Select Page

Questioning

I was friendly. That’s all.

He was my friend.

He asked me to go with him to feed his rabbits. How could I say no? I love rabbits. So we went.

They were trying to nibble at my fingers when I felt him come up behind me. I asked him what he was trying. He didn’t even say a word before he turned me around and forced his lips on mine. I pulled back…or tried to. In a second, his hands had already torn my bra off. Believe me, I was fighting. I mean, I liked him, but not that way. I kicked, I punched, I begged… We were up against a wall when he tried to rip my pants off. I was trying desperately to reason with him. Nothing could fend him off. He lifted and started carrying me to his quarters. I couldn’t even move one of his fingers away. He was too strong. He put me down to open the door and there I strangled him. He was laughing. How?

He relented for a second, and I ran. I climbed the gate and ran home.

I’ve been crying.

I can’t stop.

He texted me the next morning saying I was a good kisser.

I want to kill him.

I was once in a similar situation. Called the cops. But now, do I send this man to prison? Again, we were friends.

What if I see him again? Will I run? We’re almost neighbors.

He didn’t rape me. But he was going to. Was he?

Am I just a walking vagina?

I Just Need Someone To Tell Me If What He Did Was Okay.

I’m really confused and need some direction. I feel so empty and feel as though this is all my fault and as if I’m to blame. Someone please help me. My friend and I had been drinking, mind you A LOT, and I had been flirting with this guy, and I said he could come over and kiss me, harmless right? At least I thought it was. He came over and we were hanging out, the three of us, and eventually we kissed, but things were getting weird as he kept trying to get me to drink more and more even though I felt horrible and everything was spinning.

Every time I would look away he’d pour more vodka in my drink. He was completely sober, he hadn’t had a single sip of alcohol. I was laying on the ground and I remember him saying they’d have to put me to bed soon, at some point I was puking and I said I had to go lay down and I think I said if anyone wanted to join me they could (this is something where I feel like is my fault, like I was asking for it, but I just didn’t want to be alone). I was in the middle of putting pajamas on and he came into my room, this is where things get really blurry, I was not feeling well at all. I remember he sat on the bed and I think I sat on his lap and we kissed a bit and then we were laying down, I remember he kept trying to touch me and I kept saying no, I don’t remember how many times I said no, but I know it was multiple.

Eventually I just gave up, this is where I don’t remember how my pants came off. I remember his shirt coming off eventually, but I think he’d already put it in me by then, I remember it hurt so bad. I knew I didn’t want to have sex with him, especially without a condom, I just wanted it to be over with. The thing that bugs me is I don’t know how my pants got off. I remember just laying there taking it and when he told me to turn over I did in hopes that it would be done quicker. Then I blacked out for awhile, the last thing I remember is him laughing about how “tired” I was. I’m pretty sure I had fallen asleep.

I got dressed as soon as I could and went down stairs to my two friends, as one had come over, and he stayed for another hour. I just tried to stay away from him as something felt off. I remember him making comments about how he should fuck me and my friend and I just felt sick. I kissed him goodbye because I felt obligated, texted him the next day, but now he’s blocked off everything and something inside me just isn’t right anymore. 

But I’m Tough

I remember my hair sticking to my lip gloss as we walked across the street to the courthouse.

I remember thinking that one day, I would start a story with this sentence. My mother added the following line: this isn’t where you think your relationship will end up when it starts.

What still gets me is that, deep down, I did know. I knew the entire time that things couldn’t end well.

I knew it was strange that he never seemed to have any close friends – and that he didn’t know anyone in my friend circle. I knew it was immature that he didn’t take our music teacher seriously; I knew that, eventually, he’d need to grow up. I noticed how it made me uncomfortable when he started asking me personal questions after we’d only known each other for a few weeks.

But I consciously ignored all of it, and thus began nine months that ended in that dreaded courtroom.

The first of those nine months was May, when we started dating. I turned sixteen the day after it was made “Facebook official.” He was seventeen.

I was happy; he was happy.

We texted and talked on the phone, we spent every moment of free time together. The warning signs seemed to fade away from my sights, and I enjoyed maybe a few weeks of bliss.

He took my virginity in either the late spring or early summer. He was gentle about it, and I was confident in my choice to give it to him. He was caring. He loved me, and I loved him. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you share something so intimate with someone.

