I wish there wasn't a "time" to do it. That I would be able to look back and rummage through my memories, and have distinct recollections of at least one person telling me what was okay and what wasn't. But I don't.
Recently I started researching DID more. I don't associate with the multiple personalities, beyond the understanding that our personalities evolve. But one symptom is that someone with DID often has trouble remembering certain events. Not in a forgetful way, but gaps in their memory where they can not remember.
I remember being in the basement, to the right when you came down the stairs. I remember feeling solemn about being down there. I felt different because all the kids always played down there, but I just remember him. I remember my older cousin and a toy car. I can't remember anything else, but that was the first man that touched me. He was the first one that I remember etching into my memory. Someone that I never wanted to be alone with, but I would never say a word to my family. I was young but I knew that it would be my fault if our already fractured family, broke. So I didn't. I wasn't in school yet.
The next memory I have is sitting on my bed. It was white with a billion pillows and stuffed animals. After my dad brought it to the house, I always wanted to be in it. The second boy was sitting in bed with me and kept asking for me to sit in his lap. There was no door to my room, and any time someone wanted to go from the kitchen to the living room, or simply go to the bathroom- you could see in. It was exhilarating. He was the bad kid. Always getting in to trouble during the few hours my mom babysat him until his parents got home. He was the one that rode around the block when we weren't allowed. That began using the curse words he'd hear from his stepdad. He was fun. So we'd listen to see if anyone was coming, and then he'd nudge me and I'd sit in his lap. Seconds. I was there for seconds before jumping off and giggling. I didn't think of it as sexual, simply something more fun than watching the movie. We got caught. We got in trouble. I don't remember who scolded me or what they said. I don't have any other memories of him. I can not recall anything outside of this instance, despite my mom babysitting him for years and him living next door. I don't remember what grade I was in.
As I type this, the writer in me wants it to be neat. I want these instances to be recalled chronologically, but I can't remember. It's like I'm typing into my own mental Google search bar: "times you were touched" and having to sift through files, because I can't remember. And then I do.
He was the neighbor from across the street. I remember two instances. The first: we were playing hide-and-seek in his house, and he told me to hide with him. I had a huge crush on him. Everyone from church did, it was hard not to like the rebellious boy from church when everyone else was too shy and awkward to even interact. So I followed his lead.
We crouched by the door way, in plain view but the light was off so it felt like we were hidden. I was in front of him. I was peaking through the crack in the door to see if anyone was coming, and felt his hand slide down my pants. That's all I remember from that time- the cool slide as his hand gripped my butt.
The second instance was when I was in a sleeping bag on his sister's floor. He was adamant about wanting to sleep in the room with us, even though his sister was against it. He won in the end, brought a sleeping bag and slept next to me. I don't remember what happened, I just remember him unzipping my sleeping bag. I was in third grade.
What I've written is what I can remember. It's minimal, bare and has huge gaps where details would have corroborated what I feel. That scares me. Is there more than that? What am I hiding from myself? Am I hiding from myself?
Those three boys were three secrets that I held in until I was a freshman in college. I told my mom once about the neighbor, and she asked if I wanted her to do anything about it. The answer was no. Years had passed at that point and we had a relationship with them. It wasn't worth wrecking that. I didn't know that I was worth that confrontation.
I was a freshman and had just come back from Winter break. It was the first weekend everyone went out and I was pressured into chugging E&J. The night was fun from the blips that I remember, until I was in-and-out of consciousness in an upper classman's room. She was yelling at everyone to stay away from me and give me space. She took care of me. Then two other seniors came and told my group of friends that they would take me to one of their apartments. I was a freshman and could not go to the dorms, so in a blizzard they carried me.
I remember saying the second boy's name. I remember having the thought that this was not the first time that night I had said it. I remember feeling exposed, and knowing that the next morning I would have to explain to a group of people I barely knew that I was molested by my neighbor.
