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My Story - TW *graphic*

Open Discussions About Sexual Abuse and Incest.

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My Story - TW *graphic*

Postby startop123 » Sat Feb 13, 2021 10:35 pm

Hi there,

I am new to this site and this is my first post. I needed somewhere to share my story, anonymously. I don't expect anything back, I just hope that a little weight will lift off my shoulders by knowing the words are out there, or else I hope someone else may be able to make sense of this mess. It is quite long, I apologise. Names have all been changed.

So here goes:

When I was about 13/14 (I am currently 17), I started to realise I wasn’t comfortable in my body. Strange thoughts about my dad began to emerge. I hated eating around him. I started to fear being around other people, especially male people. I felt like it had already happened to me. I had already been raped, and I needed to tell someone. Which was crazy, because I knew it hadn’t. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it really had. In school, in PSHE, I remember the first time we were told about sexual assault, I got a funny feeling in my body, like this was all so familiar, yet so alien at the same time. And I began to think, isn’t that an explanation for how I am feeling?

Then, over the years, I notice more and more which pointed to that. Like my abnormal behaviour as a child, my growing fear of my dad. But then, maybe I was just a weird child. I was obsessed over everything being perfect - my hair, it always had to be so slicked back I looked bald, and I would spend often more than half an hour brushing it in the morning. I had to read all the books in my bookshelf again and again, but only in alphabetical order. Once I had reached Z, I would go back to A and start all over again. Everything had to be touching on my bedside table. The curtains had to be drawn in a certain way. I had to repeat a mantra of three swear words to myself every night after my mum or dad had said goodnight and closed my door. I had to scrumple up every piece of paper that was given to me, then unfold it again and smooth it out. I had to secretly sneak into my schoolbag every night to get my spelling book so I could write out all the words again, seven times, coloured in rainbow order. I think I am possessed; I have always done things that are so self-destructive. I drank paint once. I jumped out my bedroom window once. It is like everything around me has to be perfect, whilst I have to be as broken as I can make myself. Maybe my head was so messed up that the things I thought were happening to me really weren’t.

However, then it just got worse and worse. I started ‘remembering’ things. Scenes from my bedroom, where he is there. They were like memories. They are like memories. Memories of when I was around six/ seven years old, where my dad would be raping me in my bed at night. They feel so real. And so I thought, did it happen? Is what I’m seeing really real? But it can’t be. No way. So it was impossible to tell somebody how I was feeling, because it makes me a bad person. Isn’t it just disrespectful to the people who have actually been raped? I just didn’t know what do.

So I kept silent. Though it continued to get worse, especially in Year 12, when you’re suddenly in this new ‘adult’ world. I hated my body. But in particular, my reproductive system. So I used to cut the skin above on my tummy as a way of punishing it. Still do. For being so uncooperative, for being so scared, for fearing sex, for not protecting me. Yet I still didn’t understand why I felt like this. What it was all for. And I felt like people could see it. They could tell.

I could not understand it. So, I continued to cut, self-destruct, eat in disordered ways, think in disordered ways. Overdose and end up in hospital. Because I couldn’t stop it all. Couldn’t stop the visions and the memories, the fears, the ‘what ifs’, the shame, the guilt, the self-loathing, the dirtiness, and the used feeling inside of me, the anger, at myself, at the world, the hopelessness, the knowing that no-one will ever love me intimately.

(Just to put this all in context, my parents divorced a couple of years ago and since then my contact with my dad has been limited. However, each time I would have to see him I would want it to end so quickly).

In my desperation to find an explanation for all of this, I would put myself in situations where I hoped it would happen, where my dad told me not to go. Because then, if it did happen, it would explain how I felt, and everything previously could be ignored. The ‘memories’ of whatever had happened previously could be ignored. I would have a real reason, with a proper memory attached, to explain how I felt. Perhaps if someone else did it, I could pretend it wasn’t my father. But it never did happen. And the memories, and all the feelings that came with them, continued to prevail. Then I reached breaking point. I just had to tell someone. The words were there, deep down, they had been for months, years, I just hadn’t realised it yet. I went over in my head again and again what would happen if I told someone, and thought it just wasn’t worth it. Best to keep it to myself. So, I hadn’t even planned on saying it.

