I spent some time thinking earnestly about the purpose behind this blog, and just what I’m asking of other women. I read books and articles and research about how community building and sharing stories helps assault survivors heal, and even teaches other women mechanisms for their own defense (should they ever need it), and it is this faith in the good inspired through sharing that pushes me to do this.
And yet, I am afraid of doing what I am asking others to do– I have written about my recent success against an assault on my property, but I have hesitated on writing about my experience as a teen. This is not a part of my life that I visit often or readily. After deliberating on it, however, I’ve decided that it’s important to add my own stories as well. I hope that this may be useful to others.
When I was in high school, I began seeing a boy three years older than I was. I looked up to him because he came from a good family, lived in the nice part of town, and was on the water polo team. I was stocky, geeky, and came from the humblest part of town. When he decided I was good enough, I was amazed and agreed to go out with him.
It began with mean jokes. About my lack of a waist, or thick glasses, or the fact that my parents couldn’t take everyone out to dinner the way his could. The more time passed, the more I felt the difference between us and the worse I felt about myself. And oddly the luckier I felt about being his girlfriend at the same time.
But I came from a very devout family, and when it came to anything beyond kissing I absolutely would not do it. At first, he didn’t press– he said he understood I needed to wait–but by the fifth month he was getting aggressive. I began dread spending too much time alone with him, so much so that I tried spending more and more of our time together in groups or with family. I felt safest then.
He asked me out one Saturday night, to go to his house and have dinner with his parents. I was given permission by my family and put on my best Sunday skirt. When he came to pick me up, he was smiling and nice. He said hello to my father before driving me to his house. I felt like things would be ok, up until he opened the door and saw that the lights were off. His parents were out to dinner, and it would be just the two of us.
I don’t totally remember how I ended up upstairs. He wanted to show me his aquarium, which was in his room, and I don’t know how I had agreed. But once we were up there, he began kissing me. His hand went under my shirt,and I held very still. I remember not feeling ‘there’ completely. I kept thinking about the fish, swimming peacefully behind him. He pulled me closer to the bed, and feeling the skirt raised and the back of my knees making contact with the bedspread woke me up.
He asked me to hold still, that if I loved him I’d hold still. His hands were holding my thighs. At that point I knew what was going to happen, and I started to cry. I said no, and he asked me to get into it, to not be afraid. When I tried getting up, he pressed onto me. I felt suffocated by his weight and my crying. I needed air and distance, and that’s what kept me struggling against his inappropriate touching. I hated it, it felt disgusting to have his hands on me at all. I wriggled, and at one point, I heaved hard and got him off of me long enough to get up and reach the door handle; he grabbed me by my waist at that point and tried dragging me back in, but I held fast to the handle with both hands and the combined force took it off its hinges.
He stopped then, and began talking about what his parents would say about it. He forgot about me for a moment, just pushed me back while he took a look. It was enough time for me to find a weapon–something sharp like a letter opener–from his desk. I put it to my wrist and told him to take me home now or else there would be a lot more to explain to his parents. I did not even buckle up in the car, and did not drop the thing until he had parked and I was one foot out of the car already.
It took a few years before I recovered. I felt ashamed and dirty, and at the same time kept wondering if I’d made too big a deal about it. It wasn’t until I started to talk to other women that I was able to accept what it was–attempted rape– and that I am a survivor. What happened wasn’t right or fair (it will never be right or fair), but I survived and this makes me both fortunate and strong.
