by Band Back Together | Jan 22, 2015 | Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anger, Anxiety, Child Sexual Abuse, Rape/Sexual Assault, Self Loathing |
We all have ghost from the past that haunt us. Things we’ve seen that we can’t shake off, and won’t let us sleep at night. There are choices we wish we never made. We are some times broken. Desperately gasping for air. We feel dead inside and our hearts go cold, but our faces wear a mask of happiness to avoid uncomfortable conversations.
Sometimes we walk around feeling hollow, pretending to be people we aren’t and to a certain point we don’t even know who we are. Our identities taken from us, or lost in an abyss. Lost souls looking to find home and peace within themselves. I know how I got to this point; it’s complex and dark, and hard to stomach. I was a little girl. There were things happening to me that I didn’t understand, or wished I didn’t understand. My space was invaded and I would suppress it. Pretending that it wasn’t me it was happening to, because things like that didn’t happen to innocent people. But it was happening and it was real.
For years I was told I was stupid, fat, and lazy. I was doomed from the day I was born. Raised by a sister who was constantly taken advantage of by different men. We lived in a house hold where secrets simmered under a blanket of lies. Each of us stained by men. Our innocence tainted. It kills us slowly. Trying not to think of it. Wishing it didn’t happen feeling dirty and used. Our minds feel empty. Like there’s nothing left because all of our thoughts were taken from us at a young age. I remember how scared I was. How I knew what was coming every time I came home from school. It became our routine.
There are times where I’ll be doing something and I think about everything that’s happened to me, the abuse, the different guys I’ve let inside me, how I was told I was nothing. How I let myself believe that I’m not worth anything, and I get pissed off. I hate myself for letting myself submit to so much mistreatment. Sometimes I can feel my sanity leaving, my mind withering away. I can’t think as clearly, I can’t speak properly, and I become more withdrawn from the world. I become lost in my own mind. I trap myself in dark thoughts and I won’t let myself escape.
I’ve literally become two different people. Problem is I don’t know which one is me. Who the fuck am I? I look into the mirror and I swear I can’t seem to process who’s looking back at me. It’s almost like I don’t know my own reflection. I continue to let myself used as some dishrag because I believe that’s what I’m worth. Like as much as I might desire love, I’m not worthy of it. I’m honestly pretty sure I’m cursed, because I’ve been fucked over by almost every guy in my life. Let’s save that for later though.
Sometimes I can see the person I was supposed to be, or the person I could be. But her image is kinda fades. I wish it was as easy as ripping all the bullshit from your heart. Kinda like when you rip a piece of duct tape from your skin like dusting of rubble and dust from a gold totem. I wish it would be that easy to take the unbearable pain away. I want the scars on my skin to fade away. Because I swear there are nights where I feel like all hope is lost. I’ve been fighting for six years to recover …and I’m just confused now. Maybe I’m confused because despite all this bullshit I’m rambling about, all the hate, anger,and hopelessness. I’m still fierce, fighting, and strong. I still have hope and my heart burns with a passion to live life to it’s fullest.
I just need it to get better.
I want to live.
by Band Back Together | Apr 17, 2014 | Adult Children of Mentally Ill Parents, Child Sexual Abuse, Date/Acquaintance Rape, Guilt, Rape/Sexual Assault, Self-Esteem, Shame |
It seems that in the last month, the mental block I once hid worries, pain, and hurt has fallen away. My life has been a roller coaster of emotions and difficulties.
When I was four, I was sexually molested by an older cousin; someone I trusted. The abuse corrupted my life and tore at me – I’d cry with guilt and shame. I believe it was at this time I set up my mental block.
When I was eight, my mother was diagnosed with a terminally debilitating physical illness and delusional paranoia. She’d just given birth to my sister and was so ill that I became the mother to my sister; I cleaned up cuts and cooked dinner. My mother didn’t like this. When her mental illness reared its head, she’d abuse me physically and emotionally while my father was at work. Eventually, he had to stop working to look after her.
As a teenager, I was severely overweight; I was paid no attention by boys other than disparaging remarks about my appearance. My best friend was the total opposite – pretty and bubbly, however she controlled and dictated my early years. She controlled a variety of sexual experiences that I wasn’t comfortable with, but was too afraid of being called frigid or that our friendship would end.
I’ve been with my current boyfriend for five years and he is my other half – he’s brilliant with my sister, kind and patient with my mother, and dependable. During our relationship, I’ve lost weight and look like a different girl. Still, my self-esteem is so low that I’ll avoid a deserved argument, afraid that someone will pick my appearance apart – fearful that I’ll be fat and fifteen again, crying in my bathroom.
