I have always been very honest and very candid about my rape, sometimes more than people would like. In my openess about the feelings I (still) experience, the effects it's had on my life and how I generally feel it has made me a better & stronger person, I never talk about what happened that night; what was done to me. I've given whole speeches and written pieces about rape and it's effects and how to come back from it. I never give the gorey details. I often feel like it may detract from the outcome that could be had and the silver lining that can be found in that one cloud of indispicable violence. The truth, the very real and very honest truth, is that if I think or talk about what those 2 men did to me, I feel like I will die. Or never stop throwing up. I once had a therapist who believed very much that if I spoke about what they did, I would somehow, magically, regain my 'power'. So, I told her. And it felt like I had the fire of hell in my veins. I wanted to die. She wanted me to tell someone else. I suppose to get the hang of it? To further humiliation? I've never been certain. I did not want to put either of my parents through that; I've never felt like they needed to have those mental images in their minds. Same for my brother. My boyfriend seemed fitting. He stood by me through so much and always held my hand. He was the least judgemental person I knew. I knew this would just be nothing to him. I was slightly wrong. My boyfriend, the hardened cynic, the ex junkie punk rock drummer, was so beside himself that he did nothing but throw up and cry. I have never been able to imagine what went through his mind when he heard what I was put through. I've never wanted to put another person through that. So, I am always mum on the horrors of that night.
Lately, I've wondered if that is the right thing to do.
It is human nature to hear tales of woe and horror and righteously think, 'Well, that would never be me.' I don't blame people who take that stance. You learn not to in my shoes. You adjust not to people wanting to be naive, but to them really wanting to believe that nothing that horrible could ever touch their lives. I know. I used to be one of them. In January, someone I love so dearly and with every ounce of my being was raped. She has spent the duration of our time as siblings knowing what happened to me and witnessed the aftermath of the actions of those men. But I blame myself for what happened to her. Not her, not the jackass who did it. This is not me having a pity party; this is me wondering if I had really laid it out for her, would she ever have gone there that night? Had I told her openly and honestly of a night that culminated in blood and bruises and my eventual lack of faith in the human race, would she have made the choice she made? If she had ever seen anything other than her big sister put a positive spin on a night of terror, would she have been more cautious? Will it help anything in this world if I tell others what happened to me that night? Not just the part where I made it out alive and made something really terrible into something really positive, but the part where I was left for dead? How do I make this hit home for everyone, not just those in my life who know me so well that they can still see the missing pieces in me? That all it takes is one instance of mislaid trust for your world to tumble around your ankles?
How do I get people to see that without handing over one of the most secret parts of me?