I’m not capable of saying exactly when the abuse began, but at some point, it did.

He would pin me down and pinch the backs of my arms until he drew blood. He’d lay his 200+ pound frame on top of my 125-pound one, which bruised my hips and stifled my breathing. He got angry any time I told him to get off of me; that he was hurting me. He got angry because I was “lying” when I said those things. He could see things in me that I didn’t see in myself:

I was tough, he said.

I could handle him.

The emotional abuse started around this time, although it’s harder to draw a hard line around it. I will never know what our first fight was about – it was pure nonsense; they always were. What I do remember was the yelling, the way his eyes would narrow at me, his voice would deepen dangerously, the way he broke things.

But I wasn’t weak.
 
I could handle him.

Over the summer, I steadily learned to be afraid of him. I learned not to deny him sex, because if I did, I was rejecting him. I must’ve been in love with someone else. I learned not to wear skinny jeans to work, because that was the one place where he didn’t get to see my fine piece of ass.

I learned not to correct him about anything – whether it was whether green was a primary color or if being gay is genetic – he hated to be wrong. That’s why he was always right.

I learned not to fight when he held me down and pinched me, when he held me under the water in his friend’s pool. I learned to go limp and deny him the satisfaction of overcoming me. I learned not to panic, because that only made it worse.

I learned how to act like everything was okay in front of my friends. I learned how to let him pinch me and slap me in front of them, because I knew he wouldn’t stop if I told him to. It would only make things awkward to draw attention to it.

It would confirm what I knew deep down; something was terribly wrong in our relationship.

I learned to take out my frustration on my family instead of him. I learned how to yell at my parents instead of listen to them; I learned how to never cry in front of them, in case they asked questions.

My boyfriend didn’t like my parents – he blamed them for everything he didn’t like in me. If I let my guard down; if I acted weak, it was because I’d been raised that way. If I told him I couldn’t stay out past three o’ clock in the morning, he asked me if I always let them control me: when was I going to grow up?

When I told him my mom started noticing the yellow-and-purple bruises on my arms, he asked if my parents disapproved of harmless roughhousing. Did they coddle me? Was that why I was weak? This was why, in the heat of the summer, I didn’t wear tank-tops. It was easier to change my wardrobe than to change the way he treated me.

Late in the summer, I received the four scars that will stay with me for years to come.

The one on my forearm was from a ride at a county fair, when I was so offensive enough to “crush” him against the side of a spinning-ride. By this point, it was already established that I was weak, so of course, it would make sense that I was unable to stop physics.

And I was severely punished for it. He gripped my arm and refused to let go, tearing his fingernails into my skin and holding on until his hand was trembling. My arm bled, and for weeks after, it hurt to touch it and it turned a horrid color of yellow.

Now, I have a pretty little gray dot the size of my pinky nail to commemorate the event.

The other three scars are on my back.

They look strange, and for months, I was convinced that I would never wear a swimsuit again. There are three quarter-sized grayish-pink circles in a straight line.

I want to say two things before I go on.

One: it wasn’t rape. I never told him to stop.

Two: it was four letters away from being rape. I knew that he wouldn’t stop if I told him to. I knew that the moment I let my emotions take control; that the moment I felt the pain, that I would panic. I knew that I would try to get him off of me, and that he would force me back into it.

Call me naive for dating him, call me stupid for staying with him, call me whatever you want, but don’t ever tell me I didn’t know him. I knew what I was afraid of.

And I will never be convinced that it wasn’t four letters away from being rape.

We were having sex in his basement. He was on top. As soon as it started, I knew something was wrong. I could feel the carpet starting to rub against my back – and not in a good way.

I will never know for sure if this happened or not, but I swear I remember telling him something was hurting. Of course, I was tough. I could withstand the pain. So I waited. I closed my eyes, I gritted my teeth, I blocked it out like I always did. When he was finished, I sat up and saw what he had done.

My spine had rubbed against the floor like a cheese-grater, giving me three bloody, gaping holes in my skin.  I was horrified to see it. I still have the shirt that has the blood spots on it. I had to hide it, should my parents find out.

