My multiple-offender rape happened at 17. I was in high school and I told no one. Parts of me died that night. I was intoxicated, unconscious and woke up in an all-male athletic college dorm, being assaulted with an audience there to watch, and another college guy waiting and prepared. I was talking to them inside a bar on Bourbon Street (snuck there with a friend) and next came a total blackout. I am and always will be, haunted by them being able to view and touch my bare body while unconscious. It never goes away... even 36 years later. To this day, I fear exposure. My life-long insomnia, confidence and ability to one-day become a divorced, single mother has all been affected. There are so many parts of my son’s life that I can never get back. I didn’t become a Registered Nurse until the age of 40. My silence, my shame.... it saved them. With the help of social media and a college football program from 1984 on eBay I found the 4 boys (now aging men with gray hair and grandfathers) responsible. I confronted them by sending a pic of my 17 year old self via text or email. It was like writing a victim impact statement. I went from not knowing their names, to recognizing one set of eyes in that program. I was finally able to tell them “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME, and I’ll NEVER be able to forget it”. Sometimes, you never know what will lead you to closure and forgiving yourself for the years of silence and shame. I finally, after 35 years, reported to authorities and I found the courage to tell my now-aging parents, which is a story in and of itself, my husband and grown children. Back then, my offenders and my shame robbed me of seeking medical care, much needed mental health that I so desperately needed. I felt powerless and degraded as I crawled on that dorm room floor looking for one of my shoes; which I now know, they threw it out a window. IT WAS MY SHOE, and I mourned it’s loss as well. That sense of imbalance surrounded much of my life. The awful bruising they left on my thighs remain scattered on each vital organ of my being. My poetic justice... as one of them stated last year..”I’ve had you in my mind forever.” And that was a text message. That night, they robbed even themselves of realizing that they will one day have daughters of their own.. and they did. For me, they no longer rob me of anything. I am free, and no longer feel like I’m at the scene of my crime. I felt unprepared last year as I saw pictures of them along with much of the details. I’m finding healing in therapy, even now, in my early fifties.

Today, I am much stronger for sharing my story, disclosing and confronting them. If my story helps just one survivor, I’ll know that each vulnerable moment, throughout this journey, has been worth it.

You robbed me of something resembling a normal childhood when you came into my room at night to touch me in such a way no adult should ever touch a child. You did this from my first memory until I confronted you as a young teen, when the nightmare finally stopped.

My healing has taken decades. I finally forgive you, most importantly I forgive myself for believing it was my fault, that I did something to make you do this to me. I now know that is not my truth.

I release myself from the shame, guilt and anger. I release myself from your acts and your sickness to live fully in my own skin. I reclaim my personal power and know you will never have power over me ever again.

i was twelve years old when you assaulted me at knifepoint. i was twelve years old when you scarred my mind and body. i was twelve years old. but i’m helping other survivors now, and that’s what i’ve realized. i’m not a victim, i’m a survivor, and you? you’re a coward. you took so much from me. you made me suicidal. you made me afraid. you made every day a struggle. but i made it out. 5 years later, i’m on top, and i’m never coming down.

How did it feel to force yourself into my mouth and then tell me, “I just had to do it so you would get over yourself”. Did you realize in that moment you had just committed rape? Will you ever realize? You. Raped. Me.

I do not even know your name. Your actions showed you have no heart. Did you enjoy forcing me to blow you? Did you enjoy wrapping your hands around my neck? Did you enjoy forcing yourself inside me despite my pleas for you to stop? Women are not human to you. We are toys that you can do anything you want to. Well you do not dominate my thoughts anymore. I am stronger now because I survived. When you were raping me I was so scared that you were going to kill me. But now three years later, I know how strong I am. You are too much of a coward to break me. You are a poor excuse for a human. I don’t know where you are in the world right now but I don’t care. I don’t care about you at all. And it’s so freeing.

Sincerely,
The girl you raped in Spain

You said you wouldn’t hurt me. You said you weren’t that type of person. You said we would have a few drinks & get to know each other. You lied. I trusted you. I believed you. Then you drugged me, in my own home. I was out cold for 3 hours. When I awoke in my room, I was naked & battered. I woke up confused. You were still in my house when I awoke. I went to the bathroom & I saw the damage to my face. I couldn’t believe it. When I asked you what happened you called me crazy. You blamed me. You said I hurt myself. You said I battered my own face. You said I took drugs. I never took any drugs. I went to the police, they didn’t believe me. You took advantage of me. You got what you wanted & accused me of making this all up for attention. Why would anyone make up rape? You’re sick. You stole a piece of me that August night but that’s it. You didn’t kill me. You’ll never kill me. I am stronger than you know. You will get caught. I will never cease to prove my case to the authorities. You will never hurt me again. I will make sure you never hurt another woman again. You messed with the wrong chica.

