Survivors Journey Part 12 – Living in the shadow of rape

Thirty one years ago at the age of 13, I was raped.

Twenty years ago at the age of 24, I was raped again.

Two different assailants; the same crime. Rape.

There are no synonyms for the word rape. It stands alone in its meaning. Four little letters that put together describe an act so defiling to its victims, you’re left with no means to truly convey how it makes you feel. Unless you’ve survived it, you’ll never understand it.

My first assailant, Bruce, was a 20 year old pedophile disguised as a youth group counselor at the Episcopal Church I attended. He was someone I trusted; someone my parents trusted; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Desperate for male approval, I flocked to him like a moth to a campfire. I have no doubt he could spot my vulnerability a mile away, and he wasted no time setting his sights on me.

As an adult, I now recognize Bruce’s grooming process of me and everyone in my life. He swooped in and made friends with all the critical players; my parents, me, church leaders, you name it. He gained everyone’s trust and presented himself as an upstanding guy. Bruce immediately paid attention to me when I began attending the new church. Since he had no family that attended there, he would usually sit with the youth group during Sunday service, hang out with us after mass, attend all the youth activities, and even gave me a ride to church now and then. He was a leader in the church; therefore he was safe….right? Wrong.

On August 1, 1978 my mother was out of town tending to her ailing father and my brother was visiting our grandmother in California. My step-father, Bob, received a business call requiring him to go to Louisiana for the night. I assured him I would be fine for one evening, after all I was going to be 14 in two days. Later in the evening after Bob left, fear began to take hold so I called Bruce to talk. It was nice to have someone to visit with that I trusted. After explaining my circumstance, Bruce offered to make the 45 minute trek across town and keep me company for a while. An invitation I accepted. Once there, we watched TV and talked. His presence quickly disarmed my fears of being home alone. Later that evening the phone rang, and I knew it was Bob calling to check on me. I dashed upstairs and plopped down on my brother’s bed to take his call. As soon as I hung up the phone, Bruce entered the room. He walked slowly over toward the bed and without uttering a word began undressing me from the waist down. Unbuttoning my pants, his eyes were fixed on his prey as his six foot frame towered over me. Frozen with fear and confusion, I laid there as he continued his advance. I didn’t know what to do. Within minutes, he was naked and on top of me, still never saying a word. I remember the physical pain I experienced, but I trusted him. I must have thought he really loved me; after all, he had just had sex with me, right? Isn’t that what people who love each other do? I was too young and naïve to understand he was a predator. When he got up to leave, he had stolen what was left of my innocence and further diminished my perception of what it meant to be worthy.

Over the next two weeks, Bruce began to ignore me at church, quit returning my calls, and focused his attentions on another young girl who recently joined the youth group. Broken-hearted, rejected, and confused, I confided in LouAnn, the youth group leader, what had happened. She was quick to call me a liar and accused me of inviting his advances and exclaimed, “Bruce would never do anything like that.” According to her it was my fault – I was the bad seed. I will never forget the look of disgust in her eyes aimed my direction. It felt like I was being raped all over again. Though I knew I hadn’t lied, I eventually believed what she said. It must have been my fault. I stuffed the emotions, shouldered the blame, and pretended like it never happened. I never said another word about it. Not even to my own mother.

Bruce was never questioned, accused, or prosecuted for what he did to me. I now know that he victimized several other girls but was not caught until 10 years after he raped me. I want to tell those girls how sorry I am for what they had to go through, and that I understand how they feel. I want them to know that I did tell someone I thought I could trust, but she didn’t believe me. I wish I had told my mother, or someone else, anyone else that would have listened. Instead, I rolled over and took what I didn’t have coming. In all honesty, I hold LouAnn just as responsible for the rape and/or molestation of the other girls’ as I do Bruce. So much innocence lost all because she didn’t believe me. She didn’t take time to listen or ask questions…no, she just told a <then>13 year old girl that she was to blame for a 20 year old man having sex with her. I don’t know if Bruce ever went to prison or not. At this point, I don’t care. There will come a day when he has to answer for his actions, if he hasn’t done so already.

My second assailant, Don, was a man I had met at a local night club. After an evening of dancing and drinking, we left in my car and headed for a party being held at a friend’s house. We stayed just long enough for me to make an appearance before he drove me home. Given the hour and quantity of alcohol consumed, I told him he could sleep on the couch and I’d take him home in the morning. Once I got him settled in the living room with sheets and a pillow, I went into my room, closed the door, and began to dress for bed. Unannounced and uninvited, Don entered my room. Grabbing my shoulders, he pushed me down on the bed, pulled back my robe and proceeded to rape me. As with Bruce, I was frozen by the fear and merely laid there as he thrust his drunken manhood in and out of me. The only sound I heard was, “No, no, no…,” a fear-filled whisper that repeatedly squeaked through my lips. I was afraid to fight…afraid he would hurt me more than he already was. Unable to ejaculate, he eventually rolled off of me and begrudgingly pulled up his pants. I got up and quickly pulled on a sweat suit, grabbed my keys and purse, and told him I would take him home immediately. His demeanor quickly turned to anger and frustration. Crossing the threshold in front of me he said, “So you’ll fuck me but you won’t sleep with me, huh?” I immediately slammed the front door and locked it. He began pounding on the door with his fists; his rage-filled screams riddled with name calling and threats. Fearing what further assault he was capable of, I ran to the phone and called for help. “911, what’s your emergency?” “Hello 911? I’ve just been raped…”

Help was on the way.