But I did.

You know, I had imagined it for years. Imagined telling a teacher I was raped. Imagined me sitting there in front of the police, saying what happened. I thought someone was going to find out somehow, discover my secret. And I worried they already had. That people already knew, had somehow guessed but were all hiding it. Though, I didn’t ever picture what would happen after I said it. And I never thought I would. I don’t know why it was in my head. But true or not true, it was driving me mad, and I was so frustrated with myself. With my views about the world, about people. I was so frightened to say it, and when I did, I did not plan it. It just came out. I remember the moments before. The room was filled, just filled with this darkness, smothering my face, choking my throat. The words were there, in my head, ready to burst out of my mouth. And then they did. That moment was the most terrified I have ever been in my entire life. I was frozen in place. For a second, time just stopped. I wasn’t in school, I wasn’t in the biology lab. I wasn’t even on Earth. I was floating away, falling further and further from any sense of reality. Little did I know that my life had just changed forever.

The first police interview happened at school, that night I first told someone. The police officer came in. Mason, he was called. Like me. He sat opposite, the white paper with RASSO printed on the front in thick black and ink waving in front of my eyes. Rape And Serious Sexual Offences. I gave him the boring details – age, address, phone number. And then; ‘Can you tell me what happened?’. And again, I found myself at a loss of what to say. Of course my body decided to freeze in that moment. Well done me. I immediately felt stupid. I just closed my eyes. ‘It was dark’ I muttered. I didn’t know what he was asking. What details he wanted. That is all I could say - ‘It was dark’. Then his tone shifted - what he said next sent piercing needles through my lungs.

Mason: ‘Did this incident really happen?’

I don’t even know how to describe what those words felt like. I knew right then that people wouldn’t believe me. Of course they wouldn’t – I couldn’t even believe myself. I felt like a fool. I still do. I don’t remember what I said to his question. I don’t even know if I said anything at all. He asked some more questions, I tried to answer. He asked me for the address of where it happened. I didn’t want to give it to him. That felt like too much. That was my home of 15 years, so how could I just give that whole section of my life up to this man who I didn’t even know? I know it was only my address, but still, it felt like everything.

Mason: ‘This will be so much easier if you just give me address’.

I felt like he didn’t believe me because I wouldn’t say the address. But I knew that as soon as I said those words – it would be real. Everything would be real. They would have a place, a location no longer in the ether. I just blurted it out. I didn’t want to, but they did. And as they slipped from my lips, I felt like I had betrayed him so much. I held a rod of electricity in my hand, and when I said the address, an electric bolt ran through my dad’s body.

Mason: ‘I didn’t expect that’.

The next thing I recall was walking through the corridor. Except it wasn’t really walking. I was stuck, I couldn’t move. I kept running back. I didn’t want to face my mum. I felt like a coward. I was a coward. So afraid. The carpet felt sticky, my feet were glued to it. Everyone was just there, standing, waiting. Waiting for me. Staring at me. But still I couldn’t move. I just could not go in. No way was I going in. I would rather die. There was a table to my right, and I wanted to crawl underneath it and never come out. But I couldn’t even do that; my body felt like it had been taken over. I did it eventually though. Somehow. I think I just acted normal but I don’t really know. A little smile. A reassuring shrug. It’s all okay.

My mum walked out, I followed. We got in the car.

Mum: ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Me: ‘Mum, I don’t really want to. Not now’.

Mum: [pauses] ‘But don’t you think I have the right to know?’

Me: (No. What gives you the right? You are being so selfish here. Shut up.) ‘Please can we go home?’

Mum: [says nothing].

Me: ‘Mum, please just drive’.

Mum: ‘But I need to know. I am your mother.’

Mum: ‘Not now. Please, I am so tired. Let’s just go home.’

