Violence UnSilenced

I know that today is TMI Thursday (click for all of LiLu's TMI goodness). And this post? Is certainly TMI. But it's not funny or silly. If you want funny and silly, stop reading now (and come back tomorrow for an awesome guest post that makes my bad dates seem tame). This is the story I wrote to submit to Violence UnSilenced, a website dedicated to giving men and women an outlet to tell their stories domestic violence and sexual assault. Anyone can submit a story, and it can be done anonymously. The stories I've read have brought me to tears. This is mine (no tears necessary).

I didn't write this for your sympathy. I didn't write it to persecute anyone. I wrote it because it's part of me. I've told a few people over the years, but it's not something I generally share. I had a lot of trouble putting it in this little box. I'm having a lot of trouble clicking the Publish button. Trust me, it's not easy. It's my story, though. And now I'm going to tell it.

~~~~oOo~~~~

My mom was always “over-protective.” She practically interviewed my friends’ parents before I was allowed to sleep over at their houses. I wasn’t allowed to go to parties or stay out late or do any of the normal things that teenagers do.

Of course I didn’t understand. And of course I wasn’t okay with it. I whined and moaned and complained. And then one night (yeah, okay, no…this wasn’t the only time), I lied.

I was 15-years-old and there was a party. My high school boyfriend (though we weren’t together at the time) was going to be there and a bunch of my friends and I wanted to go. I knew my mom would ask if parents would be there. And if I said, “Yes,” she would say, “Then I want to talk to them.” So I lied.

I had been told that a bunch of people were just going to crash at the party, and I was welcome to do the same. So I told my mom that I was spending the night at a friend’s house and went on my merry way.

I may have been going to a party, but I had no intention of drinking. I didn’t drink and had never drunk, so I didn’t even really know what it was like.

Someone handed me a bottle of Coke and I drank it. I thought it tasted a little funny, but I didn’t want to complain. It tasted funny because about half of it was rum. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, now I would know the difference. But then I just didn’t want to complain or seem less cool. So I drank the damn Coke. All of it.

At some point in the evening, the party got a little loud and someone called the police. We all scattered like ants when the police arrived. I ran with one of my friends, to his car. We hopped in and he drove us down the street, where we parked and waited.

He was a cute boy (sort of). And I sort of liked him. I think he kissed me in the car.

After about 15 minutes, we drove back to the house. Most of the party had cleared out. This is when I discovered that “a lot of people crashing at the party” meant me and eight guys. Me. And eight guys.

I was freaking out. And more than a little drunk.

My high school boyfriend secured me a room by myself and I went to bed. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The boy I liked.

“Can I please sleep in here? I have practice tomorrow and if I sleep on the floor, my back’s going to be all screwed up.”

I didn’t really know what to do. So I just sort of stared at him for a minute.

“You mean, you want to sleep in here in this bed with me?”

“I won’t touch you, I swear. I just can’t sleep on the floor and you have the only other bed.”

This is where the smarter, stronger girl says, “Too fuckin’ bad.”

But I said, “Um. I guess.”

And so it began.

The rest of the night is a blur of touching and crying and pain. I don’t know if I ever said “No.” I really can’t say that I did. But I was crying and trying to push him off me. The weight of him was so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep pushing. I tried to roll out from underneath him, but he had me pinned down. He was a basketball player; tall and strong.

And he was my friend.

So I thought.

But he wasn’t my friend.

I gave up. I gave up and let it happen. And when it was over, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. All night, he snored while I cried quietly. I didn’t sleep much at all. I went to the bathroom to try to clean myself up at some point. It wasn’t pretty.

In the middle of the night, he rolled my way and carelessly tossed an arm over me. He was still sleeping, of course. His arm almost made me throw up. As I squirmed to get away, he rolled into me and pushed me off the bed. I hit my cheekbone on the bed frame on my way to the floor and gave myself a bit of a black eye.

Pretty.

I didn’t know what to do the next day, so I talked to my best friend about it.

Turned out she wasn’t my best friend at all.

She told everyone what had happened. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it my way. He called me a couple of times over the next weeks. Cussing at me, telling me that he didn’t rape me.

But he did.

I never told my mother. I never really told anyone else, save for one or two close friends. I don't think anyone believed me, so I just pretended it never happened.

A few years later, I ran into him at the mall. He walked up to me, smiling, and tried to hug me. I looked him dead in the eye and said, "DON'T touch me."

He seemed puzzled by my reaction. I walked away. He didn't think he did anything wrong. I'm sure he still doesn't.

But he did.