Last year, my life took a turn for the worse.
I was being intimidated by my roommate’s boyfriend and felt so unhappy, lower than I’d ever been. My boyfriend and I were fighting and I was sure he was going to dump me. I’d found out that my father may have fathered a child with one of my mother’s closest friends and the child is very, very ill so the woman regularly comes to my house begging my mother for handouts and sympathy. My world had crumbled, so that when a friend – someone I considered to be like a brother – offered to take me out for a drink, I accepted.
At the bar, this friend of both myself and my boyfriend told me he’d broken up with his girlfriend and wanted to drown his sorrows. I got drunker and drunker so when he said he should go back to his place and get on Chatroulette (something we’d always done while drunk) that sounded fun.
When we got there, he realized he’d forgotten his laptop and mentioned we should probably go to sleep – I was too drunk to walk home, I should stay over. I had no issues with this – he was my “brother” after all – so I drunkenly pulled off my jeans getting ready for bed. On the verge of sleep and too drunk to know my own name, all of a sudden I was fifteen again, feeling pressured to allowing something to happen. I lay there not realizing that what was happening wasn’t right before shouting “stop!” He may have stopped, I think he probably did, but I was already unconscious.
I woke up later to him touching me, my pants pulled to one side. I lay for a second and the only thing I remember before I had the urge to vomit, was disappointment. Disappointment that he’d done this, for instigating this while I was drunk. Disappointment gave way to numbness. I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited. I looked at my face in the mirror – I wasn’t connecting thoughts together, I felt I was a completely different person – lost and bewildered. I stumbled back the bed, still too drunk to walk home. Besides, I reasoned, he probably didn’t mean to do it. I lay as far away from him as I could, my thighs clenched like a vice and my back to him.
He wouldn’t dare do it again.
I fell into unconscious or a heavy, deep sleep again and woke up to him doing it again. I was afraid he’d say something mean about the way I look or emotionally blackmail me into silence. So I just lay there, my head turned to the wall, my eyes glassy, my face pale as I vomited until I bled and my friend molested me. I was a child again, not understanding what was happening, merely knowing that it was outside my comfort zone and that I wasn’t enjoying what was happening.
I gathered the urge to say stop in a way that I knew would draw his attention. I don’t know why, but I knew that something was holding me back from telling him that what he was doing was wrong; a hunch that he would turn nasty. I told him to stop. He replied, “come on, no one will find out,” to which I replied “no!” once again.
My memory is fuzzy with pain, drunkenness, violation, numbness. I don’t think that he stopped, despite keeping my back to him, despite saying no, despite showing my discomfort. My brain told me that it might be over sooner if I pretended to play along, but I couldn’t keep up the act beyond a few seconds. I lay there, shivering, clutching my stomach while he rubbed his penis along my back.
Eventually I woke up feeling well enough to get away from him. Numbly, I informed him that as far as I was concerned that nothing happened; that I wanted to forget the whole thing. In my mind it was true, during those horrible few hours I never kissed him, touched him, or was in any way sexually excited.
Six months later my numbness is fading – now I’m having panic attacks and crying every day. What happened as a betrayal I see as a betrayal of my boyfriend. The guy who molested me was his friend. He assures me that he forgives me but that he wants to know who assaulted me.
I can’t tell him.
I want to. So badly.
I want him to know that the person he smiles when he mentions was my attacker. I want to come clean to him – tell him everything. The logical side of my brain tells me that if I do, my life might be over. I’d lose a lot of friends, my abuser could say that what happened was a fling – anything but the truth. My family and his would be at logger heads; not a good idea in our small community.
I hate him, but I miss the friend he was. I’m writing this because I’m sick of feeling depressed, full of guilt and shame. I’m sick of looking at my male friends and wondering would they hurt me like that? would they touch me while I threw up?
I worry I’m victimising myself when I wasn’t actually a victim; my memories of that day change like crazy – I can’t be certain what actually happened. One minute I see I was sexually assaulted while the next an evil voice at the back of my head cuts me down.
How do I even begin to move on from this?
My life feels like a black hole that’s physically and emotionally destroying me.
by Band Back Together | Apr 14, 2014 | Guilt, Loneliness, Long Distance Relationships, Major Depressive Disorder |
This is the first time I’ve stumbled onto Band Back Together and found much strength in your stories. Thank you, The Band.
My story began when I moved to a small town for a job – the furthest I’ve been from home. I tried hard to fit in, but I’m a quiet person which can make friendships difficult. My boyfriend and I had been doing long-distance relationship for two years. It’s tough, but worth it. In the meantime, I wanted to keep myself busy.
