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Mar 22

#ididnotreport

*This post is very personal and discusses details of my childhood rape. It may trigger PTSD symptoms and I recommend caution for that reason.

I have been wanting to write this post for some time after watching #ididnotreport trend on Twitter.  I got caught up in dealing with a Twitter scumbag and put this one on the back burner. I am going to talk about it now.

Not in a tweet. My own #ididnotreport can not be condensed to that few of characters. Instead it will be in a long exhale of cathartic words on a blog that my family will never read.

I was raped as a child. I took me a whole 25+years before I ever was able to call it rape. Instead I used the term “molested.” I am not sure exactly why. It didn’t take me that many years before I considered oral sex to be sex. I can only attribute it to cognitive dissonance that I considered the forced oral sex on me as a child to be something less than the rape that it was. “Molestation isn’t as bad.” “At least I wasn’t raped.” You get the idea.

I am sure there are people out there wondering exactly what happened so they can define for themselves whether what happened to me was “rape.” Some purely for intellectual purposes and others for the purpose of demeaning my experience so that they can continue to think of rape in a narrowly defined sense. For the first group I will oblige the second, but I will address the second first:

Fuck you. You don’t get to define my experience. I do.

I will also say that my memory of the events are cloudy and so this won’t be a smooth story. I will try to include only events that I know actually happened.

I was around eight or nine, living in a rural cabin with my family. That family included a sibling, a mother, and a stepfather. My stepfather had been, at the time, the closest thing I ever had to a real father. That is what I considered him despite the fact he had only been a part of the family for a couple of years. Both my mother and father-in-law were pretty heavy drinkers but other than neglect due to their addiction, I had never been abused by  either of them. Until one night. I was awake, my sibling was away at a friend’s house, my mother was passed out in her room, and my father-in-law was probably inebriated and definitely awake.

This is where my memory fails me.

I can’t remember what he said. I can kind of remember the context. Something about fathers showing daughters things. I can’t remember how the bottom half of my clothes came off, whether he took them off or if I did. I can remember exactly how his tongue felt inside my vagina. I can remember that at that time and in that place I knew what was happening to me was wrong. The reason I can say that with certainty is because the very next day I told my mother what happened. I knew I shouldn’t keep it a secret. I new that is not what fathers and daughters did.

My mother’s initial reaction was not one of disbelief as cases like this often are. No, she believed me, and in her subsequent anger she tried to walk us to the hospital which was several miles away. We did not have a car at the time and she has never been the beacon of rational decisions. When we got a couple of miles she realized she couldn’t make it the whole way and we walked back to the house. I think she then used the phone to call an aunt or my grandmother. The next solid memory I have is us moving everything important to us into my grandfather’s truck and moving in with them.

We stayed for two days. Then we moved back. I remember my mother promising me that it would never happen again. I remember people blaming alcohol. I don’t remember why everyone let her take me back. I can’t actually fathom what could have gone on in their heads. These were people who loved me. Maybe they really believed it wouldn’t happen again.

I was a child. I believed it wouldn’t happen again. I believed that people made mistakes and could fix them. I believed it for months. Until it happened again. It wasn’t the same scenario. I don’t have any clue if he was drunk. I don’t know if this time it was him sticking his tongue in me or having me put my mouth on his penis. I don’t remember exact words ever spoken. I remember concepts. I remember him giving me the impression that one day he would put his penis inside where he put his fingers and tongue. I remember that he thought my body was too small yet to handle a full size penis inside me. I remember being thankful that we weren’t to that point yet. I remember being scared that we might be one day.

I remember not trusting anyone after it started again.

I mean, all the people who loved me lied to me and made me believe that I wouldn’t have to be subjected to abuse anymore. Not a damn one of the people who had the power to stop what was happening chose to stop it. Not only did they not report my abuse, they delivered me into the hands of my rapist again. My ability to trust ceased to exist.

You don’t get to call that experience “not rape” because I experienced it and it was rape by any sensible definition.

My desire for the now regularly occurring rape to end eventually overwhelmed my inability to trust people. I told my friend at the school what was happening to me, and she encouraged me to see the principal. Finally, a stranger knew and a whirlwind of changes came. Still no one reported it to authorities.