Of course, he thought this was hilarious, and insisted that we have sex against a door right after. The next time you skin your knee, rub the bare wound up against a piece of wood. That’s more-or-less what this felt like.

When a boy pointed to the marks at the pool weeks later, my boyfriend laughed.

He made jokes about what the marks looked like, about how the scars would never go away. He humiliated me, showing me off to everyone.

But I didn’t cry; I never cried.

I was tough.

The only time I ever stood up to him about his abuse was when he hit me hard enough to knock the wind out of me – twice in a row. He slapped me in the back and taunted me when I sat down to catch my breath, because I was acting weak.

As soon as we got into his car and out of earshot, I told him to never hit me like that again.

He was quiet for a long time, but I could see the signs of his anger that I knew were only there to psych me out. He clenched his jaw, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and for a moment, I wondered if he was going to get us into an accident. But finally, the explosion came when I told him to man up and tell me what was wrong.

“It’s like you think I abuse you,” he yelled. “You know I would never hit you out of anger!”

And there it was.

There was the moment when abuse was defined by my abuser: If it wasn’t out of anger, it didn’t count.

All he’d ever done was foolishly roughhoused with me; all he’d ever done was belittle me to get his way. He’d never slap me across the face. He would only slap me on my legs, my arms, my stomach, my chest. But never the face.

Imagine my relief to find that I wasn’t in an abusive relationship; just a complicated one.

By the time school started again, my boyfriend came to me with news. He was in love with my best friend, Anna. He wanted to date us both and decide which one he loved the most.

I’d put up with a lot of pain at this point, but this was too much. As long as it was just the two of us, I could withstand any emotional or physical torment. I had given him my soul and the rights to use my body as he wished. But now, I was learning that it wasn’t enough. He still wanted someone else, and he wanted to share me with her.

So I said no.  

He broke a window; he yelled at me, he demeaned me in every way possible.

But I said no.

And the feeling I felt after that; the pure, shaking abandonment, was the most painful thing that ever happened in our relationship. It felt like every bone was breaking.

Only when he left did I see what he had truly done to me; the destruction he’d caused in my life. In order to be with him, I’d silenced myself. I stopped standing up for myself, I no longer understood what it meant to have self-respect. I, as I knew me, was gone. He’d filled that hole for some time, but now, he was gone, too, and I was the only one left to blame.

All of this happened in late August, maybe early September. If you remember right, we still have four or five months to go. And any abuse I’d suffered from him couldn’t compare to what he did to me next; what he did to my family.

He decided he loved me more than Anna, but they were still “together,” whatever this meant at the time. So he cheated on her with me. I hurt her by doing it, and I knew it. I justified it by saying that she knew what she was getting into with him; that she’d hurt me first by dating him.

But I knew I was just being selfish; that I was intoxicated by him. Before this, I never understood why women stayed in abusive relationships.

As it turned out, that wasn’t the thing that destroyed my friendship with Anna. That came later, when the court got involved.

He wanted to take me back after he broke up with Anna, but he’d already made his mistake. He let me go for at least two weeks, maybe even a month, without him. It had been tough, but I had started to wake up and come to my senses. I turned him down; I told him I needed time.

That was when things truly got bad. He’d always told me when we were together that he had an ugly side he hoped I never had to see. I should’ve realized at the time that I one day would.

He threatened me. He threatened to ruin my life in every way he could imagine. He threatened my family; he told me that he didn’t know what would happen, but that I shouldn’t be surprised if his mom or dad showed up on our front porch one day and “did something.”

He told me that I needed him to protect me, because I would only fall in love with another abuser in time. He told me that I would get raped if I slept with anyone but him. He publicly humiliated me at school, yelling at the top of his lungs personal things that I’d only told him; how I’d felt broken after being diagnosed with ADHD years before; how I no longer felt like I could trust anyone.

At this point, I’d come clean about many secrets to my parents, and they stepped in. We went to the principal’s office and told my ex that he was no longer allowed to contact me. I’d wanted space before, but now I needed it. It wasn’t just for me. I knew what he was capable of, and I wasn’t going to let him hurt my family.

So he stalked me. He followed us home in his car, he skipped class and kept his eyes on me at all times during school. He ambushed me at our home and screamed at me in our driveway, blocking the door so that I couldn’t get inside. I had an anxiety attack after that happened.

