‘the majority of them just laughed and joked about it’

and i’m doing my best   PART 2

There’s a whole lot of oth­er things that hap­pened. Like the time I was gang raped at a par­ty and no one helped me.

Me and my “friends” were at a par­ty with peo­ple we hard­ly knew, but that didn’t mat­ter as long as we were get­ting drunk and high, and when I en­gaged with two guys who I didn’t even find at­trac­tive, but for some stu­pid ass rea­son, we start­ed jok­ing around about a blow job con­test, my dumb ass de­cid­ed I want­ed to prove to them that I was good at giv­ing them.

We went to the back­yard, and I be­gan to … you know, do THAT with them …

The next thing I re­mem­ber, I was on my knees in the back of a dark­ened room with a bunch of dark shad­ows stand­ing over me, sur­round­ing me …

Shout­ing and laugh­ing, do­ing ter­ri­ble things to me.

I was ex­treme­ly drunk, and I had smoked some weed … but shit, that’s what we would al­ways do at par­ties. But this was dif­fer­ent.

We didn’t even know most of the guys there, but we were all just want­i­ng to get fucked up.

And I know that I was flirt­ing with the two guys at the ta­ble – and I re­mem­ber we were all kind of jok­ing around and the sub­ject of blowjobs came up. And, I don’t know why, but I just said that I was good at them.

And then they start­ed telling me to prove it, and I was hes­i­tant. Nei­ther of these guys were at­trac­tive to me. But they kept on in­sist­ing – and I was al­ready so drunk …

And – this is where I think I re­al­ize why it hap­pened.

It’s just – it fuck­ing sucks to ad­mit this, but I was will­ing to give them head, just to show them that I could do it, and I was good at it.

How FUCKED is that?

And if THAT had been the only thing that hap­pened, that I gave two ran­dom guys a blowjob, then what­ev­er.

I nev­er … NEV­ER would have been will­ing to do what hap­pened to me next.

And I can only re­mem­ber bits and pieces. But from the very be­gin­ning I know that I didn’t want the rest of them.

I must have blacked out, or some­thing, be­cause the next thing I re­mem­ber hap­pen­ing was that I couldn’t breathe. And there was a lot of shout­ing and laugh­ing around me.

Fi­nal­ly, some­one said “Give her a break! She can’t breathe!”

Not “STOP” or “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DO­ING TO HER?!”

No.

They let me catch my breath. And in this mo­ment I just re­mem­ber be­ing so out of it, I had no idea what was go­ing on, but I re­mem­ber feel­ing ter­ri­fied.

I was sit­ting on the ground with so many peo­ple … so many … things around me. I had no idea how I got to that point.

But I re­mem­ber the laugh­ing, and jok­ing. Hah. Fun­ny, be­cause some­times when I get re­al­ly emo­tion­al about all of this, or feel like I wish I could have done some­thing … I think of my fa­vorite char­ac­ters. Like Jok­er, or Goku and Veg­e­ta from Drag­onball Z.

I start vi­su­al­iz­ing a sim­i­lar sce­nario, only this time, my he­roes come to save me.

But, I’ve re­al­ized now, that even when I wasn’t aware of the con­nec­tions be­tween my sto­ries and what had hap­pened, my mind was sub­con­scious­ly us­ing them as a way to help me process every­thing.

I mean, I didn’t know how to process it, right when it was hap­pen­ing, not even the next day.

 

I woke up and took a show­er, and start­ed won­der­ing why my throat hurt so much. My si­nus­es were fine, so I didn’t have a cold. I also felt sore on my arms and legs, and I don’t re­mem­ber feel­ing pain in my.….

That’s when it hit me, and I re­mem­bered every­thing that had just hap­pened.

But I had no idea what was the right thing to do next, not to men­tion I was still in shock. I was still in dis­be­lief. Try­ing to make sense of some­thing that had no sense at all. I thought it was all my fault. I felt so fuck­ing stu­pid. So gross. So ashamed.

I didn’t know who to trust or who would be the right per­son to talk to.

Yeah, I know that you’re sup­posed to go to the po­lice and re­port it ASAP.

