I told you I was raped. What happened next?

The reason I told my rape story here and now was because I needed to.  The event, the rape, is part of a bigger picture I am trying to paint. I am not a painter though, my hands do not draw pictures. My hands doodle and experiment with the medium of words. I know enough to know there is help if I need it.

I wrote my story while Miss Carry sat beside me in the car.  It was a long smoky night. Lots of coffee, and an abundance of self-medicating. Quiet and sometimes chatting. Like a Q7 cubicle. I stopped typing at almost 4 am. It was nice to work with a quiet companion.  A good solid days work, I like that. I enjoy chain-smoking and staring at the sky while sentences form in my mind. I enjoy what I am doing.

The next day when I woke, I had a physical feeling of an aerosol can on the verge of combustion in a smoldering backyard fire.  I went to visit Triple Ex. I told him I didn’t want to talk.  I just wanted his big lumbering QUIET body beside me. I told him, I didn’t mind sitting in the bar next to him, staring at people and watching them interact.

I love watching people, facial expressions, mannerisms and body language. Fascinating. I could lean my chin on my hand and just stare & think.  I thought that later, I would look forward to sitting on an old brown couch smoking freely, tweeting and watching TV  with somebody who has been around as long as that couch. He sits next to me frequently and just sleeps – why he had to keep asking me “What’s wrong” that night I don’t know.

After I had I answered him, I just wasn’t prepared for the answers he gave back to mine.  He was offended I didn’t remember telling him. He said he didn’t want to live it again. Words were exchanged and needless to say I screamed very mean things at him. I left quietly.

He suffers from intolerable ignorance. My therapist suggested yesterday that I suffer from a bit of rage and anger.

I am so used to it being No Big Deal that I am ill prepared to tell the story as an adult, as a mother and the woman I have become in the past couple of years. I don’t know how to respond to others reactions to a rape story or how to mute my snarky or stoic remarks. I don’t know how to act or what to say. About anything. Dumbfounded.  I only truly know what it feels like to survive, to muddle through and to repress.

What I know not to do, is jump into a whirlwind of memories and textbooks.

So how do I research the topic more? In twenty years I haven’t opened a book that has not made me close it pretty soon thereafter. Somebody handed me, The Lovely Bones, when it first came out (not a book I’d pick up myself) I stuck my nose in not knowing the subject matter and was tossed to shit for a month. I have to admit my ignorance on the topic of recovery from sexual abuse and rape. Is it because I haven’t done the research or read the books? I can’t hear stories about young girls in desperate situations and I generally cannot tolerate, Law & Order SVU.

Never mind the gropes, the coercions, the inappropriate touching and advances by adult community members and teachers, whatever, gross filthy people. I am beginning to be under the impression that my minimization of a 12-year-old girl being raped by two male adults has caught up to me. Taking turns violating me and them saying it was okay to me.

Did I believe that? Do I believe that for other girls?

No – my heart breaks for every girl who is afraid & feels alone.

I am afraid. Only now am I able to maybe, just maybe admit that I have suffered deeply because of the things that happened to me. I was paranoid when my daughter was an infant that somebody would touch her. It made me crazy.

I have been under the impression that my childhood and adolescence was not influencing my life. This is not me copping out. I am in recovery from all kinds of shit. Shit kept happening. If it felt good or at the very least  – different, I did it. I paid many consequences. Consequences are part of life. I allowed sleeping dogs to lie. I am beginning to think that my ignoring what happened to me on that afternoon has cost me dearly. Maybe my need to abuse my body and mind so much would not have been such a daily form of acceptable entertainment for me. I will survive, I know that. It’s what I do.

As I said before I speak to a therapist that I trust and have been seeing for many years. I have taken responsibility for my mental health and I have made an appointment with a new psychiatrist and partnered in my therapist. His help in the reference department has been priceless. I am learning that if I shed the apathy and comfort I take in being alone, help and support is available.

I have been seeing my therapist on a fairly regular basis the past couple of months. I knew these words were coming, I needed to prepare myself though. I was so afraid of being called a loser and disgusting and all of those 12-year-old fears that have been stuck in my throat for all these years.

{Shakes head and takes a deep breath} 

That is not to say I discussed it with him. I think he was a bit surprised when I said I had posted it on my blog. I had written some of the story years ago in a notebook for him, along with other things that I don’t say out loud.  We decided yesterday that practicing saying some of my experiences out loud may be helpful in the recovery process.

Ironically my mother called while I was driving home and told me that she has not been reading the computer and would wait until the story was finished. That in itself was my gift for doing the right thing.

I am not ready to have my Mother see me with different eyes. I think she is beginning to and I am afraid that the solace I have with her these days will go away. I need her just the way she is. I have so many fears about judgement of my character, my ability to parent, my marriage and this deeply rooted shameful secret.  I am hoping that discovery and acceptance will facilitate some sense of peace in my mind.

I am grateful that I have been given an opportunity to share the stories of my life in recovery, in an environment that I am comfortable in. A space that I enjoy. A space that embodies freedom of speech, a place to call my own. The truth of the matter is – I have felt such shame and made so many jokes about so many things, laughing it off, that I believed it was no big deal. I also never had the voice to tell anybody who could help.

The community I have found in Twitter and those who follow my blog on WordPress has enabled me to safely be myself. I am prepared for the negative always. I have only had one person give me a negative response. That person is not a part of the network that has developed through my honesty and the honesty and bravery of those who I have met online. It takes a village and we are a part of one. I am honored that this is being read. Honored like I have never been before. I truly mean that.

This Village rocks!

The women and men who struggle daily with sadness and pain on my timeline.  The super cool moms and dads, the brains, beauty and authors that I follow, the sillies and the stoners. My new smoking neighbor and even a Pixie.

Every single one of you is a part of my village now. Today has been a gift. Come along, come along–we are just getting started.

Copyright © 2011-2012. Eggs.Smoke.Sex. All rights reserved.

Words and images on this blog are copyrighted and not to be reproduced in any way without my express permission in writing. Please contact me with any queries at cognitive-ly@live.com

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4 thoughts on “I told you I was raped. What happened next?

  1. you are awesomely powerful. dont know if you know it yet, so just wanted to share that thought. we are justtell and we reach out to those kids who were you at 12 and encourage (in-courage) them to tell an adult they trust what’s going on. you are healing, you are doing the work, just keep working at it, because its worth it! I was her at 12 and i’m 51 now. I can finally, sometimes, watch law and order when its about child rape. but one thing I can sure as hell do is to help other kids that its happening to now.
    peace. deep, lasting peace. in your heart.
    my wish for you.

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