In December, we had the first court date.

We’d filed a restraining order. Here’s a piece of news I didn’t know at the time: if you file for a restraining order and the defendant doesn’t show up to court, it’s immediately granted.

If he does show up to court, he has the choice to either agree to it, or to contest it, meaning he would come back at a later court date to dispute the charges.

Guess which one he did.

The next court date was set for late February. We hired an attorney and a private investigator. I was forced to pick through every text, every email, and every Facebook message we’d ever exchanged, looking for proof that he was a danger to me, and that I’d been clear that I didn’t want anything to do with him.

Everything that was supposed to stay private about our relationship; our sex life, our fighting, our most intimate moments, was torn open. The story of how I lost my virginity to him is now known by countless people who have a copy of the full restraining order; my boss, an attorney, police officers at my high school and college.

That’s why I’m okay with sharing my story with the world. The people I wanted to keep this a secret from are now the people who know everything about it.

And in the end, it wasn’t enough. We didn’t get our restraining order, and at the advice of our lawyer, we dismissed the case.

I lost four of my best friends in the world after this happened, leaving me with one.

I lost Anna when I read over her testimony that she’d given to the private investigator. She didn’t think I had anything to be afraid of. She knew that he slapped me, that he hurt me, that he taunted me. But I never told him to stop in her presence, and in her mind, that made it okay.

She saw the mess I’d become after dating him; she knew that he’d threatened my family. But she was on his side; under his spell. If she’d said that she thought he was a danger to me, we could’ve had a shot at a restraining order. I knew that I would never trust her again.

I lost a third friend a few months after the whole thing happened. He’d had a crush on me for some time, and we had a very close friendship, texting 24/7 for months. I’d told him every detail of what my ex had done to me, and he’d been supportive.

I started college in January – at the age of sixteen. I had a job. I was stressed and emotionally wounded. I stopped talking to him every day, and shortened it to just once or twice a week, until eventually we were hardly talking at all.

He always wanted to hang out, and when I did agree to do something, I was exhausted and not as “playful” as he wanted me to be. So he gave me an ultimatum: either put in more effort, or don’t bother talking to him again. I knew better than to think that giving him more was the way to make things work; that was the entire nature of the relationship I had just escaped. So things ended.

And, lastly, I lost a fourth friend; my boyfriend. Before this, I never understood why women stayed in abusive relationships any more than I understood why people did drugs.

Both things were harmful and had potential to ruin your life.

But they have another thing in common; people run to them when they’re week. Just months before I started talking to my now-ex boyfriend, our house had been burglarized while we were home. I couldn’t sleep in my own room for months without the light on.

I had also been diagnosed with depression. I was unhappy with school. I lacked a sense of purpose.

No one talks about the good side of abusive relationships. He was my best friend in the world. We shared everything together; opinions, thoughts, feelings. When he wasn’t tearing me down, he was the most supportive friend in the world.

When I admitted to myself that his abuse was worse than his good side could ever be, I lost the best friend I had in him.

Getting out of that abusive relationship was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

It was painful, and I haven’t even begun to imagine how it will affect my future relationships.

It made me stronger than I ever was, but I will never be thankful for it.

Diary of a Wimpy Girl

Date or acquaintance rape is one of the hardest to accept.

This is her story:

We were friends.

We went out to dinner. When he dropped me off at my apartment, he asked if he could come in.

I said sure – I didn’t think anything of it.

He’d been to my apartment many times. Sometimes we did homework together or we’d watch a movie together.

That night, we were sitting on the couch watching television. He asked me if he could kiss me. I didn’t want to; I made excuses. I told him he had a girlfriend and that he he would regret it afterwards.I told him it would change the dynamic between us as friends.

I made these excuses for him so he’d understand that he was wrong. Instead, I should have told him I didn’t want to kiss him because I didn’t want to kiss him. Period.

He kept pressing me.

I felt cornered and I was exhausted trying to reason with him. Then a dumb thought entered my head: maybe if I let him just this once, he might stop bothering me. He must have sensed my momentary hesitation because he leaned in to kiss me. For a while I let him.

Then I pulled away and looked away. I was staring at the television. I wasn’t looking at him.

I gave him no impression that could’ve caused him to do what he did next.