Finally she drove away. I don’t remember the journey, or entering the house, or climbing the stairs, brushing my teeth, getting into bed. I don’t remember anything apart from lying awake until past 2am, worrying that I was going to prison. Am going to prison - I still worry. Then it was Friday. 6am. Another day. I got up, again. I don’t remember the next day, nothing - apart from one thing. Sitting in the school counsellor's room. She asked me what happened. I told her. It was monotonous. Numb. I said ‘I wish I had never been born. So that my dad would not have a daughter to rape.’ Those words are ingrained in my brain. How shameful.

A few weeks later, the proper police interview happened. That whole time I could not look at her directly. The police. The camera was perched on the table right in front of me, its single eye boring into me. I just looked at my knees, at the paper in my hand, the collection of pencil drawings which showed what went on in my head. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.

All I can say about the rape is this: it’s awkward, the limbs don’t fit together, everything feels prickly. Dreamlike. Nightmarish. I don’t know the difference anymore. Time does not exist. I don’t know what happens at the end. I don’t know how it ends. I don’t know when. I only know where.

But I don’t manage to say any of that. It has been an hour already and I have barely said anything. I think of the poor person who will have to watch this video back, watch my hollowed face and fumbling fingers and tightly crossed legs. I feel sorry for that person.

Police: ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’

That’s all she kept asking – what happened next. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her that I didn’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I do not know! But of course, you can’t scream at a police officer. So I cried instead. Cowardly tears, which I had been trying so hard to keep behind my eyelashes, but they overflowed, seeping down my face in rolls of anger. Frustration. Exhaustion. She paused the camera and we took a break. I told her I couldn’t carry on with it.

I hated it all in that moment. It’s so unfair - I am sitting in a rickety, fraying chair in this freezing, disused police station with a camera atop a filing cabinet, shooting lasers through my skin. My stomach is twisted in knots, my hands are cold and clammy, sort of numb. And this woman sits opposite, with her leopard print scarf and hair the dear colour of chestnuts.

Me: ‘I can’t do it’.

Police: ‘You are doing so well. So, so well. I can see how traumatic this is, you are barely even able to say the words. I am not allowed to ask too many leading questions so I can’t say how well you are doing. I have to act neutral. I can’t imagine how hard it is. But you can do it. Just this final part. Then it’s nearly finished. You just have to be really clear by what you say so that the people watching can understand what you mean.’

I had never done anything which had required so much inner strength. I didn’t have to go into details back then. Now the police wanted details. They wanted ‘terminology’. But I just couldn’t do it. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing. I had already tried. I had mentioned the pyjamas. The bed. Him. However, then I thought of the others. I thought about the faces of the children I pass on the street, at the children running to school. Running from school. Not running. Those who have fallen over and have their mothers to pick them up and kiss them and blot their wet faces and wrap them in warm hugs. The children who don’t tell their friends about their life, the ones with weird mum, weird dad. Angry mum, angry dad. Shouting dad. Kind dad. Sweet dad. Loving father. Because, I mourn for all of them. For the happy and the sad, the unfortunate and the fortunate, the lonely ones, the tired ones, the quiet ones. For they are not this world, this evil world with its evil men and evil war and brutality and poverty and money and dirt and hunger and despair and blood and rape.

So I tried. Pushed the salty, stinging tears back to their depths where I could deal with them later. I tried, I really did. Those minutes passed painfully, until the sentence was full-stopped. I told her. I told the police, I gave them what they wanted. I was clear.

Me: ‘He put his penis inside my vagina. And then kept doing it’.

Police: ‘What do you mean by that?’

Me: ‘He… would… take it out…. then do it again.’

I felt disgusting. I felt absolutely mortified. There are no words for it. How else do you explain that kind of thing? Yet, all the while my mind is telling me it’s a lie. I have made it up. Dreamt it. I still feel that crushing shame. I think people think of me as dirty. Worthless. Used. Contaminated. Maybe I am contaminated.

But it was over. For the time being. And there are still some things I will never admit. They will stay hidden. I don’t know if they caused this, or if they are because of this, but they are too painful. I keep asking myself to tell me the truth, to show me what really happened, but whenever I try it’s like this big wall is forced in front of my vision - in front of my understanding. I keep groping against it, desperately trying to catch any sense of reality, of what happened, but I can’t, it won’t let me. My own brain is working against me.

