***TRIGGER WARNING, DESCRIPTIONS OF RAPE***

I was raped.

I say it so nonchalantly, like it means nothing.  Right now it does mean nothing.  I look back and think what could I have done differently, should I have seen the signs and the worst one of all is why was I so stupid to allow it to happen again.

That’s the key word.  I am no stranger to sexual abuse or assault.  Those two things run rampant in history more than I can count on two hands.  I thought that once I had moved past that place I was in my life, now that I had learned boundaries and consent that it would stop and never happen again.

Except that in the back of my mind I was always preparing for when it would happen again.  PTSD mentality means I always have to be aware for the next attack.  Every man I meet in an elevator could be the one.   Even worse I fear that the next time I open my apartment door there will be a man waiting for me, to get the final one up.

This time I opened the door to him, I invited him in because I thought he was safe.  The how and the why of him getting to my apartment is not important to the story and his choice.  It doesn’t negate his actions.  When someone chooses to rape they take away anything leading up to the assault.  Such as “well you were drinking so you kind of put yourself there” or “if you hadn’t been texting those things he wouldn’t have thought you were into it” even worse “if you had just given in it wouldn’t have happened”

Those disgusting remarks are things that I have heard all in the past, from therapists, friends and even people in the church who were apparently ignorant of rape and its consequences.  There is not one single thing that a person can or cannot do that makes it their responsibility for being raped.  However right now I am struggling with believing that for myself, because the wound is still so fresh and so open.

I don’t know what to do, I am stuck I keep telling myself that it couldn’t of happened the way I remember (up until I stopped remembering.)  I tell myself he couldn’t have drugged me because I was watching my glass the whole time, but was I really?  What I clearly know is there was a point I was conscious and then I was not; and then I was vomiting, excessively. 

I don’t want to sit here at 33 years old and say that I allowed this to happen because in the logical part of my brain I know that I did not choose for him to drug me, rape me while I was unconscious and then leave.  I don’t want to tell you that this was just last weekend and that I have spent every day this week wishing for the ache to go away.  I haven’t called it what it is until now because why would I?  When I spent my childhood years being groomed by an abuser only to grow up and have the cycle continue.

It pains my soul to say this, to write it out here for you now.  But I needed to; I had to because I cannot keep it inside.  If I do I am liable to self destruct.  I know myself.  However I have never gone through an assault with healthy coping skills or a therapist before so I suppose that’s my one up this time. 

I know I’ll always want the pain to go away.  This further perpetuates this thought I constantly have that I am just a target for people.  I feel like I have this radar that I put out that says “ABUSE ME PLEASE.”  Honestly it was a lack of boundaries and not understanding what consent meant.  I thought that my worth only amounted to one thing pushed me in the direction of severely abusive and unhealthy people.

Now I ache, I ache because that word stains me again.  It traces its way down my body and stays there.  No amount of water washes it off; no amount of sleeping makes the hurt stop and no amount of staying away and fighting the night makes the nightmares go away.

It seems as though this is my reality again.  I keep promising myself that I won’t go into the deep, deep dark like I so easily want to do.  I’m promising those inside me who carry the hurt of abuses past that I will keep doing those things that bring them life.  I will be a light bearer to them, to myself and to Abigail.

Going to the police was assessed but I decided against it because there really is zero evidence and it’s my word against his and I am not going to sit with a bunch of police officers and talk about something that I hardly remember.  I thought about it again today as the reality started to sink in, my heart came up in my throat and the anxiety increased.  It’s not worth a police report when nothing usually happens.

I honestly believe that I will eventually be okay.  I have the best therapist.  She gets me like no one else does and has dug deep with me into the trauma of my past.  To be truthful this kind of feels like one more thing on the stack of already really fucking shitty shit in my life.  Even though the reality is sinking in I still feel pretty numb.

Numb, scared and tired.

As Always,

Bethany

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