He must’ve decided he was going to do this and acted without bothering to fill me in. He got up from the couch and picked me up without warning; without asking me. I didn’t realize his intention until he put me down on the bed, got on top of me, and started pulling my clothes off.

He didn’t said a word.

He just did it.

I cannot explain my reaction. I lost all sensation in my body, I lost all sense of control. I couldn’t speak. What sealed the deal on what would happen to me next was the complete same sense of powerlessness I felt after he stripped my clothes off.

He was fully clothed and I was naked. He had power; I didn’t. I keep thinking of the miserable, weak, pathetic little creature I turned into after that. I felt so small.

After he pulled my clothes off, he sucked on my breasts. He looked up and said, “You have perfect breasts!” I guess he got bored after that because he got up and started texting.

It took great effort to move. My body felt it was made of lead. I was very conscious of my naked body. I was hunched over slightly, perhaps subconsciously, trying to cover up what little I could. I got up from the bed and was now standing in front of him. He typed a few more words while I stared emptily at his moving hands.

Then he threw his phone into the laundry basket and spread is arms out motioning me to take his shirt off. The gesture seemed to say, “Take my shirt off, bitch!” I undid a few of his buttons then stopped. He must have done the rest.

The next thing I remember is him making me hold him in my hand. He inserted his finger in me and whispered, “Wow, you are so wet!” Then he sat down on the bed and was motioning me to straddle him.

“Are you clean?” he asked. I wonder if it would have made a difference if I had said no.

Instead, I didn’t answer. The thought of doing anything sexual with him was unbearable. I pulled away from him, took a step back and said, “I don’t think we should.”

It took every ounce of energy in me to do that. I was afraid of him but I didn’t realize that what I was feeling was fear and confusion: I was just trying to get through it.

After I pulled away, he stared at the wall for a second. Then, without saying a word, he took my arm, pinned me to the bed and got on top of me.

Then, I don’t remember feeling anything at all. I pulled my hands away from him. I remember this vividly because I imagined touching his shoulders and the thought repulsed me; so I drew my hands back.

My face was turned away.

At one point, I remember watching my left leg spread out, hanging in the air.  Then, I don’t remember seeing anything. Maybe I closed my eyes. I don’t remember. All I remember are words.

He asked me if he could kiss me. After all he had done to me, he asked me if he could kiss me. I don’t remember responding. I don’t think I did because I cannot remember him kissing me. He asked if I was on the pill or if he needed to pull out. I knew I had to respond so I let out two weak responses: once I said yes and once I said no. I remember very clearly how difficult it was to let those words out. I felt my voice was stuck in my throat.

I remember him saying: relax, just relax. I didn’t feel anything. I can’t tell when he was inside me.

At some point, I remember feeling a sharp pain and letting out a yelp. “Too much?” he asked and kept going.

The next thing I remember is him getting up to finish all over me. He got off me after that. I got up immediately and went into the restroom to wipe myself off. I could see him standing by the bed.

“I enjoyed it,” he said, “I’ve never been inside any one so tight before.”

I was shame and embarrassed after he said that to me. Afterward, I just wanted to return to a state of normalcy. I did not think about it again for weeks. It was as if my body wanted to forget what had happened.

Then it came back.

It was almost as sudden and abrupt as the moment he picked me up from the couch. All of it came flooding back at once.

The forgotten moment now plays in my head over and over and over again. The crying spells, the sadness, the anger, the humiliation – all of it came out of nowhere and it hasn’t stopped since.

The Story That Lead Me To Me

I’ve been reading people’s stories on The Band and decided it might help me to share mine. Most of the stories I’ve seen included violence, fortunately mine doesn’t.

I was raped at the age of 15.

I am now 16.

He was my boyfriend of two years. I still don’t remember everything from that night, but I feel that it is time to let go of what I do remember.

We were at his house and he decided to watch a horror movie on his laptop, so we were lying on his bed watching this movie. I rolled over and gave him a kiss, then I rolled back over on my side to continue watching the movie. He tugged on my sweatshirt and said, “I wasn’t done with you yet.”

I thought he was just teasing.

When I rolled to face him, he grabbed onto my waist. I knew then what he wanted. I told him that I wasn’t ready. I told him no.