More than that, I would have to explain why I kept mentioning another name. The name of a boy that they all knew. The name of a boy that I had been associated with because we had spent Fall semester talking to one another. I would have to explain that when he raped me, I knew what was happening. But at the time, I knew it was my fault.
The next day I had to explain to a group of women that I had claimed as friends, that I never said a word about it because I was embarrassed. Because I already had a reputation at the school since he was a senior. That when you're thrown into drama that mirrors bullying without the adolescent connotation, as soon as you arrive at college- you do not want to add that you're also fucked up. But I did.
I attempted to explain but there was no words that would assuage the situation. I didn't have an explanation for why I didn't want to talk about it. I couldn't articulate why I didn't want to press charges or talk to anyone at school about it. I didn't want to be talking about it. I was looking at these group of women and knew I was disappointing them.
Those women were young at the time, but they were headstrong. I admired each of them individually because of how sure they seemed in their character, and how they embraced when they were insecure. They each had a way of looking at the world that I admired and respected. So I knew that their questions and comments were solid. It just sucked knowing that what they said was not what I wanted to hear, do nor answer. I wanted to be left alone, and they gave me that. I know it was hard for them, but they gave me the space that I pleaded for.
I took that space for three years. By now, I have distanced relationships with all of them. I spoke about the incident a handful of times after that, and mainly to offer an explanaiton when people from my inner circle asked what happened that night.
By now the most important people in my life know. They don't know the history of the three boys leading up to the rape, but they know that cherry on the cake. My brother cried, but we were drunk and I was brushed it off. "It happens," was my mentality until March 2018.
I went to Berlin. I met a guy. We were at the club and our two friend groups kept trying to merge. His friends each had their attempt at talking to me, but I was eyeing him. His game was weak, and had I not been in a foreign country nothing would have happened. But I was in Berlin for one week, and this was the only club we had been to that had men of color. So after my group had left, I turned around and went up to him. I took his phone, gave him my number and told him to call me. He did.
The first time I went over I was drunk and upset. I had fallen in love with someone from my school, but did not want to. I had suppressed it, I wouldn't admit it and shut down. I was emabrassed for so many reasons, and even though he knew, I thought I could chnage it. I spent about two to three months convincign myself that it would go away, but I wouold slip up. We'd smoke or drink one day, and end up confessig hwo we felt. It was this perpetual "You were suppsoed ot be my girlfriend" and "You knew I loved you before me and him started dting" cycleof miscommunication. But he was stronger than me. I couldn't operate knowing that we werre supposed to be togehter nad that he continuend dating someone he didn't care for. It hurt knowing that he'd rather remain in a subpar relationship with a woman he wanted to try out, rather than jump off the deep end with me. So we fought. I was drunk texting him from Berlin, and he was mad in the U.S.. I didn't know what I wanted from him then, and it was frustrating.
So I met the Berlin man, drunk and fuming while smokig a cigareete. We got to his place and it was known that we'd end u of having sex, so we just relaxed. We talked for hours about anything. He explained the difficultities of lving in Germnay, coming from London but being born in Ghana. How being trilingual is difficult when trying to be funny or flirt, because I could only understand English. We laughed a lot and had alot of fun, but I didn't want to hve sex. I wanted to kiss and flirt and forget baout school, but I had come over late at night with no intention of going home- I'd have to have sex.
We didn't. About five minutes into us being naked, he could tell I wasn't into it. But for the first time in my life, this man did not persist. He didn't try t get me in the mood, he didn't keep questioning or touching me. He actually gave me the best head of my life. There was no expectancy for me to reciprocate. For the first time, I felt respected as another person in this sexually charged situation. I wasn't his toy or a way for him to get a nut, but an equal player. We didn't have sex that night. Or the next night I slept over. He enjoyed having me in his presence, in talking to me, asking a multitude of questions, and pleasuring me.
