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.
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