The authorities located Don just blocks away walking toward his home and arrested him. I was taken to the County Hospital where I was subjected to a medical rape test and offered emotional support from a local rape crisis representative. Don never denied to the authorities that he had been with me, but his claims were that the sex was consensual; the rape kit test results would prove otherwise. After the grand jury indicted him, a trial date was set.

Three months before my trial was set to begin, Don was on trial for molesting the 12-year old daughter of a former girlfriend. Don and his attorney opted to have a trial by judge rather than trial by jury. Unfortunately, the mother of this young girl did not believe her daughter when she first accused Don of molesting her. At the time of their trial, the mother’s testimony was considered “wishy-washy”and inevitably forced the judge to find Don innocent due to lack of evidence. I believe in my heart that the judge knew he was guilty, but the burden of proof was unsuccessfully achieved by the prosecutors, and Don walked away a free man.

As the rape trial date approached, Don and his attorney again opted for trial by judge as they previously had in the molestation case. As luck would have it, they drew the same judge who had governed the previous trial. Other than the rape kit test results, the only evidence was his word against mine and a few so-called character witnesses offered up by the defense. The trial was difficult for me. To sit in a courtroom full of bystanders and share how you were intimately violated was almost inconceivable. After my testimony concluded, I exited the courtroom and was approached by a woman who told me how proud she was of me for having the courage to come forward. Though I thanked her for the kind words, I couldn’t help but feel anything less than courageous. Rather, I felt like I had been raped all over again after the defense attorney got through cross-examining me.

I am forever convinced that the judge subconsciously visualized the sweet face of that 12-year old girl Don allegedly molested as he listened to the evidence presented during the rape trial. Upon conclusion, the judge handed down a guilty verdict and administered the maximum sentence of 20 years to be served in a maximum security prison. Nearly 19 years after the onset of his incarceration, Don still resides in the same prison and continues to serve out his time. In 2012, he will be released back into society as a free man. That is, if he doesn’t get paroled in the coming months.

As for me, I realize that by holding on to my fear I have allowed Don to continue to victimize me for the past 20 years. Though he is in prison, I fear him and what he is capable of when he gets out. Will he come after me seeking retaliation? Will he emerge worse off than when he went in? Does he intend to look for me? Is he still in denial that he raped me? Will he try to hurt my family? The questions are endless. I’ve often thought that it would be better to take my own life than to be hunted down by him upon his release only to be raped and possibly tortured all over again. Fear rules my every thought when it comes to his inevitable release…and I’m just now beginning to understand the depth of pain I have never permitted myself to feel and the emotions associated from such an intimate violation.

Over the past two weeks, I have been revisiting the rape traumas. I never understood I was swimming in a sea of denial regarding the lasting effects Bruce, LouAnn, and Don have had on my life. I am now faced with the daunting task of working through the insecurity and identifying a way to be freed (once and for all) from the all-consuming fear. My therapist and I have stepped up our time together as I continue to work toward dealing with the all the “stuffed” stuff. With her help, a steadfast willingness on my part to do the work, and by the Grace of God, I will continue to claw and scratch my way toward emotional health and security. You see, I am a survivor…and this is part of my journey.

Survivors Journey Part 8 – Why did you molest me?

I don’t want to write today. Admitting that tells me I need to. I woke up angry this morning following my counseling appointment yesterday where we began talking about being molested. I don’t want to go there, I just don’t, but I know I have to; otherwise forward motion ceases and the revolving door recommences. Revolving doors merely take you right back to your place of origin unless you consciously decided to step out on the other side. I’m tired of going in circles. They give me a headache.

Fearing I will hurt my mother (as I know she reads my posts) and being looked down upon by others’ is what keeps me from wanting to talk about being molested. But how people respond to my journey is not on me. I must trust in God to deliver what you need to reap from my reluctant vulnerability. He continues to reassure me I am adequately prepared to heal from the pain and devastation of being molested. I must not allow fear to override journeys’ forward motion.

Regardless of this knowledge, I am bombarded with an overwhelming sense of shame mixed with a super-sized portion of anger. When I think about being molested, it makes me sick to my stomach. I was about eight years old when the first encounter occurred, and it was my brother at the helm of the offence. He invited me into his bedroom one summer afternoon and told me to sit on the side of his bed. He proceeded to take down his pants, exposing his genitals, and reaching down with his left hand he began stroking his penis. He giggled with excitement as the erection commenced. I knew what I was witnessing was not appropriate, but I must admit there was a level of amazement as I had never seen male genitals before. How was this physical feat possible? I loved and trusted my older brother and in no way wanted to garner his disapproval by rejecting him, so I sat there and watched until he was through, praying my mother would not catch us. From that moment on, our physical boundaries would  forever be skewed. It was three years before the next encounter would take place.

