As a patient of M's so eloquently put it, sometimes you have to dig up the bones in the backyard and air them out; that way they don't stink so bad.
And it couldn't be any more true, as I found out today. See, today was the day we talked about my rape. For the first time ever, I talked about it. Openly. And saw it for what it was. Saw it for how it affected me. And saw it for the ugly truth.
And now? I'm sharing it with you. Not the details. No one wants to read that, and I don't want to share it. Read on if you choose. I caution that this may be a trigger, so read at your own risk.
My rapist was someone I knew. Someone I trusted. Someone I loved at one point. He held me down, hands pinned above me, his hand on my throat, squeezing, as he had his way with me. I struggled at first. I fought. I begged, pleaded. He had split my lip, was choking me, and told me to stop or he'd hurt me. So I stopped. I gave up. I layed there, silently crying as my dignity was stripped from me. When he had finished, he told me to get the fuck out of his house . I left. Stunned, ashamed, broken. I drove several miles like that before pulling over to cry. Horrendous sobs racked my violated body. How long did I stay parked before driving home? Who knows. How long did I sit in the shower and cry when I got home? Who knows. I was hurt. I was in shock. I was scared and ashamed and humiliated and disgusted - both with him and myself.
And I told no one.
Not a single soul. Not one. I kept this secret hidden inside, convinced that if I covered it in enough denial, it wouldn't exist. It didn't happen. Who would have believed me anyway? So it was buried. I made up a story for my split lip - sparring in kickboxing. Very believable.
Far away went the secret. After a couple of years it never crossed my mind. The denial was working.
Until 2 weeks ago. When I had my first nightmare in the 12 years since the rape happened. It shocked me. I found myself thinking about it, reliving it almost. It was constantly on my mind. Then I mentioned it in a blog post and showed that post to M.
And here we are today.
And do you know what I realized? The rape was not my fault. I was not weak for giving in - I had no choice - my rapist had already shown violence. I'm not a victim - truly I'm not. I don't let myself be. And by finally talking about this - by airing out my old bones - it proves that I'm not a victim. I'm strong, I survived something horrible and I can now talk about it. It took 12 years, but I can talk about it. And even though it was terribly frightening and anxiety invoking for me, I did it. And I'm proud of myself.
Will this get buried again? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But I've acknowledged this part of myself, this travesty against my very being. And you know what? I'm going to kick its ass. Oh yes. These bones will crumble to dust before they ever get buried again.
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