I feels as if I have left my body and someone has taken my place. Or maybe this is all made up, maybe my whole life is made up. I half think my mind has made it up. But it feels so real at the same time. And it is agonising. I don’t even remember what happened. My life was fine before all of this; sure I had a few images in my head, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing like this. And now the images seem fake. So I must have made it up. I think to myself, there is an explanation for everything. There is an explanation for my self-harm, for my eating problems, for my panic attacks, for my suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, for my fear of being naked, for my fear of having a bath, for my fear of being around others, not knowing how to interact properly with others, for my fear of opening up to my mum, to my sister, for my alcohol cravings and self-destructive behaviour, for the images that I see in my head, for the way I feel around men, for the medical records which are apparently ‘evidence’ which could be used in court, for thinking that no one wants me around, for thinking my mum wants me dead, for telling her to kill me, telling her to drive me somewhere and leave me, to throw me out onto the streets. I have always done things that are so self-destructive, from about the age of four. I drank paint once. I jumped out my bedroom window once. I took an overdose of pills once. It is like everything around me has to be perfect, whilst I have to be as broken as I can make myself. My dad raping me is not the explanation. There must be some other explanation. Or maybe there is just no explanation at all. Maybe I have gone mad. Or maybe I have just read too many things, watched too many things, maybe I am a disgusting person who is obsessed over this type of thing. Or maybe it was all a dream, maybe I dreamt it all up one night and the ‘memories’ I saw were just remnants of some dream.

Perhaps my mind is trying to tell my body something. It’s saying ‘you are lying’. So maybe my mind is right and my body is wrong. They seem so disconnected from each other right now. And I feel so far away from by body. Even though I am my body, I feel like a person inhabiting someone else’s body. I don’t feel in control of my thoughts, my actions. But if it was that easy to let go of the voice telling me this isn’t real, I would have let go a long time ago. It’s almost like my body is saying to me ‘you were raped’, but my body really does not accept that. Cannot accept that. Because if did, it wouldn’t know how to cope.

I was raped. I know it. I still doubt myself, I can’t be sure. But it feels true. This is psychological torture. Because this thing plays with your mind. It tells you that you’re lying. It makes you wish you had never said anything. It makes you question who you are, what you are, why you are. How you came to be. It makes you distrust everyone, but most of all yourself. It makes you question the humanity of this world. It makes you wonder what it even means to be human. Whether you even want to be human anymore. Because the things these humans do to each other are horrendous. It makes you think your life is a dream, just like this allegation which you must have made up. Because there is no way that could have happened. Maybe you are just really mentally ill. You must be, to think something up like that. It’s shameful, it’s disgusting, it’s dirty, repulsive, uncomfortable, awkward. It is hidden in the most personal, intimate part of your body. I can’t talk about my shame because of my shame. The shame is what is stopping me. I am scared people will judge me, laugh at me. I worry people won’t take me seriously. I will be so humiliated. The mental torture goes so deep.

I know that sex is a natural, healthy, human thing. But it plagues my mind. When I think of it, it doesn’t seem natural or healthy. I think of danger, of pain. Rape has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with power and violation.


I am confused because my body does the exact opposite of what I want. The first time I kissed a boy, I felt like I had to, not because I really wanted to or anything, but I just felt compelled to that night. It was at a party, I was drunk, and I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I told my friends that I wanted to and they all said ‘you really don’t want to do that’, but I knew he wanted to and I didn’t want to let him down. So then we did. It was so awkward as well. Afterwards we just held each other, and I could feel his heart beating so fast. After he left, I felt so disgusting. I knew he hadn’t, but I felt as if he’d just invaded my body. The first thing I did was nearly swallow a whole bottle of mouthwash trying to remove his taste. Trying to remove him from me. I felt so bad though for feeling this way. But I told myself that I would just keep going, I would prove myself to him, prove that I could be good for him, and what I felt didn’t matter.

So that is all I wanted to say. If you read all of it, thank you. Even if you just read this sentence, thank you x
startop123
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