Session 3
I promised the counselor that I would keep journaling in her absence. Not that this is the only reason that I'm writing on here.
I was writing back and forth with a friend today, and I said that I didn't like to write about a lot of stuff, because it was like reliving it for me. I feel the same amount of guilt. The same amount of shame. Well, at least I did before I started taking the Lexapro. I think that I liked to punish myself. Because I didn't know how else to operate. From a normal place.
I haven't been drinking since I started taking the medicine. Probably for the best. Tempting as it is - what with working with kids and all. If they don't drive you to drink with their crappy ass attitudes and shitty remarks, I don't know what will. Oh yeah, Dick's ex-wife. She makes me want to drink too. Not really, but I'd like to kick her ass. I'm always so worried that someone will find this, that I don't think I let it out. I just repress it. And now I'm all prickly, like a cactus. Because the anger is outward.
When I was in counseling today, we talked about a lot of things that I really haven't thought about in a long time.
My freshman year of college. Which I always said I would never wish on anybody but never specified why. Or maybe I did, but I don't remember.
There was a guy. His name was Jon. No "H". I remember that distinctly. I was drunk. Down in the French Quarter. 16. Passed out outside a bar. He got some ice and a water bucket from the hotel across the street and stayed with me until I came to. He drove me home, took me up to my room and forced himself on me. I don't like to use the word rape because I knew this kid. Not well, but he lived in my dorm and I saw him for the rest of the time that I was at Loyola.
I was too embarrassed to tell anyone because I had kissed a lot of boys and I thought that made me a whore. I remember distinctly that I said "No" more than once, and cried afterwards while he apologized and hugged me. His roommate, Dan (who I had also kissed) made fun of me in the cafeteria that day saying, "Where's Jon?" and I just smiled, like it had been consensual.
I didn't realize, at 16, that I had the right to say no AT ANY TIME. At any stage of undress, drunkenness, lust or whatever. Until I was at a Take Back the Night Rally and was listening to another girl describe her experiences. They were identical. And she called it "Date Rape." But by that time, it was a couple months later and I thought it was too late. Let bygones be bygones, I thought. I could take it. Absorb it. Pretend it never happened.
I ignored him until I was a junior and found out that he did the same thing to my roommate, who was a freshman that year. Except she was bigger than I was, and he physically hurt her. Bruised her and left physical evidence. She hid it like I did.
After that, whenever I saw him in a bar with a girl, I took her away from him. If she was a freshman, and I knew her, I offered to buy her a drink and told her what happened to me. The one time he did confront me and told me to "Stop it," I said, "You stop it," and walked away. The counselor said that was a good thing, but I don't know why I did it. I guess I didn't want anyone else to feel that guilt. That, or I was lashing out. I WAS fueled by liquid courage, after all.
We also talked about Mike. Whitenener. Who I also had the misfortune of dating my freshman year. He was not right. And I knew it. He said stuff like "I hate my mother," and other niceties. Even though I was naive, I knew that I should stay the hell away from him. But as soon as I realized that, he tried harder to get close to me. One night when I was in his room he wouldn't let me leave. Physically held me down on his bed and said, "No. You can't leave." So I laid there until the morning, terrified.
The night I broke up with him, I slept with another guy. After I wouldn't sleep with Mike and told him that I didn't want to be involved with anyone. At 16, I didn't really know what the hell I was doing. I slept with Andy so that he would like me. He told me that I wasn't pretty. That he didn't notice me. And I wanted desperately for him to like me. So I gave it up, thinking that would make him my boyfriend. Which it didn't.
Andy was still an asshole, but Mike was angry. And he lashed out. A female acquaintance of mine told Mike what happened and that was the end of me. I walked into the lobby of my dorm to see him standing there with all the boys that I had kissed that first quarter, and anybody else who would listen. "You want to see a whore?" he questioned, proud of his power. "There she is," and he pointed right at me.
I froze, in terror and disbelief. And then I went up to my room and cried.
But it was far from over.
Mike memorized my schedule and followed me to class, ten steps behind me berating me. "WHORE! SLUT! CUNT! SLUT! FUCKING BITCH!" Every step. Every class. For days. For me to retell it now seems kind of surreal. I don't know why nobody stepped in.
A couple times, he got physical, grabbing me roughly by the arm and forcing me down in the grass on the courtyard so he could yell at me some more. I just sat there, figuring that if I just let him yell and yell and yell, he'd eventually get tired. He did. And then he'd get sad. "Why did you do that? I liked you so much. You seemed so perfect..." he'd trail off.
Only to get irate again and continue his tirade.
I shut down physically and emotionally. I quit eating. I became paranoid. I started going to class 45 minutes early so that he couldn't find me. He told me that he was going to tell everyone what a whore I was, and I believed him. I was convinced that everyone was talking about me, that I was ruined, nothing.
