denial/repression and finally admitting what happened

It's been twelve years since I was raped. Yes, raped. No matter how often I still catch myself denying that it happened. Because I could/should have fought back more, should have resisted "better", should have done more somehow, have surely no one to blame but myself since I was stupid enough to let myself end up in the situation that led to the rape in the first place and was so very much in denial about ######6 everything that I ended up having sex with my rapist two more times. Yes. TWO. MORE. TIMES.
And that's where stuff gets tricky. Because no matter how much I know that "no, means no" and that kicking and trying to get the ###$ away from the guy are not the normal response to one's first time some part of me keeps insisting that it can't have been rape if I didn't manage to put a stop to it the other two times. Because I knew and I should have run as soon as I saw him again. Hell, he even BRAGGED to his ######6 friends about raping me to the point where some of them cornered me at the bus stop and actually asked if he had been telling the truth or if I was "just" his girlfriend. Right. And stupid, little me just stood there and tried to ignore them while praying for the bus to arrive already.

And that, right there, was my initial reaction to the whole thing. Didn't happen. Wasn't what I thought it was. DID NOT HAPPEN. And that's how it stayed for a over a decade. Rape? NO, never happened to me. Never mind that the following years included several bouts of depression, self-harm, increasing anti-social/sociophobic tendencies, panic attacks and an eating disorder. It was, occasionally, bad enough for the school to insist on me seeing a counselor and the result was usually the same. Yes, she has problem; no, the situation at home is okay; it's probably just a "normal" teenage-emo phase, she'll get over it. Because rape? Yeah, that was still the thing that did not happen to me. At all. I never actually even thought about it for years. Complete denial.

People say that in case of trauma the mind uses denial as a coping mechanism until one is ready to face what happened and deal with the trauma. #######4. Or at least it feels like #######4 to me. Because whatever walls I had created around it (yes, I absolutely hatehatehate the word "rape" and still have problems even saying it. actually, today is the first time I even wrote it in connection with myself) have come tumbling down. I remember. Most parts of all three times are somewhat fuzzy (no idea if that's due to denial or time) but I have finally managed to admit to myself that I never, ever wanted to have sex with him.

Still, I managed somehow. Until everything suddenly came back. It started with nightmares and ended with the thoughts/memories of what happened always being at the back of my mind (no matter where I was or what I was doing) until just banging my head against the nearest wall seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to just make it stop already. Coupled with the fact that I was too much of a mess to finish my studies, only left the flat (or rather my room) when it absolutely couldn't be avoided and started to sort of absentmindedly ponder jumpping off the balcony it finally managed to get me to seek help. I've seen a therapist twice so far and will continue to see her once a week (or rather 20 times a year since that is all my health insurance covers) but the fact is that I'd rather go back to firmly believing that rape is something that never happened to me. I don't feel ready to deal with this, irregardless of the fact that I have to choice since I can't get the thoughts, memories, nightmares and occasional flashbacks to go away again.

In addition the whole thing destroyed whatever actual relationship I had with my parents. We were never really close (due to work and personalities I imagine) in the way of talking much or physical affection and stuff. There were days when I didn't actually see my mum for more than 20-30 minutes a day and my father was usually only home on weekends. Sometimes every second weekend. However, I do hope that if I ever have a daughter and she ends up approaching me at the age of fifteen to tell me that she thinks she might be pregnant my first reaction won't be "so THAT'S what you where doing when you claimed to have been at Anna's after school", followed by "if you are pregnant and decide to keep it, know that I won't lift a single finger to help you with your brat" and "well, I guess that means we can skip the talk on safe sex, then". Never mind that - since Anna lived in another village - my mum or dad came to get me in the evenings (no buses that late that far away from the city) and her mum most certainly wasn't the kind of person who would have lied about her daughter's friend having been there. Never mind that she definitely knew that I didn't have a boyfriend, had never shown any serious interest in boys previously and that due to her position as the vicar of a small village she would have been told immediately by some busybody or other if anyone had seen me with boys. She never even asked. Never. The thought that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't to blame, hadn't spent my time sleeping around obviously never even occured to her. At all. I guess that's where I lost most of my respect for her. And completely stopped talking to her. The one, single time that I needed her most, that I actually felt like I could maybe tell her what had happened, she reacted in a way that made it clear to me that I could not trust her with what I felt, what I thought. A fact that was even more re-inforced after getting a referral from the GP, making an appointment with an OB-GYN, going there after school and spending almost two hours trying not to freak out while I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by pregnant women I didn't know. My mother, naturally, had better things to do than accompany her slut daughter for a ultrasound.