I didn't know that could be my reality. For years I took o the blame for being molested, then for being raped and then for the multitude of times I was pressured into having sex with boys I didn't want to be with. I felt there was an obligation to follow through with what you started, so it was only fair to let them use my body because I was the one that made them want to have sex. I didn't know that I could walk away. That I could say no after it started, or that I could just make out and not listen when they told me to take my clothes off. I was 21 and in Berlin when I learned that sex is more than just the physcial act of insertion. It was there that i learned that there are so many steps that lead up to that point, whether mentally or physically, and I have every right to say no at each point.
It took me being in a foreign country, where I knew that I would never see this man again, to experiment with boundaries. I didn't have those normal thoughts of "If I say no now he'll be mad, it'll ruin the friend group" or "If I keep saying no he's going to feel bad because it'd be clear he was assaulting me" or "He came all this way to see me, I can't say no." Up until then, I didn't think that sex in my life was really a choice, but more of an obligation.
Shan Boody showed me that having a healthy sex life is okay. That my heightened sex drive is not an invitation for men to have their way with me, but something I can cherish and hold for when I feel comfortable. I had always assumed that because my body physically reacts to something I mentally don't want, that it must mean that I had actually wanted it. That's not true.
I lied earlier. Not all of the most important people in my life know what happened. If I dare say the most important person, if not then he's top three, has no idea.
To say it never came up in conversation is accurate, but how could it? When are people having conversations like that, where I could transition into "Well actually, this happened to me." We don't. And that's not to say we haven't spoken about heavy topics, but this is a part of my life that I barely ever speak about. So I don't even know how to approach it... so I haven't.
I thought that I wouldn't have to. Then I thought about the life we're building together, and I think of how much he's invested in me as his girlfriend. This is a conversation I want to have with my children one day. I want to be transparent and speak with them about sexual assault, but also mental illness and recovery. My parents never hid their vices from me, and that played a huge role in my confidence and grounded me as a person. From a young age I knew that mistakes happen, that we make them and sometimes they just happen to us; but they are not defining.
I can't have that conversation when their father doesn't know. And to reel it back for those that don't believe that he's my forever and a day; it's unfair that my boyfriend that I consider my best friend, does not know a huge part of my life while his friends do. He's ignorant to what happened to me, but knowing that those around him are not makes me uncomfortable. If I had a magic wand he'd be the only one to know, but he wasn't around when things played out and when things got bad. He's here now, and my part in this relationship is communicating even the hard things. I love him and knowing that he is on the outside of this, does not sit well with me.
I'm afraid. I don't want to be treated differently. I don't want his comedic demeanor to disappear. I don't want there to be anything more than squeeze of my hand when sexual assault is mentioned. I don't want this to be something if he feels like can never be spoken about. It happened to me and I am so comfortable embracing it, and I have found happiness in being able to talk to other women about it.
I want him to see the strength that I've gained from this. That these experiences play a prominent role in why I am a force in this world. In why I am confident in my character and future success. That was done to me drastically changed how I saw myself. I no longer am just confident in my good looks or intelligence, but I can articulate my boundaries and find strength in any situation. I failed myself often after the rape, I didn't listen to what I wanted and I gave in to others time and again. But that's not who I will ever be again.
Everyone sees the confidence and the strength that I hold, but minimal people know why I was ever broken and even less know about the difficult process it took to rebuild myself.
I write this because things could have been different. Had boundaries been a topic of discussion at any point growing up, then maybe I would have been able to say no to the first boy, or the second, or the third. Maybe I would have gotten up and left before I was raped. Or maybe I would have removed myself from the situations I got myself into moving forward. Maybe it wouldn't have taken Berlin to make me realize this for myself.
I've written about the assaults before in journals, but it's never been final. I always felt like I was writing about an ongoing problem that never seemed to find an end. But as I write my final thoughts, this finally feels like the end. I know that if there ever is a next time, I'll fight. It is not my fault, not then and not in the future. It never was, and call me crazy, but I find so much beauty in having come to this conclusion.
xo, crazy ray - the one with the melon head