Tiana, I think this site is wonderful. I've been having flashbacks and issues that I've kept totally to myself. I'm still struggling with how to deal with them, but telling my story in this safe setting may help.
It was November. I was 17. It was one of those high school drinking house parties that you know you shouldn’t be at, but you go because all your friends go. I wasn’t a drinker, but I had had a few beers that night. I ran into this guy that I had sort of been seeing. I’ll call him Joe. (Obviously, that's not his real name). He was the James Dean type, totally. He was also older than me, at 22. We had met at a similar type of party. Of course all that bad boy stuff is what attracted me to him in the first place, but it only took a few dates (were they even dates? is it a date to go to a booze fest together???) for me to realize he was just all wrong. He was a heavy drinker, not very ambitious (I was planning on pursuing a musical theatre career), we had nothing in common, and he was sexually aggressive. I was, to use the cliche, not that kind of girl
The last time I had seen him, which had been weeks ago, I had left him at a party (I had a girlfriend take me home), because he was drunk and kept pawing me and I’d just about had it. I ended up yelling at him, called him a loser and a drunk and a sex maniac, and that it was clear we were a horrible match because he wasn’t going to get very far with me... I was GOING somewhere with my life, etc. etc. I was a bit self-righteous, I suppose. I was young and arrogant. And stupid. Oh, so stupid. Stupid to believe him when he came up to me at this party and said he wanted to talk to me about what had happened between us. I had no intention of getting together with him again, but I did feel bad about the way I had acted and thought he deserved to be heard out. I should never have left the house with him.
It was cold outside. I’ll never forget the cold. And there were just a few people outside, throwing up and passing out. But I guess they were too drunk to notice (or turned a blind eye) as he forced me into a corner and onto the cold concrete of the back porch area. It happened quickly but seemed like hours. I’ll never forget the fear and realization of what was about to happen, and then the pain and humiliation. You always think you could handle yourself in a situation like that, but when it happens, you just lose it.
He was so angry and kept calling he horrible names and it was like I was getting what I deserved (that’s so awful sounding, but you really do think it). He kept saying what a whore I was and how stuck-up I was, and that he knew this is what I really wanted all along. It was so hard to remove myself, Tiana. I know what you mean about needing to remove yourself as it happens, but I'm afraid I was painfully aware of every second. I can't even say I was numb. I felt the pain. I struggled but it was so obvious there was no point and that I’d only end up getting hurt even worse.
Everytime I tried to sit up... get him off of me... he’d push me down even harder and my head hurt so bad. I just wanted him to get it over with. Finally, he did. But he didn’t leave right away. He just stayed on top of me for what seemed like an eternity, and I was afraid to move. I guess I was whimpering, because he kept telling me to shut up. I could hardly breathe; I felt like he was crushing me. Then he finally got up, zipped up his jeans, and WENT BACK IN TO JOIN THE PARTY.
He never even had to make any threats; I knew what would happen if I said anything. He’d make it out to be my fault and besides, I certainly didn’t want anyone to find out what he did to me. I was more afraid that HE would tell someone he had done it. I could almost see him bragging about it. I was so afraid. I sat out there on that cold porch holding my jeans against my stomach. I couldn’t even refasten them because they were torn open. I hurt everywhere. My head hurt from being hit against the ground, my arms hurt from being pinned, my whole lower body screamed with pain. Even my tears burned against my face because the cold air seemed to freeze dry them, and my eyes were nearly matted shut from crying. Worse than the pain was the shame, though. I wanted to just evaporate and disappear, I felt such shame.
I noticed there was no one outside now. Had anyone seen? I had ridden to the party with friends. How could I get home without them knowing? I decided to pull myself together as best as I could, and hopefully no one would notice anything was wrong. I tied my coat around my waist to cover the torn waist of my jeans and also because I could feel that I was bleeding. The air was SO COLD, and taking my jacket off made me shudder even more. I struggled to my feet but walking was so painful... I will just never forget the pain. I thought my pelvis was broken or something. I hobbled through the masses of people, into the house, terrified that I would encounter him again. I did not. Maybe he did leave, after all.