I did, I said no…

(sorry this is really hard for me to share).

He put more pressure on me so I wouldn’t be able to get away, though I tried. I truly tried to get away.

I will never say that I gave up fighting him, because I didn’t. But, I clenched my eyes shut. I felt him start to pull my pants down so I started kicking. That didn’t stop him. Then…

Then it happened.

My virginity was taken from me.

I’ve had nightmares ever since.

I didn’t leave him after it happened. I felt like I was too weak to be on my own. I also kept having sex with him because I was so scared that if I didn’t, he would do it again…and he ruined the little bit of self-esteem I had.

So, since I felt so low about myself, I kept doing it because I felt like I deserved it.

Like I said before, I’m fortunate that my situation wasn’t violent.

I am sixteen years old, almost seventeen, and I am currently in a relationship with my seventeen year old Navy boyfriend. I came into this relationship scared to death to let myself love someone again.

But, my boyfriend taught me that what I went through was tragic and devastating, but I am beautiful and have my whole life ahead of me. He has turned my life around completely and made me realize that I have to learn to love myself before I could be happy and love someone else.

I still have nightmares whenever I sleep. I still go through periods when I blame myself. I still have severe depression, but everyday is a new day.

I guess, part of me is still seeking for help and advise on how to keep fighting after a rape. Being raped has made me who I am today.

Yes, I wish it hadn’t happen, but at the same time, I’m glad that it did because it has made me become the strong, beautiful young lady I am.

Accountability Means Nothing

t’s always hard for me to start these sorts of conversations. Although I feel a bit more at ease, considering the audience. I’m a victim of multiple forms of abuse, but most recently I’m having issues dealing with date rape. I was raped once, back when I was in middle school and came to terms with what happened. I never once considered it would happen to me again.

I was naive.

It happened six weeks ago at a really inconvenient time. Yeah, I know, it’s NEVER convenient and no one is ever prepared for it. It just further complicated issues with my ex-boyfriend. I was raped by an acquaintance; a friend of a “friend” (I use the term loosely now).

I still blame myself even though I know I shouldn’t. I have some pretty textbook reasons:

• I had too much to drink that night

• I allowed myself to feel safe in a clearly risky situation because I believed that the people I was with had some sort of accountability

• I openly admitted to being attracted to my attacker

• He kissed me once and while I made it clear I was uncomfortable, I did not remove myself from the situation.

I get that it’s not supposed to be my fault but I have a hard time allowing myself to believe that.

I was invited to a party at a coworkers house who I’ve worked with for the past six months. He had some friends staying with him from Chile who were there, too. My coworker, his best friend/my attacker, and several of our co-workers were there.

Beer pong and alcohol consumption wasn’t the problem. There was marijuana present and that illegal activity was my first deterrent to seeking help – there goes some of my credibility.

I hung out with the girls and was doing fine until I was comfortable with the group. We all work together, we have to see each other at work. I took that as we had accountability for our actions.  

Nope.

I broke my self-imposed rule: don’t accept alcoholic drinks at the point you no longer feel the need to drink. I was persuaded by hospitality and the “party vibe.”

I drank too much and at the point that rest of the group was leaving, I decided I was not quite yet ready to drive. I asked to stay a few more minutes before leaving.

I thought I was being responsible.

His buddy speaks about as much English as I do Spanish. My Spanish isn’t fluent but I can get by. Still, he got me alone while we were talking, which wasn’t hard. I know the game, avoid the chick your friend is trying to “impress” and give them space. I spent a good thirty minutes trying to avoid this guy. He kissed me and I pulled away, politely excused myself, and he kept his distance. For a bit.

My coworker and his Chilean guests were very accommodating and offered me their couch to crash on. I politely declined but elected to stay another fifteen minutes. My coworker asked me to dance and I politely declined. Suddenly, he felt tired and went to his room, leaving me alone with his friend.

I felt uneasy, decided I didn’t like the scenario so I went to get my bag off the couch. He told me to sit, sleep here, “don’t drive, you’re drunk,” and took my keys. I would do the same for my friends and I appreciated his concern.

The mood didn’t change – I was still uneasy. Rightfully so. He pulled me in and made an advance in the living room minutes after my coworker retired to bed. He grabbed my bag and keys and took them from me. I explained I needed to leave and he pretended not to understand me – he reminded me that I was drunk.