This fall, I joined a choir and after our Christmas concert, I was introduced to a guy in the choir. He asked about my after-concert plans – I’d planned to go home, but gave him my contact information. Soon, he dropped hints about how pretty I looked when I sang, that he’d admired me during choir rehearsals, he spent every week looking forward to seeing me again.
I told him that I was flattered, but that I had a boyfriend. Could we be friends? He agreed that we could be friends, which made me happy. We started getting to know each other. When he suggested we hang out, I said yes – no harm in that. He came over and opened up to me.
He disclosed a major tragedy he’d been through two years before and the major depression he’s experienced since. He shared every detail, how it affected him, and how rare it is for him to trust enough to disclose. He said that since we’d been talking, he felt happier; more optimistic. How difficult remaining friends is but he’d have to figure out a way. I supported him as he spoke, reminding him I could only be there to support him as a friend and if he couldn’t handle it, I’d understand.
He never left.
We found ourselves talking more as my relationship with my boyfriend became distant. My friend took me out of social isolation and introduced me to new things. One evening as we watched a movie, he rubbed my ankle. I’d not had physical contact in such a long time and it was comforting. Part of me thought, this will lead me down the wrong road. When he asked me if it was okay, I said a guilty yes.
He offered to drive a girlfriend and I to the city to catch our plane home for the holidays. We were staying in a hotel overnight and I didn’t want him to stay the night with us so I asked if he’d be okay if we had “a girl’s night.” A few days prior, he’d offered to stay at a friend’s place that night so I didn’t feel awkward. He was hurt, manipulating me. He said I was tossing him aside like he didn’t matter. When I offered to drive alone, he maintained that he’d drive. So I allowed him to stay in our room.
At the hotel, he tried to touch me, which made me uneasy. I’d shift my weight away from him but he’d inch closer. I reminded him that I’m with someone else; I can’t let these things happen. It’s not right. He made the comment, It’s not like you have a ring on your finger. I reminded him that I’d committed to a long-term relationship, and even if I wanted to be with him, I couldn’t give up on my boyfriend – even if we were going through a rough patch. He refused to look at me or talk to me. I left, hoping he’d understand.
I returned to the room, uneasy. I’d wake during the night to him entering and leaving our room. I hated to see him hurting. I didn’t know where he was or if he was safe. I was up all night worrying. What if something had happened to him and it was my fault?
He drove me to the airport. He didn’t say much but it was clear he was devastated.
The following day he told me that he needed to talk to me; he couldn’t do this alone. I said I wanted to be here for him and help as much as I can. We discussed his troubled past and when we were done, he said that he felt better and went to sleep.
I tried to get the past few weeks out of my mind during the Christmas break, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I worried about him. Finally, I broke down and told him. We messaged back and forth, as I was enjoying my Christmas with my boyfriend.
Sometimes, he’d ask inappropriate questions, was “I with my boyfriend now? Is he sleeping next to me?” I told him the truth. He was fixated on my return and he kept asking for clarification about our relationship – what was I to him?
He knew I was starting to develop feelings for him. I told him that right now, I saw him as a friend, but I didn’t know what would happen in the future. If something were to happen between us, let’s let it happen naturally. Let’s just enjoy our time together.” He accepted that. He knew while I was having doubts about my boyfriend, I wanted to let my heart guide me.
Once I returned, things got tangled. I tried to remain faithful and honest to my boyfriend. When my friend tried try to kiss me, hold my hand – any of that stuff – I’d turn away, which hurt his feelings. My feelings were getting stronger – I knew I’d feel badly no matter what happened – if I stayed with my boyfriend or if I fell for my friend. It was getting harder to resist him. I’d only speak to my boyfriend a few times each week.
Watching a movie one night, it all went to hell. My feet were sore so I asked him to rub them for me. When the movie was over, I realized his hand was traveling up my leg. My head said no, my body said yes. I was so nervous as he tried to take my pants off. He stopped when I asked him to, but then he kissed me and ended up on top of me.
Afterward, I was disgusted with myself – how could I let this happen? We promised it wouldn’t happen again, but it did. I wanted to tell my boyfriend … but would he blame me?
He asked me to make a commitment to him and I told him it wasn’t that easy. Clearly, I loved my boyfriend and the stress of our friendship was causing me emotional harm. I asked him to back off – we could still hang out and be friends, but no more physical contact until I got my mind straight.
