me. Surely this was no different? I have a pretty large body mass, if I'm being honest; hardly 13 and I weighed 125 pounds. I'm not fat, I'm just... compact? My point is--was--that it's common for things to not effect me as easily as they would other people. I thought that was the case, anyway.

    I was so gullible, vapid, foolish, and figured I could handle it, even if he couldn't. Besides, I could've stop him even if he did try to do anything by force; I was stronger than him, and he hated it. Right? So, I drank. When I got a bit of a buzz, I drank a little more. I'd never been drunk, but how bad could it be? Foolish, foolish child.

I can't say I remember a whole lot after I started chugging the contents of that wine bottle. I'd had way more than him, though he was still a little drunk--or so he told me. Next thing I know, I'm in tears. I mean, completely bawling due to my evil deed. I kinda wonder if it made him feel bad. 

"I'm sorry! Forgive me! 'She's' going to kill me! I'm going to die! I'M SORRY!"

Then everything went black in my eyes. I can barely remember him struggling to take off my shirt; my mind was so foggy and confused, almost at peace with the world for the first time in years. I felt like s toddler, simply being aided in dressing for the day. I had no idea his intentions were so... selfish? Blackness again.

What could have been an hour or maybe just ten minutes passed, and I felt a vague but sudden feeling of pain. I didn't know why, but I knew I didn't like it. I wanted to get away, far away, so I tried. My body didn't seem to be working properly, so I clumsily rolled sideways; away from whatever was on me; whatever was hurting me. My slurred speech formed the word 'no' several times, but a hand took mine and pulled me back. I couldn't move or think, but I sensed my hand being guided downward.

I was lying on my back trying desperately to get up, but every time I did I'd collapse  down again. Rolling away, I would always be pulled back. I didn't know what else to do. I just lay there completely still, hardly conscious, barely whispering my pleas. There was something in my hand, but I had no idea what. Someone had put it there, though why, I had no clue. What was it?

      Everything went dark again, and I don't remember much after that. Not until I was being pulled up and handed my underwear, something I never remembered taking off. I looked at my hands, confused and shocked to see them covered in blood. Why? What happened? Was I on my period? I was utterly clueless. Even getting dressed was an unclear, foggy dream. That's what it felt like, anyway. No part of me had registered what happened, or pieced together what should have been obvious. That's the power of alcohol; it conquers even the toughest of minds. That's what I hadn't understood. Not until that morning did I realize how blind I'd been.

I got out of that car and ran home, every down step bringing me closer to realization, each stride closer to the horror of reality. The weight of guilt slowly sinking into my heart and mind completely blinded me to all the beautiful things I was passing by. I won't lie; those railroad tracks. that bridge, the trees and overgrowth on the trench walls... It was all amazing. It is amazing. It's such a pity that I was always too stressed and guilt-stricken to see it. It only made me feel worse, back then. 

      I snuck into my quiet house where everyone would soon be waking up from peaceful dreams and cowered into the safety of my room. I was still dizzy and unsure what had been a dream and what was real. My hands still wore dry blood and when I changed, I was alarmed to see my thighs and pelvis covered with it, too. It took me a while to shakily wash it off.

Finally, I allowed myself to collapse on my bed, though I never did find rest. Every hour that passed by, I grew steadily more disgusted, ashamed, horrified, angry about what I'd gotten myself into. "What have I done? What have I done? I didn't want to do this! I didn't want this to happen!" 

Reviews

[Carol Cashes]

This was a realistic account, from a young girl's perspective, of how statutory rape can happen. All the feelings of guilt - for not fighting hard enough, for getting drunk - can swallow a young psyche. The practical point of view, not having it as bad as others, is that same psyche protecting itself. If this is a true story, I commend the author for not wailing in despair, wanting to die, but still acknowledging the disgust and degradation of the act. Well done. I was caught up in the moment and the real-ness of it was unavoidable to me as the reader.