Once upon a time, there was a girl who ran with a whole bunch of fraternity boys. Notice I said "ran with" and not rode a train with....big difference. She dated a few, had a fairly serious relationship with one, and drank a whole lot of alcohol and had a whole lot of fun with the rest.
She went to their parties. She drug herself out--half dead with bronchitis--to show face at their regional conference party, and looked really fucking good at that party, despite the fever--because she promised she'd be there to be shown off to brothers from far away.
They threw her a fabulous 24th birthday party, complete with a keg, a pinata stuffed with condoms, and a penis cake, let her haze their pledges, and introduced her to the girl who would become the best friend she would ever have.
All around a really great, fun group of guys.
Except...
There's always one.
One that could be in the pages of GQ as a model. One who's physical beauty was unreal: beautiful body, beautiful face....what she thought was a beautiful soul. Attached himself to her. Told her she was an angel. He made her believe him.
Except...
He was really only a beautiful disaster.
What she didn't really know, and would soon learn was that he was a mess. Unsettled. Lost. Inner demons that made him rage...disappear....show up again bruised and cut from head to toe. Took any and every drug he could get his hands on....drop liquid acid in his eyes....pop a Ketamine....take bong hits through his infamous gas mask. And even though she was warned, she just had to figure it out for herself.
He was the one that would teach her, the extremely hard way, that you can't fix anybody. And when you try, you're the one who runs the risk of being broken.
And here, my friends, is where the story gets not so nice....And I stop using the third person.
He was such a mess. I don't think I realized just how much at the time, but in retrospect, disaster isn't a strong enough word. I don't know if there is one. What's the strongest category of tornado? That might come close.
But he hid the severity of the storm from me.
Until he didn't.
Once.
I had been out with the guy I was seeing. In those days, I dared not bring an unaffiliated boyfriend around those guys. It would have been brutal. My boyfriend went home. I went to the bar where my circle practically lived in those days.
And there he was. Fucked up 12 different ways, with those demons bubbling at the surface. Ready to rage and disappear. I should have let him. Instead I decided to intervene.
Took him home. Tried to put him to bed. Found myself pinned underneath him. He was so strong.
Raped.
It's been fifteen years. I can still remember every second. I can play it in my head like a movie.
When it was done, I got up, found my clothes. Put them on. Went home.
I didn't realize until the next day when I talked to my 2 closest girlfriends what it was. Susan, the one who remains probably the closest person to me in the world, asked me:
Did you say no? Did you say stop?
I did. Over and over.
He raped you.
And in a heartbeat I was a statistic.
I probably perpetuated that by not reporting it....I didn't go to the police. At the time, the thought of the shit storm that would have caused was too much for me to handle, much less live. I'm not so sure if I had to go back and do it all over again I'd do it any differently. I don't think I would.
Self preservation comes in many different forms, you know.
There was a shit storm of a different kind. One I didn't expect. He told mutual friends we'd had "bad sex."
I guess that's one way to put it, though not entirely accurate.
I lost a very close friend over his version. One I adored. That one still stings all these years later.
Bros before hos, after all.
I never felt like that experience crushed me or made me a shell of a person. It easily could have. What it did affect, for a long time, was my ability to have sex with someone without having a guard up so high it was impossible to enjoy it. I wanted to. I tried. Didn't work. Slowly, after about 2 years, and a lot of therapy, that started to work itself out.
And after all this time, here's the monster that still lives under my bed: I can't have sex in the dark. The lights have to be on.
It was so dark.
It's more fun with the lights on anyway.
So what's the moral of the story? Shit. I don't know.
It happened to me. It taught me some things for damn sure. It's a part of why I am who I am now.
It's like any of the other hurtful and traumatic things in life; you live through it and with any luck you find some clarity on the other side of it, and refuse to let it define you.
That's the best you can do.
I had been out with the guy I was seeing. In those days, I dared not bring an unaffiliated boyfriend around those guys. It would have been brutal. My boyfriend went home. I went to the bar where my circle practically lived in those days.
And there he was. Fucked up 12 different ways, with those demons bubbling at the surface. Ready to rage and disappear. I should have let him. Instead I decided to intervene.
Took him home. Tried to put him to bed. Found myself pinned underneath him. He was so strong.
Raped.
It's been fifteen years. I can still remember every second. I can play it in my head like a movie.
When it was done, I got up, found my clothes. Put them on. Went home.
I didn't realize until the next day when I talked to my 2 closest girlfriends what it was. Susan, the one who remains probably the closest person to me in the world, asked me:
Did you say no? Did you say stop?
I did. Over and over.
He raped you.
And in a heartbeat I was a statistic.
I probably perpetuated that by not reporting it....I didn't go to the police. At the time, the thought of the shit storm that would have caused was too much for me to handle, much less live. I'm not so sure if I had to go back and do it all over again I'd do it any differently. I don't think I would.
Self preservation comes in many different forms, you know.
There was a shit storm of a different kind. One I didn't expect. He told mutual friends we'd had "bad sex."
I guess that's one way to put it, though not entirely accurate.
I lost a very close friend over his version. One I adored. That one still stings all these years later.
Bros before hos, after all.
I never felt like that experience crushed me or made me a shell of a person. It easily could have. What it did affect, for a long time, was my ability to have sex with someone without having a guard up so high it was impossible to enjoy it. I wanted to. I tried. Didn't work. Slowly, after about 2 years, and a lot of therapy, that started to work itself out.
And after all this time, here's the monster that still lives under my bed: I can't have sex in the dark. The lights have to be on.
It was so dark.
It's more fun with the lights on anyway.
So what's the moral of the story? Shit. I don't know.
It happened to me. It taught me some things for damn sure. It's a part of why I am who I am now.
It's like any of the other hurtful and traumatic things in life; you live through it and with any luck you find some clarity on the other side of it, and refuse to let it define you.
That's the best you can do.
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