Trigger Warning: This post contains graphic sex and sexual violence,
 nonconsent, and mental health questioning.

Sometimes it’s hard being the victim of rape. I was five when it happened, so I don’t even remember much of what happened. It comes to me in bits and pieces, but the one thing I can’t get out of my head is the smell. It’s hard for me to get intimate with my fiancé because when we’re getting to that place, it’s the same smell. Arousal. Man musk. Sexual tension. Call it what you will, it’s the same. I smell that smell and all the feelings come rushing back; the insecurities of being naked in front of this dominant man, the fear of being found out by Mom and punished, the anxiety of disappointing my surrogate father, the confusion of what was going on, the pain of things happening that shouldn’t have been. The ache that my little sister had not escaped this time. The desire to go to sleep and never wake up again.

That isn’t the worst part, though. The worst part is when people know. When your family knows and doesn’t talk about it. Having a meltdown in high school and confessing everything was far from my best hour, and yet it was liberating to finally come clean and find out that he was in jail for doing the same to some other family. Turns out I didn’t just dream it. Turns out I wasn’t making it all up in my head. But now when his name comes up in conversation, they all just say, “We don’t talk about John.” But what if I want to talk about him? I wish they never knew. I can see the pity in their eyes, the guilt that they should have done something, the accusation of why didn’t I say something before? I have no idea how they feel about me, about him and me. If they completely believe me, if they believe that A was a part of it, or if they simply think it a fantasy when I heard about him in jail. I’m not a hurt little kid anymore. I can talk about it. I’ve been living with this almost my whole life and I am fine. But what about A? Does she know? Does she remember? I hate myself that I couldn’t save her from that. I tried.

But how big of an impact has he had on my life? How much of my strength, creativity, open-mindedness do I owe to him? Sometimes, I can’t tell if I hate that it happened, or that I’m glad it did. It makes me different. It makes me, me. Does that make me a monster? Does that make me not a victim at all, but in a way, consensual? I have weird tendencies, weird daydreams, fantasies. How much of him is within those? I enjoy dark humor, write about pain and torture. I like hard music with the lyrics dripping metal. I like to lay awake in the dark, contemplating life, contemplating how I can make myself feel pain. I love the rain, when it’s gloomy, cloudy outside. I like daddy doms and daughter subs. I like being dominated and helpless. What does that say about me? I’m a freak, and afraid to tell anyone about my darkest secrets.

I don’t feel like I will ever find my half, the guy that I can completely bare my heart to. I’ve met nice guys, sweet guys, but never the guy that I’m not afraid of, even including my fiance, J.

Flashes randomly come back to me, but never really interfere in much. It’s just that smell that gets me, that feeling when his name comes up that maybe I didn’t do enough for A, that I failed her. But I’m fine. I think. I need someone to talk to, someone who understands not to pity me, that it wasn’t a traumatic event. It was just something that happened when I was a kid. Most kids broke their arms, I had sex. At least, I guess I did. I can’t actually remember doing the deed; I clearly remember giving him blowjobs, which is probably where the smell comes from, and him peeing on my stomach, and him putting a cue stick up his butt? But never actually sex. But I wasn’t a virgin when my first boyfriend and I tried it out, my hymen was broken. That’s something that bothers me. If I can remember other things, why can’t I remember if that happened? And then, does this mean that I actually am a rape victim? Or because I can’t remember if I actually had full-out sex, am I posing? Am I a fake? I need to talk to someone who will just listen, and feel no sympathy. I need a judgment-free conversation, one where I can find out his last name. I want to know if he is still in jail, or if he’s still out there spreading his disease. And what of his kids? I did not like them, but were they that way because their dad abused them too? Or did he save that for other people’s kids?

I wish my family didn’t know. If I could take back one thing from high school, it’d be that. They don’t need to be burdened, and it honestly makes it feel like a burden to me. Without them knowing, it’s not so much of a burden as just an experience. And when do I talk about it?

            I need to feel. This is one way I feel.

My little sister in this post–as will be in all my other posts–is simply referred to as A to keep her anonymity.

My fiance is referred to as J for the same reason.

I feel no need to hide the identity of the man who raped me, so I will refer to him with his real name, John. I only regret that I do not know his last name.