I was raped in 1991.
Until today, there were about 6 people (not including cops, rape specialists, investigators, criminologists, prosecutors, attorneys, and a few more cops, but I don't really count them as "people") who I had told of my own volition.
The list does not include either of my ex husbands. This list does not include any of my ex boyfriends or men I have dated. This list did not include (except for one) any of my closest friends. This list did not include even one family member. Not my cousins. Not my brother. Not my parents. Obviously I needed to write it in a blog 22 years later.
I made it through a day of hell, a week of crying, and about 4 months of court-related crap before I did my best to ignore it.
Now I am not asking for a single comment that says "oh". I probably won't listen. In the purest sense of the word, the actual rape part of the whole thing has not effected me. I have no lingering fear of sex (I quite enjoy it actually). I have no problems with dark alleys or men looming near me, given that I have worked in prisons and in drug areas, and lived in sketchy areas. What I do have is a total fear that my judgement is completely fucked up.
Here is the story.
I met "Dan" when my friend "Greg" introduced us at a party. It was an April Fool's Day party and we were having a blast. Dan and I hit it off immediately. He was smart, and funny, and sexy. We did the whole attraction dance and (in the days before cell phones) he asked for my number.
The first date was fun, and we talked for hours. So were dates two thru five. Magical even. Five dates in four weeks for a girl with a full time job and a guy in his third year of law school was golden. Date six was on May Day, and a day of flying was planned. Dan was a small craft pilot, and had a plane on loan for our use for the day. Heaven.
Arriving back at his apartment I was ready to spend the whole evening telling him, and showing him, just how into him I was. I never took my coat off. He excused himself to the bathroom, and in the time it took me to look around the apartment and see a few of the photos and things, he had stuck a plunger full of meth into one of his veins and came out of his bathroom naked with a hard-on, and seriously ready to fuck and hit me. He did both.
How I talked my way to safety, and how the police arrested him in his apartment, and how he confessed, well, that is all just logistics.
Fast forward to today.
I was asked to do some homework on "Why do you think you are not getting what you want?" as it relates to relationships and men in general. My answer came in one simple word: fear. Not fear of being raped. Like I said, I enjoy sex, and am not afraid of being hurt physically. My fear, it seems, is that my judgment about men is so fucked up, that even if a really nice guy wanted to love me and understand me, I would not believe for one second that he was sincere. So instead, I pick familiar, which is guys who won't actually beat or rape me, but will do a damn good job of ignoring me, evading emotions, keeping their lives and trust distant, because I confuse that kind of familiar with safety.
So I figured out I don't get what I want because I don't trust anyone to be my safe place to fall. I only trust them enough to get them in my life and then accommodate their needs. Fucked up, much?
So I am learning that maybe there are safe good men out there, ones that are totally worthy of me, and I of them. Trusting myself to know that is going to be the next step. If you want to comment about THAT, I will listen.
