How it feels.

It is incredibly difficult for me to write this. I've only talked about it with my mother, which was hard enough. And I also leaked my vulnerability to an ex of mine.

Knowing my father knows is like knowing a bullet is coming. I can nearly hear the casing tear through the wind. It makes me think of shrapnel entering bone.
We've never talked about it face to face. A father's relationship with his daughter is strange enough in this case. I can't explain how badly he wanted to kill my first boyfriend.

Being raped isn't something I want to discuss. But I believe I owe it to myself to continue, after all these years, and heal. Slowly. The reasons I don't want to talk about it are simple. I don't want to be pitied. I don't want an 'I'm so sorry.' I don't even want a congratulatory response that I'm strong enough to talk about this. The whole ordeal makes me feel slimey all over.

I also don't want to be accused that I am an attention hog, that I put myself in that position, that if I would have stayed put, this never would have happened.
Those are things that eat me alive. Feeling like I'm the reason I fell off the face of this earth, time after time again. Using my trust issues as barriers to keep me from getting 'too close' to someone.

It's not just what happened. It's how it happened. The way he went about it. Not only did he take my dignity and sense of self-love, he took my foothold I thought I had. It's almost as though I was in the middle of rock climbing, and realised there were no more places to sink my fingers and toes into and keep from falling.

He drugged me. The fucker laced my drink and waited for the time release. I bet he clocked it in his mind. And smiled big when he realised I was not of this world anymore.

I have no recollection whatsoever what happened or how long he did this except for certain points. All I've had are flashbacks. I haven't had one in nearly a year now.

At some time, I was conscious. Hardly. Confused. I couldn't make out the surroundings of the room. The walls looked offensively alive. I saw shapes. I saw black then colour. I know I took a sharp breath inward and that my brown t-shirt was off. I saw my bra was still on me. I tilted my head down, focusing enough to think 'My pants are gone. Where are they?'

Things slid out of focus until his voice sounded. 'Don't you like it? You like it this way, dont you?' My mouth made the movement of 'no, please stop.' but I couldn't make my voice come out. It left me. My strength left me.

He parted my legs like a little boy looking at a porn magazine for the first time. I saw how delighted he was. I desired then to black out, I begged for it. But I remained awake. I don't know the right word to use. Petrified or scared or frozen or maimed or ruined or desecrated. All in one.

I don't know what the point of this was completely but I felt compelled to get it down in writing. I'm not saying I'm going to open my journal up and go looking for it, re-reading to make sure I didn't make any grammatical mistakes or spelling errors. But at least I can say. I did it. He didn't win.

It happened and this is now. That's what I keep telling myself.