By now I can't really remember the last time I told her something that actually relates to my emotional wellbeing. And I'm always astonished how someone who works so closely with people never notices (or pretends not to notice) that her usual "how are you's" when she calls are never met by more than "annoyed due to *insert construction workers or delayed trains or something here*", "okay", "fine" or "got a bit of a cold". About a year ago there was a big scandal surrounding child abuse in boarding schools/ childrens' homes/ etc and (since I spent the last 2.5 years of my school life at boarding school) my mum used to joke that considering that apparently everyone had been raped at school and was now due some reparation she should probably sue my boarding school since I had not been raped/assaulted by any of my teachers. Usually during dinner conversation or in similar situations. And I just couldn't bring myself to do anything but shrug and ignore it since there was no way I could not have given a verbal answer that would have ended with anything but desaster. I found her joes extremely distasteful, demeaning and just plain wrong and it never failed to leave me with the urge to just hit somebody, anybody.

The worst is the decrepancy between knowing something intellectually and accepting it. On my bad days I still catch myself doubting that what happened is actual rape instead of "just" a case of dubious consent, catch myself considering basically anything to make the thoughts stop and get lost in a completely stupid circle of self-loathing because even if I was - obviously - too ######6 stupid to put up enough resistance, I can't help but feel that after twelve years I should have managed to get over it already. People get over $#%^ all the time, why the ###$ do I have to be too weak to do so as well? Not that I would ever consider anyone else in a similar situation weak or stupid, I just can't seem to stop demanding from myself that I get over this, deal with this, be better than this. Better than rape. Because I can't help but detest myself for letting something that happened over a decade ago get the better of me, reduce me to nothing but the wrecked result of something that was forced on me and that the person who did the forcing probably doesn't even think about anymore.

I think it's really good that you had the courage to write about this here. I think it's also really positive that you are starting to see a therapist to start dealing with this also. It really tore my heart open to read about how it has destroyed your relationship with your mother also. I hope that this is something that you can talk and work through with your therapist.

You are NOT weak or stupid for not getting over this. Everyone's reaction to being raped is unique and individual. It's not a result of how weak, strong, stupid or smart you are. How you deal with it has a lot to do with the coping mechanisms you'd learned by the age you were raped. Naturally, most people haven't learnt coping mechanisms for highly traumatic events, so it's not surprising that you are still trying to come to terms with this. Many people in that situation would be.

Thanks. Yeah, I've only seen the therappist twice so far and we've stuck to "safe" topics for me, so I yet have to bring up the actual issue with her (actually how to do that is what I've been obsessing over since last week) but she would have to be absolute crap at her job not to notice that the relationship with my mother is something that needs to be dealt with.

As for the coping part... I *do* sort of know that but I still feel weak/stupid and the fact that feeling that way is completely irrational never fails to frustrate me.

I wrote a list of issues when I was unsure about talking to my therapist. And then referred to that during our session. It meant that she got to see the full range of what was on my mind. And then she helped me prioritise it so that we worked on the most important [to me] things first.

This isn't going to help at all, but from what I've read here, most people don't feel ready to deal with what happened. It's one of those things that there's "never a good time". It's important to feel comfortable with your therapist and to trust her. But taking that step of talking about what happened is always going to be a big deal. I hope talking about it here is some form of "practice". Some people find that.