I made it to the bathroom, and tried to throw up, because I felt like I needed to. But I couldn’t. Then I washed my face and decided my best bet would be to act drunk. It worked. So many people there were drunk, so no one thought it strange that I was having trouble walking and that I was looking ragged. That’s how I got home, too. I convinced my friends that I was drunk and just wanted to go home. They bought it. I decided to forget it ever happened.
Except I couldn’t. At first, I pulled it off. With everything that had happened, I had actually gotten home by curfew on Saturday. I totally slipped by and never gave an inkling that anything had gone wrong at that party. If anything, I think Mom assumed I had been drinking a little too much (which I really never did... it's a wonder she didn't suspect anything). The torn jeans worried me... so I wadded them up and put them in my book bag to throw out in the dumpster at school. Then I took a long shower. I remember the shower. I remember staring at the tiles and wondering how this could have happened. I hit the bed before Mom could even notice anything was wrong. I didn’t sleep much that night. The next morning was worse. It was a struggle not to hobble because I still really hurt. I guess I covered well. And it was cold weather, so layers of clothes hid all the marks on my body. It was such a huge coverup and I felt very alone.
That Sunday, I went to church with my mom, and did the whole routine as if nothing was wrong. Except everything was wrong. I just couldn’t get over it like I wanted to. School was a blur that next week. I know I just wasn’t all there. Then the "panics" started.
The first incident happened that Wednesday. That was the day that my Sociology teacher followed me out of his classroom and put his arm on my shoulder (I later understood that he noticed I was drifting in class and that my color didn’t look good, and he was going to make sure I was okay). Something in me snapped when he touched me and I just screamed and fell backward, trying to move away from him. Of course everyone stopped and stared and then I realized I was falling apart. My teacher, of course, was stunned and wanted to know what the heck was wrong with me. Soon there was this big circle around me of concerned people...Is she okay? Is she okay? It was like those damned Calgon commercials where the world is coming down on you and you just want someone to take you away!
My brain was desperately searching for a way out of this one. I did the only thing I could think of. I ran down the hallway, into the restroom, and locked myself in a stall. It was kind of stupid, because what I really did was corner myself. I had to come out sooner or later. I chose later. Actually, I was in the stall for about a half an hour, thinking about how to handle this, wanting to cry, but not wanting to lose my composure any more than I already had.
Finally, a female teacher coaxed me out, and she walked me to the guidance counselor’s office. The guidance counselor, who was also a male, and therefore a threatening presence to me right then, was determined to get to the root of what was up with me. I wasn’t very cooperative. I just told him I had been under a lot of stress (I used the upcoming musical production as an excuse), and that I didn’t know what came over me. I don’t think he bought it. But he did suggest that I consider doing less theatre work if it was that stressful. He had no idea that the stage was the ONLY place I felt safe and secure at that time! I wanted to live in the world of make believe right then. The real world was too unbearable. Anyway, I told him I’d try not to let the stress get to me. He still didn’t look convinced, but he let me go. I actually went back to class that day, though it was awkward. Somehow I got through the day.
As you can imagine, this didn’t last for long. Secrets like these almost always come out, and mine was no exception. I was so completely exhausted by the end of the school week... the emotional torment, the physical pain... and I hadn’t slept a night through since that Saturday night, either. I knew I was breaking down. I wondered how much longer I could last. I was even having suicidal thoughts, I was so depressed. I needed to talk about it, but yet I didn’t want a soul to know about it. It was eating me up inside.
