Rape & Sexual Abuse
Dani C's story
The second weekend of June 2001 was the first time I'd ever spent the night at my cousin's house. M and her family moved around a lot but a few months before they'd moved to an apartment complex just a half hour or so away from my house. There was an instant bond between us and we quickly became best friends. That weekend turned into a week, turned into two, turned into the entire summer. It was the summer I turned 14, the summer before I started high school... It was the summer I was raped.
Within the first few days of our extended slumber party I was introduced to all the kids from the neighboring apartment that M called friends . . . and I was quickly accepted as one of them. None of my friends had ever been boys, but the majority of my new ones were and I liked the attention they gave me. One boy, in particular gave me butterflies and goosebumps--he was my first crush.
D was 17 and to me, he was perfect. He made me laugh and he was very protective of me, even when he barely knew me he was always making sure I was okay and that nothing was wrong. During the last few weeks of July, D asked me to be his girlfriend. I can remember how ridiculously giddy and excited I was. My first REAL boyfriend. We held hands, he put his arm around me and sometimes we even kissed. I liked the way D made me feel. I liked the way he called me pretty and I liked the way he tried to trick me into kissing him on the lips by turning his head quickly when I'd try to kiss him on the cheek.
Well before August, M and I had developed a sort of routine throughout the week. While her parents went to work, she'd clean the kitchen, I'd clean the living room and then we'd take out the trash if there was any. We were supposed to stay in the appartment until her parents got home, but sneaking out to hang out with our friends for a few hours quickly became part of our routine. D used to ask me to come over to his apartment during the day while his parents were gone so we could be alone together, but I'd never gone. M would always try to convince me to go but I didn't have the courage to be alone with a boy.
On August 22nd though, I'd finally convinced myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, that D was my boyfriend and that couples are supposed to spend time alone together. After cleaning the house M and I walked to the building D lived in, giggling the whole way. When we got there M said good-bye and I rang the buzzer for D to let me in. He came up the stairs to the main door, smiled and told me I looked so cute. Any second thoughts I had were quickly wiped away when he took my hand and led me down to his apartment. After a quick tour, we sat down on the couch, turned the TV on and he put his arm around me.
I remember my heart pounding a million miles a minute when he leaned in for a kiss . . . My first real kiss. It was akward at first, just like I imagine every first kiss is, but my first kiss quickly turned out to my first make-out session. He started to move his hands from his body to mine, placing them on my thigh at first and then moving them to caress my neck. When he stopped kissing me I was kind of disappointed, until he stood up, grabbed my hand and lead me to his parents' bedroom.
We sat on the bed and continued kissing, eventually he laid me down and was leaning over me. His hands, which had remained mostly in places that I was comfortable with started to make their way under my shirt and towards my chest. I stopped them before they got there and, without any resistance, he put them back to where I'd been okay with them before. He tried the same thing once more but, again, he had no opposition when I pushed them away, placing his hand back on my thigh.
Then he started to move his hand up my skirt, but then he'd stop and move it back down without me having to ask. When his hand reached band of my underwear, I stopped kissing him, grabbed his hand and told him to "knock it off". He apologized and the little flash of panic/anger I had went away. But not even 30 seconds after his apology his hand was right back where I had just moved it from. When I went to grab it again, he grabbed my wrist and pinned up by my shoulders. Up until that point I wasn't scared at all, I wasn't worried, I didn't feel unsafe or in danger. With his other hand he pulled down my underwear and started to undo his belt and jeans. I can still remember the sound of his zipper and how when I heard it I knew exactly what was about to happen. I tried to push him off of me, but when I tried to kick him it only made it easier for him to position himself between my legs.
When it happened I couldn't scream . . . I wanted to, but I couldn't. The only thing I could do was cry. I remember the pain, but not the pain of him entering me. I remember how much my tears seemed to burn my cheek, how his weight on me made it hard to breathe and how the friction of his zipper on my thigh felt like I was being cut with a dull knife. I don't remember when I stopped fighting, but I remember trying to concentrate on anything other than what was happening to me . . . I couldn't. His breath on my neck, the groans and grunts he was making, the mechanical way he prodded me and the look of determination on his face were too much to focus on anything else.
When he finished, he got up and left the room. It's weird, but I felt like he had just discarded me and that made me even more upset. Not that I wanted him to lay next to me and hold me, but I thought that's what should've happened. I layed there alone and bleeding for a few minutes--I was paralyzed by pain and fear. Walking back to my aunt's apartment is still blurry to me and I don't remember saying anything to M before I got in the shower. I sat at the bottom of the tub, letting the hottest water I could handle run over me and I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried until I didn't have enough energy to cry.
I felt disgusting, dirty, stupid, ashamed, weak . . . like it had all been my fault. I went to sleep after I got out of the shower, I was still in my towel when M woke me up. She asked me what happened but I couldn't tell her. How do you tell someone that you let something like that happen to you? I went home the next day and I haven't seen or spoken to D since. I hardly speak to M anymore either.
I've only told 3 people my story. Two were boyfriends, one was my counselor. It's taken me 8 years to seek help for all the damage D left behind when he left that room. I still have nightmares and there are still days when I feel worthless because of what happened. I'm always ashamed to tell my story, but I have hope that I won't be for long.
I started seeing a counselor a few months ago. I've opened up to him more than I ever thought possible. Talking about what happened and how it's affected me helps me a little more each week. I don't feel so alone when I talk about it, I feel like I don't have to keep this secret to myself because it wasn't my fault. I'm hopeful that I'll be free from these demons soon and that when I look back I'll know that what happened doesn't define me and doesn't make me who I am.
Thank you for letting me share my story.
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