I trusted you with my life. The night you hurt me was the night I had the security of life taken away. After that your hands felt cold and scary. I felt disgusting on my skin when you were the one who broke my wall.

When you broke up with me, I was sad for a few days. A week later, you appeared at my workplace and screamed at me, saying I had ruined your life because I broke up with you. This was confusing. You began to follow me in your car from place to place. Sometimes you blared music, other times you held the horn down getting as close to my feet on the sidewalk as possible. You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you were going to kill me. You called multiple times some nights. A few months later, I was walking with a man and you came up behind me, put your arm around my neck and shoulders and pulled me away. I was so surprised to find you touching me, I can’t remember what you said to me. I remember your face, demonic and spitting at me. I went to the authorities. Nothing. I asked my family for help. They fell silent. I went to a psychiatrist for help, he shamed me for being afraid. One day, you showed up at my house and started bashing my car and I called the police. There were witnesses. No one said anything.

I said nothing when you pulled down my bikini top, at the pool, in front of all of your friends. I said nothing when you grabbed me at a party, pushed me onto the couch, mimicking, like we were having sex.  I said nothing when you pulled the sheet off of me, exposing my nakedness to your friend. I said nothing when you banged on my dorm room door, threatening to break in or followed me in your car, while I walked to class. I said nothing when you called me a slut or told your friend that he could have sex with me. I said nothing when you broke the window to my room and crawled into my bed.

I never said anything to any of you. I am saying something now.

Our mutual friends Lissa and J were dating and wanted to set us up. I was not interested in dating you, but felt we could have a nice friendship. You invited us to your folks’ cabin in Vermont for the weekend. As soon as we arrived, I took in the rustic wood beamed ceiling of the 70s chalet. Before we could make our way to sit in the overstuffed living room couch, you or J offered us hash. I smoked some and immediately felt I had to lie down. You took me to a bedroom, the sheets were white. I had trouble keeping my eyes open, and it was very dark, not even a hall light was on. You started to kiss me, and I couldn’t kiss back. You said “I want to have sex with you.” I made a noise like “mhhhh.” I was thinking NO! I could not make words, and I could not move. I was afraid and frozen. I don’t know how my clothes came off. I remember feeling you inside of me. It was slow and bunchy, and terrible. I blacked out. When I woke it was still very dark. I was able to get up out of the bed! I was upset and confused, and I walked through the dark halls looking for my friend. I wanted badly to leave.

I don’t remember anything after this. I don’t remember if I found a place to sleep again. I don’t remember seeing you, J or Lissa. I don’t remember eating. I don’t remember drinking. I don’t remember putting clothes on, brushing my teeth or flossing. I don’t remember how I got back home. I remember the safety of my tiny room and hiding myself under my pale pink comforter. I told Lissa what happened and she was unsure of what to do. The year was 1989.

You continued to pursue me and I avoided you. I felt sick every time your name came up or heard that you say “hi.” I became depressed and chronically ill. I finished college and moved as far away as possible. I created a new life, with a career, marriage and kids.

If rape came up in conversation, I might say something like, “I had one date rape-like thing happen, but it was my fault.” I saw myself as very stupid. For years I shoved the memories away, actually “forgot” it happened.

20 years later, I received a friend request from you on Facebook. And for the first time, I cried about what happened. I grieved. You assaulted me and now you want to be friends on Facebook. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.  

I don’t know what you do, where you work, or how many kids you have. And honestly, I don’t care. What I do care about, is this: EVERYTHING THAT ISN’T “YES” MEANS NO. SOMEONE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL OR DRUGS IS NOT ABLE TO CONSENT TO SEX.

I have had anxiety most of my adult life. I have trust issues. I struggle to see how sex is for me. I have had chronic pain. I have spent years learning to trust that my body is safe and is mine. I have worked with more than a dozen specialists to support my mental and physical health. 

My romantic relationships have been complicated by my assault. And my kids have been affected—not because I told them—but by how I show up in the world. Sometimes it’s subtle, and other times the injustice of rape culture consumes me. I erupted in anger when Brock Turner’s face sat above the words “Frat Boy Accused of Rape Set to Walk Free!” I sobbed throughout the Brett Kavanaugh hearing, reliving my own fear, my inability to escape. One day, while I yelled at the news, my oldest kid asked, “Mom, are you going to #metoo?”