January 1978, my father left and my mother began to emotionally fall apart. It was a horrible time in my life – so confused and lonely. I was 11 ½, my brother was 13 ½. Not long after Dad’s departure, he began entering my room at night after Mom had gone to bed. At first he talked about playing games, make believe of sorts, or play acting as different characters together. His role would always be one of the dominant character, i.e. football player and the cheerleader or playing house. It seemed so strange at first and was quite uncomfortable, but this was my brother and I trusted him. Growing up, we had always been very close. Throughout my life, he protected me, garnered healthy, brotherly affection on me, and I looked up to him. I had no fear of him whatsoever. Even in the mix of all that was going on I didn’t fear him; rather I was confused but still trusting with love.

It wasn’t long before he began to manipulate our nighttime scripts. I was instructed to lie down on the bed as he assumed a position on top of me. He began dry humping and touching me. His body seemed to weigh 1000 pounds, taking with it the air I needed to survive. I felt so dirty, trapped, and alone. Why are you doing this to me? Why am I not fighting back? Can’t you see this is wrong? I don’t want to be here. Please go away, and just leave me alone… But this was my brother, and I loved him.

 

Days would pass before I was notified of his next impending visit. He would start the day by “asking me” if I would like to “play” that night. He had worded his intentions in such a way that he could deliver these messages to me in front of our mother. I know now he had no shame or remorse for what he was doing, and I was too afraid to say no. As the weeks grew into months, I tried to make excuses in an attempt to deter his desires, but my defenses began to run dry.  I was littered with messages of “You’re Not Worthy” from my father, so the last thing I wanted was to experience my brother’s rejection. I just wanted to be loved and cherished. As disgusting and dirty as I felt on the inside, I didn’t’ know what else to do but succumb to his twisted desires as the shame and guilt began to take hold. I was so vulnerable, and it was in that vulnerability that I was victimized. I had lost my voice.

By August, my parents’ divorce had been finalized, and we relocated to a new city. Thankfully, my brother’s visits had decreased following our move. Shortly after my 12^th birthday, my menstrual cycle began and with it a renewed sense of power and control filtered in. Armed with a large, bristle hairbrush, I barged into my brother’s room waving the weapon in my right hand and said, “I’m a woman now and you can’t touch me anymore. Do you understand?” He laid there in his bed, staring blankly at me. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?” I shouted. He sheepishly agreed with a slight nod immediately before I exited the room. I had found my voice and had taken back my control. As I closed his door, I was immediately washed with overwhelming relief knowing I would not have to endure what had become his disgusting hands on me ever again. Though I rose up with hair brush in hand and drew a definitive line in the sand, the damage had been done.  As with my previous pattern of behavior, I quickly stuffed the emotions and filed the past nine months into the “You’re Not Worthy” memory folder. I then began to carry the full weight of responsibility for what happened believing it must have been my fault. Rather than directing the anger at him for his betrayal and preying on my vulnerability, I directed it toward myself for not fighting back. I was 12 years old. What did I know about dealing with trauma other than to deny it? I was merely trying to survive.

About four years ago, I felt an overwhelming need to be honest with my brother and address the hurt and anger I experienced at his hand. Thirty years had passed since the onset of his abuse, and it was time to confront my abuser as an adult. Early one morning, I drummed up enough courage to call his house and share with him my feelings as well as my reasons for not desiring any level of relationship with him. His immediate response to me was, “Jesus Christ, Michelle… that was 30 years ago! I haven’t thought about that in 30 years. Are you kidding me? That was a horrible time for all of us.” He continued to deflect any level of accountability and made me feel as if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I guess that’s what abusers do. He was quick to ricochet personal responsibility and minimize his impact insinuating the passage of time should have been sufficient to heal the wounds. He was wrong.

The following day, I received a call from him at which time stated he never meant to hurt me and he was very confused during that time in his life. He referred to me as his “little sister,” claimed to love me, and would never intentionally hurt me. While it felt somewhat satisfying to finally hear his apologetic words, the truth is I don’t believe them. I believe he reached out in an effort to make peace with the hope that in doing so he may supersede any possible fallout within the family. Like I said, it’s just my opinion…

Here’s my truth:

I was his little sister. I trusted him and he violated that trust in the worst way.

He preyed on my vulnerability and has done so with no authentic level of personal accountability to this day.

He initiated and pursued every act of molestation, not me.

I was his victim. He knows it. I know it. God knows it.

I am not to blame for his actions in any way.

I denounce any level of shame, guilt, or responsibility for his manipulation of me. He knew better, yet he still continued to advance.

I am choosing to step out on the other side of molestations’ revolving door by allowing myself to feel and process the pain. When I am done, I will then be able to safely file this chapter of life in a healthy place of my brain that brings true closure to the once open wound. I choose to resume journeys forward motion. It is in my healing wake that my brother resides, and I’m not looking back.

Is there are area of your life where you need to take your power back?