I've been reading through some of the stories posted here

I've been reading through some of the stories posted here, and it actually gives me encouragement to know that there are other people out there like me. I have recently started seeing a theripist who has told me he thinks that I have BPD and a few other choice things. I have never actually told the complete story of what happened to me to anyone. I have told only about 4 or 5 people total about partial events of what happened, but I think it might help me to tell the whole story (what I remember of it) on here. I was 16 when I met him (this was about 5 years ago). We started dating at the end of October. Everything was great for about a week. Then on my birthday in November he decided he wanted to mark the occassion with something "special." We were in my basement watching a movie when he started trying to convinse me to take off my shirt. When I wouldn't he got mad. This is where it starts getting fuzzy. I know I struggled against him. I also know I lost that struggle. I didn't call out to anyone who was home because I was afraid of what they might think. He told me that if I told anyone he'd just deny it or tell them I said I wanted to. I was young and a virgin, I believed him and I believed they'd believe him. He siad he wouldn't do it again, he also said he'd tell everyone what a slut I was if I broke up with him. So I didn't break up with him. He kept his word about not doing it again for about three days. I don't remember where we were or what se him off but he started yelling at me and then hitting me. He got me pinned down on the ground and said he'd stop hurting me if I let him have what he needed... I am so ashamed of what happened next... I stopped fighting him. I let him have what he wanted. He told me that from then on if I didn't want him to hurt me that I would give him what he needed when needed it. He stayed true to his word for the most part. If i didn't fight, he didn't hurt me... as much. It went on like that, and I don't remember much of that time, for several months. I finally couldn't take it anymore. I hated him but I hated myself more. I told him it was over and that I didn't care what he told anyone else. He did not take it well, he hit me a few times and then left. I thought it was over. I was wrong. He and a friend of his made plans. They waited until I was alone after practice for a school sport. I was getting in extra practice not paying attention to anything else in the room, I thought I was alone. "Hey, you're getting pretty good at that," My ex called out to me. I didn't want to, but I made myself turn around. There he was with that big ugly grin on his face and next to him was his best friend. I ran. I fought. I yelled. But again I lost the fight. And no one heard me but the two people who definately weren't going to help. I never reported him. His Uncle was chief of police. Instead I went into self destruct. I dropped out of life. I drank. I partyed. I did drugs. I tried to kill myself. Anything to make me forget. But then all of you know that you never really can. The only reason I'm not dead is because of faulty thinking on my part. I met the man who is my current husband and decided that if men needed it so badly I was going to give it before it could be taken. I got preganant, the first time I miscarried. The second time I had my first daughter (Who was an answer to a prayer, what prayer? The Serenity Prayer, which is her name incidently). Who is the only reason I don't go back into self destruct mode, completely, well her and her little sister. I slip into that mode from time to time, but never when they are around, and never for more than an evening at a time.
My only question to myself is, is it still rape if you allow it to happen without a fight? Is that consent? Am I wrong to feel wronged? Was I only raped twice, or was every time rape? I never wanted him to but I didn't want to be hurt.
For those of you out there who can't remeber what happened. Please don't try to remember. Trust me, it's better not knowing. I had repressed most of these memories until I started seeing a tharapist. Now I remember more everyday. Not remembering is a blessing in disguise.
by Unreppesing and Regrettingon 18 Nov 2004

Labels: I've been reading through some of the stories posted here

posted by Robert Heard at 10:15 AM