Never once has my step-father been formally charged with any form of sexual abuse. It was decided that the best course of action for me was to remove me from the situation. I don’t know how to properly weigh the positives with the negatives that came as a result from being forced to leave my town, my friends, my mother, my sibling and move into a home where I would meet another person who would also victimize me. Where I would meet a person who would not take things near as far as my step-father, who I considered still to have only ever molested me, and who I would never tell my family about. I cannot weigh those horrors against the positives because I am truly lucky to have the life I lead now. There is nothing I wouldn’t endure again, just to be sure I end up with the people I have in my life now.

The problem is I shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t have been made to endure the abuse of two people to simply be grateful for the life I have now. I shouldn’t have had to learn not to report the second abuser because the people who loved me taught me that it was ok not to report the first one.

My family, as much as I love them, taught me to be a victim. They taught me to run rather than fight. So no matter what tragic serendipity led me to become what exists today, I don’t think I can ever fully forgive those who could have stopped my abuse but didn’t.

 

 

13 comments

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  1. 1
    Crommunist

    Seriously Willo – I don’t know how you go on after something like that. The fact that you continue to exist as a more-or-less intact human person is a goddamn miracle (and one of your own making). This should be required reading for anyone who glibly brushes off molestation or tries to make a cheap joke out of it.

    1. 1.1
      WilloNyx

      I didn’t always go on. I was lucky to have met people who helped me to want to continue. It isn’t easy and I always said that if ever I approve of the death penalty it is for child rapists. They don’t merely take lives they destroy them.

  2. 2
    Donovanable

    Beautifully written and gut-wrenching. I can’t add much to what Crommunist said except to say that I’ve read this twice and I’m still taking it in.

    1. 2.1
      WilloNyx

      That is a pretty big compliment. I actually can’t much imagine someone choosing to reread something I wrote. (I gots confidence issues. I know.) Thank you though. It means a ton.

  3. 3
    Curvaceous Dee

    You did not report, no. But you have spoken. And we are listening.

    I know hugs from a total stranger don’t mean much. But *virtual hugs*. Thank you for sharing this.

    xx Dee

    1. 3.1
      WilloNyx

      There is a strange sort of warmth from virtual hugs. I very much appreciate them.

  4. 4
    Xanthe

    I know we only know of one another as names on blogs, and that words are woefully inadequate comfort at best. I’m frankly horrified that you had to suffer repeatedly despite promises that it wouldn’t happen again, and that equally the rapists never were made to answer for abuse of a child. I really don’t know what I can say apart from offering more of the virtual hugging pile-on.

    X. xox

    1. 4.1
      WilloNyx

      My biggest hope is that somehow my word help a parent to not make the same mistakes. If a child comes to you for help, help them.

  5. 5
    Anna

    I want to thank you for posting this. I wish I had more strength to speak out on my childhood abuse. No one believed me then and no one still does. More than 30 years later im still forced to deal with my abuser (a family member) on a semi regular basis.

    Parents need to know, parents need to believe, and more than anything parents need to protect.

    VIrtual hugs from me too. –Anna

    1. 5.1
      WilloNyx

      I am likewise forced to deal with my abuser on a semi regular basis. He is still my stepfather after all. I am considering compiling stories (anonymous if people wish) of how and why they did not report their abuse/assault. I am not sure that I have enough readers currently but I think it would make for an eye opening experience. I would have to turn off comments for them though. I wouldn’t want some troll to sneak in further victimize the authors.

  6. 6
    James Emery

    Ma’am, you are a brave human being. Knowing that not only did you deal with that to start with, but you’re still dealing with the man that did this to you is heartbreaking. I can only hope that he has learned his lesson, and that he knows he’ll never be around any children YOU have without supervision D:

    1. 6.1
      WilloNyx

      I assure you, my children will never be in the same room as him without either Jarreg or me present. I limit my direct speaking to him so I feel no need to tell him why. It just won’t happen.

      While I appreciate the compliment, I wouldn’t call myself brave. I just found a way to survive. Plenty of brave people can’t find what it takes to survive and plenty of cowards manage to survive just fine.

      1. Anna

        I understand what you mean about not feeling brave. Sometimes I feel more like im too stupid to realize I should just give up. I’m still here though.

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