We hung out with friends that weekend and he stuck to our agreement – most of the time. Occasionally, he’d try to initiate sex, but I reminded him that I needed to get my mind straight. After the weekend was over, I stayed the night at his place. I was afraid of being alone. I woke up to him making advances on me. This time, I let the sex happen. I felt so much hate – hate that I’d given in, hate that he’d continued pursuing me.
It happened again few days later: I went to his house after work to watch a movie and we both fell asleep. We went to his bed and I awoke to his advances I just let it happen. I was on autopilot, going through the motions. I even ended up on top. Afterward, I felt violated, like he didn’t respect me. He felt sad that I felt this way, so he apologized to me.
I left.
The next morning, I had a panic attack about what we’d done the night before. That’s when I decided to call my boyfriend.
I woke him up and told him what had happened the night before.
I was afraid he wouldn’t understand me or believe me, so I painted a violent picture of the sex the night before, making it sound like an attack; a rape.
He told me to go to the police.
Initially, I refused. He said that if I didn’t call them myself, he wouldn’t believe the sex wasn’t consensual. He threatened to call them himself. Again, I was put into a corner again by someone I trusted.
I went to the police to report my attack.
I told the police I didn’t want to be there, but that my boyfriend needed me to go to believe me about the sex. I was clear – I did not want to press any charges. He’d been through enough, and I didn’t want to add to it. He’s my friend, he’s not a bad person.
None of that mattered.
The police questioned me. I can’t remember half of what happened or what I said, I just wanted to get it over with so I could tell my boyfriend that I’d gone to the police. I didn’t want to do this to my friend. After investigating for a few days, I was asked to come in for further questioning.
Unfortunately, this was so, so traumatizing for me.
The police asked me a number of questions:
“How long had I been with my boyfriend?” Two and a half years.
“Have I had sexual relations with another man during the summer?”
Yes.
(After all her questioning, I started to understand why victims were afraid to report a rape)
She went through the text messages that me and my “abuser” sent back and forth during the previous week and pointed out the ones I’d sent that didn’t support my story:
“I really like feeling connected to you.”
“I know it’s going to be difficult, but we have to have no contact for a while.”
She was implying that I’d enjoyed the sex we’d had. I started crying. She asked me the final question:
“Did he sexually assault you? Yes.
She asked again, clearly not believing me, “did he sexually assault you?” Again, I said yes.
She sighed and asked again, “Did he sexually assault you?”
After asking after the truth three times, I realized that I wasn’t going to win. I felt broken down – I wasn’t going to win.
This time, ready to be done with the police, I said, “no.”
The lecture she gave me felt like I being kicked!
She told me by reporting the rape, I’d wasted her time, the doctor’s time, my friend’s time, my boyfriend’s time.
That I’d just made it harder for real victims to come forward.
She was appalled that I could do such a thing.
She asked why I was still with my boyfriend – I’d made it clear I don’t know what it means to love someone.
That I am emotionally unstable and the damage I’ve done to the accused and his family is beyond repair – the only thing I can do now is to be honest with everyone and tell them that nothing happened.
I had a friend who drove almost two hours to stay with me after my “rape.”
She asked my friend to come in and said to me, “Now, what do you have to say to your friend?” I sobbed knowing that she wanted me to tell my friend. I couldn’t admit it. The cop told me she wanted me to see a counselor and she would call me in two weeks to check up on me to make sure I was seeing someone for help.
It’s been three weeks and she hasn’t called me yet …
A week after the police report about the rape, my abuser sent me a message, stating that he couldn’t believe that I’d tried to ruin his life by accusing him of rape after consensual sex. I was furious with him: When did I say “yes”!? When did I out-and-out say that I wanted to have sex with him?
I’m still really upset about the cop having the audacity to accuse me of not knowing what love is; that my abuser actually believed that I’d said yes, to the sex.
I’ve told my boyfriend the full details of that night and he doesn’t understand. Of course he was mad that I lied to him, but he wants to move past it and wants me to heal from the rape. I feel I don’t deserve the kindness he shows me.
Choir starts next week, and the man I accused of rape will be there. I don’t want to stop choir because it is something I’m proud of – I wanted to share my talent and my light. The light that I had before though, I feel it’s burnt out after all that I’ve been through. It takes so much effort to smile and pretend that I’m okay inside when I feel nothing but pain, hate, shame. I want to be that girl – the one who had so much hope – again, the one who wanted to do all that she could to help anybody that needed. I don’t know where she is now.
I am thankful I got the opportunity to write all of this down without letting anyone know who I am. I don’t want to be judged for what I did and what happened. I’m returning to my community in a few days and am terrified of the judgment I may get.