It’s funny how fear sobers you up.

He pushed me down and got on top of me. What pisses me off more than anything is that I saw it happening and froze. I just fucking froze. The man was on top of me, my arm in between is groin and mine and all I could think was: “make a fist” – and I did. “Bring you arm up. Straight up as hard as you can and run” – I didn’t. I froze. I talked myself out of it.

He tried to kiss me and grope me. He had me beat on upper body strength and I knew it. I was terrified. What if I didn’t stun him and just pissed him off? Then what? He clearly didn’t care about me; would he punch me in the face?

A million questions ran through my mind as I lay there. I looked at him and said “please no, please stop” again and again and again and all he said back “No problem, I understand, no sex”

I mean, what the fuck, man. No English isn’t your first language but you plainly made it known you understood me, you jerk!

I tried to pull my panties back up and push him off me – and he just continued. He had to know it wasn’t consensual.

There’s another reason I can’t even look my coworker in the face. I screamed. I stopped being scared and screamed, I begged for help and only got louder. It’d been maybe fifteen minutes after he went to his room. I KNOW, I just KNOW he had to hear something. Someone had to hear something. And no one did anything to help.

After he finished, I laid there and cried. He’d shocked the hell out of me. I didn’t even know how to respond. I get now that it was very controlling but I don’t understand my reaction. I laid on the couch and didn’t – couldn’t – move.

He covered me up with a blanket got down by my face and said three things I’ll never forget: “What is my name?” He asked over and over until I said it. “Give me a kiss,” and he pushed my face to his until I kissed his cheek, and then “Good girl.

I wanted to spit in his face. I want to kick him in the throat and run screaming for the neighbors to hear. Instead, I listened and I laid there and cried until I was sure he was asleep in the other room. It was two hours before I moved. Then I got dressed, fixed my face, and left.

The guy was a jerk. My co-worker is an enabling scumbag who told me it was my fault

The first person I called, a longtime friend, threatened to tell my mom (who I still haven’t told) if I didn’t go to the police because, “It would be my fault for letting him get away with it and do it again.”

The rape is affecting the relationship I’m in now. The date rape happened while my boyfriend of three years and I were broken up. We weren’t dating but both hoped things between us could be worked out. I had no intention of dating anyone else. Then this happened and I reacted in such stupid crazy ways that even I can’t explain my behavior.

I didn’t want to tell him and I regret telling him because he did exactly what I thought he would – he basically blamed me.

I figured making him want to leave me would be better than dealing with it, so I sent provocative pictures of myself to some random person online hoping he’d just leave me. It seemed like a better alternative. Yes, I know how dumb that sounds. In the end when he questioned why I wanted to hurt him, I felt like utter shit.

I don’t know how I thought hurting him and making him leave me would be better than explaining what happened.

So I explained it. I wish I hadn’t. The first things he said to me were: “how do I know you didn’t cheat on me and just regret it? Did you like it? Did you kiss him at all? You didn’t lead him on at all? How do you know he used a condom and if he did how’s come you waited for him to put it on? If he had time for a condom you had time to do something…”

We’re back together now, but he couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to say anything.

My boyfriend said it’s not my fault sure but he didn’t act like it. He blames me for protecting my co-worker because I won’t tell him where the guy lives so he can kick his ass. And I’m mad at him.

I’m frustrated, tired of trying to explain feelings he can’t understand. I’m sorry for intentionally hurting him, but making him feel better about what happened to me isn’t my job and it’s pissing me off. I want to say:

I’m not here to make you feel better, kicking his ass doesn’t change what happened to me it just opens you up to an assault charge.

By now, it’s too late to press charges. I didn’t go to the doctors or police. He and his friend were only staying in the United States for a few weeks and I’m pretty sure he’s already back in Chile. I’m happy I’ll never have to see his face again.

I see it sometimes when I go to sleep. I wake up and hear myself saying his name. I wish I’d have spat in his face but instead I said his name. I’m not sure why he even cared if I knew who he was – it’s not like he’d ever see me again.

I’m confused, upset, pissed off, and tired of trying to sort it out for other people. I haven’t even done that for myself yet.

I will never again assume people are to be held accountable for their actions.