When I was much younger and more naive, as most young girls are, I became involved with a guy who was three years older than me. At the time, I believed I loved him and that he loved me; so late one night, I snuck him into my house because he desperately wanted to see me. It was entirely romantic to me, like a true fairy tale kind of romance. He was sweet, kind, and gentle; and always there to bring a smile to my face. That night he wasn’t so kind. On my floor, my door shut, with my family sleeping just across the hallway he ended up taking advantage of me in one of the worst ways possible. He raped me. Afraid to scream for fear of my parents’ punishment at the fact that I had snuck him in, I endured it until he left. Afterwards, I curled up into the fetal position on the floor of my room, crying until I fell asleep.
The experience was by far one of the hardest in my life because it impacted the very core of who I am. It crippled my ability to trust others around me, and for a long time, I remained distant from everyone I knew who had been there and loved me through it all. I couldn’t sleep with windows or doors open, because even though I knew better, I could never get over the feeling that he was coming back. Instead of having help in dealing with this, I dealt with it on my own. I decided to not bring my family or friends into the situation because I felt they would think badly of me and of what had happened to me and instead suffered quietly until I found the strength to accept it. To this day, no one in my family knows. But even now, after accepting it, I cannot be intimate with someone without remembering his face, seeing his eyes, hearing his voice. Even after so many years, I cannot put it completely behind me.
Along with the emotional ramifications, there are still other psychological problems to be dealt with. He hadn’t used protection, and for months afterwards I struggled with the looming possibility that I had some form of STD. Until I gave blood and it was confirmed that I did not have HIV, I worried anytime I began to show even the smallest sign of cold symptoms. My paranoia of having HIV showed every time I became sick: I would call my friend (the only one who knew) and cry over the phone, thinking I was infected and close to death. I still worry frequently that he gave me something I am unaware of having, that it could cause me to be sterile and never have kids, that I will never become whole again and stop being this fragile, broken person I have become.
I go through each day occasionally reliving what happened; but with each time, I learn more. I have learned that whatever transpires only defines you if you let it, that what happened to me was terrible but it did not kill me, and that eventually, I will be able to move on, even if I don’t forget what has happened.