Was It Rape?
July 7, 1998
Was that a rape? I told my mom and dad it was three years later when I was 17. I told them after getting caught trying to sleep over at my boyfriend's house. They sent me to a therapist, and I think she flat out asked me if I only used "rape" as an excuse to get out of trouble. I told her I had wanted to tell my parents for awhile.
I was 17 when I told my parents about my rape.
Now, after reading about how obviously confused I was after we moved to Colorado, I wonder if I didn't want to tell them that I had been having sex and I needed help?
I do believe that after my rape, I didn't think too much of myself. I wish I had that journal so I could figure out how long it was between [the rape] and when I started sleeping around. [I had thrown away the journal after Will had read about some ex-boyfriends in it and gotten mad that I still had it.]
It saddened me because in my previous ["First Boyfriend"] journal, I talked two or three times about how I wanted to wait to have sex until I loved someone enough. I never once remember feeling any love at all for [my rapist]. Curiosity, yes. Even mild attraction - I had told my girlfriends about him (not the sex) and even started to pretend he was my boyfriend.
But you know, out of the four times I remember [my rapist] and I talking, here's how it went:
- On the swing set with Denise: Exchanged names, flirted, he told me I looked older than 14 (but hey - I was on a swing set!)
- Outside on the back porch steps when Meme caught us talking: I had said, "You were my first," and he said, "You can't get pregnant your first time, right?"
- We talked in the yard between our houses.
- We talked in his garage after his 18th birthday party. He said, "My dad says he doesn't want no 14 year old in my bed."
And for the very first time here, I admit we had sex after the first time.
I don't remember enjoying it. I remember him always controlling it - where, when, what. I remember being scared all those times.
But I guess I had convinced myself that if we had sex, then I must love him. I didn't understand that I didn't HAVE to do it anymore. But I kept letting him come around. My bathroom sink, my "hide-away" in [my neighbor's] barn, his car in [my neighbor's] barn (when his dad saw), in his garage. I think mostly in my place in the barn.
I remember being gagged on his penis when he held my head so tight I couldn't breathe. I remember how cheap I felt - how worthless - on my sink.
He had a party with lots of friends at his dad's house, but I wasn't invited. I felt terrible! He'd go out with friends of his, come home and then come to my window. I know he used me. I know he didn't care about me, but I was convenient and available. I made myself available thinking that if sex was MY choice, then he couldn't use me.
When he left to go home to Kentucky, I tried to cry. Really, I was relieved.
I think that (after reading this definition of rape: having sexual intercourse with a person who has not consented) I feel I was raped. It was "date rape." He never asked, and there had been no physical contact previous to the rape.
Since writing this entry and the following one, I have realized that people do not repeatedly do bad things unknowingly. Even sociopaths and psychopaths who lie and cheat without remorse KNOW they're doing what other people would consider horrible behaviors. They just don't care.
And, because I'm the mother of a 15 year-old son whom I admire and converse with regularly, I know that the 17-turned-18 year-old man who raped me was also capable of knowing right from wrong, freely-given sex from forced sex. Yes. It was rape.
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