Finally, it all came crashing down that Friday at school, in the middle of drama class. We had been doing directorial scenes (upperclassmen direct underclassmen), and one of the guys in my class was directing a scene from Ariel Dorfman’s Death and the Maiden. It’s about a woman who was tortured and raped and seeks revenge on the man she believes to have been her captor. (I still think that was awfully hefty material for high school, but that's beside the point). The character desribes her ordeal in detail. It all overwhelmed me at once. I could still feel the cold of the air... I could smell him, hear him... the wounds were literally still fresh, and it was as if I were experiencing all the pain and degradation all over again at that moment. I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I began to feel nauseous and the room started spinning. I got the heck out of the room and headed for the restroom. I was almost completely unaware of the world around me, as I buried my head in my arms and slid to the floor, crying. I cried and cried and cried.
This girl Joni (who was in the same class) found me on the bathroom floor, crying. She had been at the party with the group of girls I had gone with, and to my surprise, had it pretty much figured out by now. It’s about that Joe, isn’t it? She suspected something had happened that night. That we’d had a fight or something. She even thought maybe he had hit me. It didn’t dawn on her until just then that he had raped me. Oh my God, Oh my God... she kept saying. She started crying, too, going Why didn’t you tell me???
I begged her not to tell anyone. She couldn’t understand why not. I was arguing this with her and trying to stand up and compose myself, and to my surprise, I couldn’t. I was so exhausted and dizzy and overwhelmed. I almost passed out.
At some point Joni got a teacher to come help her get me to my feet and I kind of remember being walked to the nurse’s station. As it turns out, I was severely dehydrated. I hadn’t really eaten or drank much of anything in the past couple of days. I hadn’t had an appetite. So, anyway, I wound up in the emergency room. Yes, an ambulance actually came and got me at school. It was a blur, but I remember some of it. Lots of people asking lots of questions and I was very scared. I must have passed out at some point or something, because I don’t remember anything from the ambulance ride. All I know is I woke up in the hospital with oxygen and an i.v. and my mom crying over me, being really sweet to me and telling me I should have just told her.
Apparently, Joni had blabbed. I hated her for it at the time. Now I understand, though, that she was just scared. What a horribly public and dramatic way for the whole world to find out about what happened to me. I wanted to die even more.
What followed- and I’m really summing it up here- was a lot of therapy, including a stay in the adolescent psychiatric ward because I had voiced suicidal feelings. It was hell. It was almost as bad as the rape itself. But it had to happen, I guess, for the healing to begin. There was a lot of legal rubbage, too.
If you’re wondering what happened to Joe, the answer is nothing. I had been through enough. I was angry, of course... but I was also ashamed and embarrassed and no amount of therapy could convince me that it would behoove me to prosecute. And I never felt guilty for it, because I didn’t feel like he was the type to do this to just anyone. I felt that it was a very personal attack. He was angry at ME. Yes, it was selfish of me not to want to go through a trial, but I had had enough pain. I wanted to put it behind me. Luckily, my mom respected my wishes. I just never wanted to see him again. And I never have. I never went to another party my senior year, and I went away to college. So bumping into Joe again has never been a problem.
Getting through my senior year wasn’t easy, but I did it. I even finished with honors. And I don’t think the whole world actually knew what happened. Though I’m sure talk gets around, and I’m guessing most of the staff and probably some students had heard. More than likely, so has Joe. Maybe he gets a big kick out of it. That grates at me to think about, so I don’t.
This was many years ago. I’m now in my mid-twenties and married. I’ve never told my husband all the details, but he does know that I was raped in high school and that I don’t like to talk about it. It’s as if none of it ever happened. My family never talks about it (why would they???), and neither do I. I haven't had any severe flashbacks (save one incident in college) recently, but I can’t say that I’ve blocked it out. I still remember it too well.
I would be lying to say that my experience hasn’t scarred me somewhat, and I know for a fact that it does have an effect on our sex life, but I could just never admit to my husband that I still have issues. It’s hard to find support for something like this. It still haunts me, and I fear that it could hurt my marriage if I don’t really resolve my issues. But I can’t bear to think about drudging it up again. I thought writing it all out might make me feel better... sharing it with others who might be able to relate, without having to go to in-person group therapy stuff. It’s a lot of baggage for one person to carry.
Last updated 11th October 1998