I want to tell you about the second time I was raped.
I don’t really want to, but I’m going to anyway. I’ve never wanted to; that’s why I’ve kept quiet about it for ten years. But in the last few weeks, news outlets and social media have served as constant reminders that some stories need to be shared. Why? Two reasons:
Stories need to be shared so others may become aware of their existence and utilize the experience of others to influence their own beliefs and actions.
Bad memories can tear away slowly at an individual from the inside out, leaving permanent scars and mental— oh, let’s call them quirks — that may be incredibly difficult to process, both internally and by others with whom they desire closeness.
In other words, he (and some others) really fucked my shit up.
Back to the story, though. It happened when I was 16, in 11th grade. I had been with my high school sweetheart for a couple of years at that point, which meant (in my grade school mentality) that we were bound to be together forever, of course. He got a car that year (his senior year), an old burgundy towncar passed down from his grandma. He mounted a set of (very real) antlers to the hood one day and rolled through our small town with way too much pride, never passing up an opportunity to lend a ride to me or his best friend, Ron*.
Ron was also a senior who was in a long term relationship with a junior. She was sweet, a quiet, artistic type who’d been in classes with me since middle school. I secretly thought she was cooler than me. In fact, I remember a pair of jeans she wore in 8th grade of which I was insanely jealous; super flared, with dark blue American flag graphics printed all over those bad boys. The early 2000s were a very special time in fashion.
The day Ron invited me over to his parents’ house to play video games, I thought nothing of it. I had been there many times with my boyfriend, after all. Not only that, but I was incredibly interested in getting my hands on Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, the aforementioned video game that, at the time, boasted revolutionary graphics and a ridiculously large explorable map.
When I got to his house, we spoke to his mom for a few minutes in the kitchen. She was a very kind and accommodating woman, and I felt a warm sense of comfort in her presence.
Then Ron and I went downstairs.
His bedroom looked the way you might imagine a high school boy’s room to look, except for one thing: the massive waterbed. I guess that could be a normal fixture in every young man’s room, but his was the first time I’d seen it. It had a big wooden headboard and everything, the type with a bookshelf running across the top. He pulled a goblet off the shelf and filled it with a liquor that I could not identify then and cannot identify now. I was a bit of a nerd, a Navy Brat who didn’t do the “party” thing that other kids talked about, so I had not much tested my limits when it came to alcohol. Of course, I didn’t think I was testing anything. I thought I was playing a video game with a friend, one just as accommodating as his mother, one who always kept my goblet full.
When I opened my eyes, I was looking at the ceiling, which seemed to sway due to the motion of the waterbed as well as my disoriented vision. My legs hung over the bed as I lay on my back. My pants were gathered at my ankles, and Ron was thrusting his hand inside of me. Trying to make sense of where I was felt like wading through a smokescreen, or a stage that’s filled with rows and rows of heavy black curtains. I remember trying to make words and instead squeaking out a couple of confused “huh”s and “wha”s. I remember lifting my head to meet his eyes as he stood and fumbled with his own pants. And I remember when he said, “[Your boyfriend] doesn’t deserve you."
Until recently, I blamed myself for being so foolish. For not fighting back harder. For being such a slut. “After all, you just laid there and took it, Brittany.”
I now understand that Ron curated the actions of the night to place me in that entirely defenseless position, and I fought back to the best of my abilities at the time (which was not nearly as much as I would have liked).
But I allowed the blame and guilt to thoroughly permeate my system for a decade. I even accepted his friend request on Facebook within the last few years! A lump formed in my throat upon seeing his name and picture after so long, but I assured myself as I hit the “accept” button that we are both adults, and that he is therefore much more mature than he was back then. After all, I thought, it’s not like he tried to hurt me.
Here’s the thing, though: he did hurt me. He hurt me a lot. And he hurt my friendships, and every relationship I’ve been in since. I didn’t always know that, but I know it now.
I feel a bit foolish admitting that I hadn’t deleted Ron from my “Friends" list until today. Regardless, I am proud to take one small step for myself, to make a decision based solely on my wellbeing and no one else’s.
If you are a victim of sexual assault, please believe me when I say that it is not your fault. Whoever hurt you was the one who made that decision, and no amount of mental replays will change what happened. But maybe (hopefully) talking about it can change how you feel.
The next installation of Elder Scrolls (ES V:Skyrim) came out on my birthday five years later, 11/11/11. I didn’t play it.
I’m here if you need someone to talk to.
*Not his name.