But how?

How can you go there and tell them that your en­tire body has been vil­i­fied and used to the worst ex­tent. How could you ex­plain this to your re­li­gious par­ents, who be­lieved that sex be­fore mar­riage was a sin? How could you con­vince your friends that no, you weren’t a whore, you ab­solute­ly didn’t want this, when you knew they were al­ready telling every­one in school about it.

And then – at your WEAK­EST mo­ment – your ex boyfriend (your first one, dif­fer­ent from the ass­hat who cheat­ed, he hap­pened lat­er. No, this one, he was your first true love. Your high school ro­mance.) He reach­es out to you. Asks you if you’re okay.

And then he asks you if you want­ed it that night.

And you break down and you start telling him to go burn in hell if that’s what he re­al­ly thinks.

Mean­while, your chest con­tin­ues to col­lapse into it­self. You lose all feel­ing of love, or hope.

You say “you know what?! FUCK YOU!” to every­one who’s stolen your sense of self. Maybe you were bet­ter off alone.

AND THEN.

To top it all off, and put the ic­ing on the MOTH­ER FUCK­ING CAKE!

You’re ex of­fers to come over, to help “calm you down.”

He does so, and the two of you talk about what hap­pened and you’re so over­whelmed with emo­tions.

You’re think­ing that he came over be­cause he still loves you. That maybe you can work things out and start over again. Af­ter all, he was your ‘first love’ in high school.

The two of you even­tu­al­ly end up hav­ing sex, and it feels so good. So dif­fer­ent than what hap­pened to you ear­li­er. You feel want­ed again, like you weren’t a mis­take. You weren’t dam­aged or bro­ken.

And as the two of you lie next to each oth­er in bed, you find the courage to ask him what all of this means, and if he want­ed to be with you again.

You’re ex­cit­ed, try­ing not to be too hope­ful. Maybe you guys can just start things slow again.

And then, he shat­ters your heart to pieces. Telling you that he was in­ter­est­ed in an­oth­er girl. A friend of yours. But that the two of you could still be friends.

And you re­al­ize: He had no in­ten­tion of com­ing to help you feel bet­ter. Or even just for a shoul­der to cry on.

No.

He lit­er­al­ly just used you for a quick fuck. And noth­ing more.

The fol­low­ing weeks, ru­mors spread about you and about that par­ty. The nar­ra­tive is so wrong and so bi­ased but what would you ex­pect when hard­ly any­one asked you for your opin­ion on your own damned sex­u­al as­sault.

No.

The ma­jor­i­ty of them just laughed and joked about it. Called you a slut. Said you de­served it.

A few true friends knew what re­al­ly hap­pened but, they didn’t know how to help you.

And by the time your mom found out, which was af­ter she saw a draw­ing you’d made of a girl col­lapse on the floor, her pants ly­ing next to her on the floor as she pulled her hair and cried. Sur­round­ing her were shad­owed sil­hou­ettes of the mon­sters who did this to her …

By the time your mom found that draw­ing and asked you if that’s what hap­pened to you, you’d al­ready con­vinced your­self that it was your fault. And you didn’t want any­one else to know.

Yeah. By that time. You’d al­ready start­ed try­ing to deny that it even hap­pened.

And for over a decade, your mind con­vinced you that it wasn’t that big of a deal. That you could just ig­nore it and get over it.

But you were wrong.

That trau­mat­ic event has been sub­con­scious­ly af­fect­ing your life for so long.

It’s time to stop hid­ing it. You need to fig­ure out a way to get it out of your sub­con­scious. Get it out of the dark­ened cor­ners of your mind.

It has to be de­feat­ed.

It can no longer hold so much pow­er over you.

So shine a light on it.

Un­leash it.

Get it out there into the open.

And squash that moth­er fuck­er like the scum that it is.

continued next monday —

 

—kait­lyn­jane

Flom­mist KAiT­LYN­jane has been draw­ing and writ­ing sto­ries ever since she knew how to scrib­ble on a piece of pa­per, or her sister’s fore­head when she was just two weeks old. Copy­right © 2020 KAiT­LYN­jane.

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