My RA finally stepped in and sent me to counseling. I went, and told the lady what was happening. And in one of the great disappointments of my life, the school did nothing. Not even when he swerved the car to try and hit me and yelled, "Hit that fucking bitch!" 3 years later. They just told me not to make him more important in my mind than he was, because he was only a person and only a sophomore at that. Hunh.
And that's the year Jody was killed.
And when I started dating Michael for redemption. I loved him, but it was not a healthy relationship.
Thinking about this stuff for me is not fun. I was asked (in session) what I did after the rape. I don't know. I just went on. The word victim was also used a lot, and I don't know if I like it. Victim. Of Rape. Victim. Of Mike. Victim.
I didn't even realize how much this stuff still affects me until I was talking about it and I could feel my voice getting louder as I said, "They didn't even do anything! I was a girl! I WAS A GIRL! I WAS LITTLE!" Most of the times when I recount this stuff my voice is, even. It didn't happen to me. I am strangely disconnected from these experiences most of the time.
I will say that it is good to talk to somebody about it professionally. Even though it is unpleasant and makes me feel angry and sad and longing to detatch, at least it's something. I'm going places.
Jane Says: I'm flip-flopping between "build a little birdhouse in your soul" and "one day, you will hate like I hate."
I was writing back and forth with a friend today, and I said that I didn't like to write about a lot of stuff, because it was like reliving it for me. I feel the same amount of guilt. The same amount of shame. Well, at least I did before I started taking the Lexapro. I think that I liked to punish myself. Because I didn't know how else to operate. From a normal place.
I haven't been drinking since I started taking the medicine. Probably for the best. Tempting as it is - what with working with kids and all. If they don't drive you to drink with their crappy ass attitudes and shitty remarks, I don't know what will. Oh yeah, Dick's ex-wife. She makes me want to drink too. Not really, but I'd like to kick her ass. I'm always so worried that someone will find this, that I don't think I let it out. I just repress it. And now I'm all prickly, like a cactus. Because the anger is outward.
When I was in counseling today, we talked about a lot of things that I really haven't thought about in a long time.
My freshman year of college. Which I always said I would never wish on anybody but never specified why. Or maybe I did, but I don't remember.
There was a guy. His name was Jon. No "H". I remember that distinctly. I was drunk. Down in the French Quarter. 16. Passed out outside a bar. He got some ice and a water bucket from the hotel across the street and stayed with me until I came to. He drove me home, took me up to my room and forced himself on me. I don't like to use the word rape because I knew this kid. Not well, but he lived in my dorm and I saw him for the rest of the time that I was at Loyola.
I was too embarrassed to tell anyone because I had kissed a lot of boys and I thought that made me a whore. I remember distinctly that I said "No" more than once, and cried afterwards while he apologized and hugged me. His roommate, Dan (who I had also kissed) made fun of me in the cafeteria that day saying, "Where's Jon?" and I just smiled, like it had been consensual.
I didn't realize, at 16, that I had the right to say no AT ANY TIME. At any stage of undress, drunkenness, lust or whatever. Until I was at a Take Back the Night Rally and was listening to another girl describe her experiences. They were identical. And she called it "Date Rape." But by that time, it was a couple months later and I thought it was too late. Let bygones be bygones, I thought. I could take it. Absorb it. Pretend it never happened.
I ignored him until I was a junior and found out that he did the same thing to my roommate, who was a freshman that year. Except she was bigger than I was, and he physically hurt her. Bruised her and left physical evidence. She hid it like I did.
After that, whenever I saw him in a bar with a girl, I took her away from him. If she was a freshman, and I knew her, I offered to buy her a drink and told her what happened to me. The one time he did confront me and told me to "Stop it," I said, "You stop it," and walked away. The counselor said that was a good thing, but I don't know why I did it. I guess I didn't want anyone else to feel that guilt. That, or I was lashing out. I WAS fueled by liquid courage, after all.
We also talked about Mike. Whitenener. Who I also had the misfortune of dating my freshman year. He was not right. And I knew it. He said stuff like "I hate my mother," and other niceties. Even though I was naive, I knew that I should stay the hell away from him. But as soon as I realized that, he tried harder to get close to me. One night when I was in his room he wouldn't let me leave. Physically held me down on his bed and said, "No. You can't leave." So I laid there until the morning, terrified.
The night I broke up with him, I slept with another guy. After I wouldn't sleep with Mike and told him that I didn't want to be involved with anyone. At 16, I didn't really know what the hell I was doing. I slept with Andy so that he would like me. He told me that I wasn't pretty. That he didn't notice me. And I wanted desperately for him to like me. So I gave it up, thinking that would make him my boyfriend. Which it didn't.
Andy was still an asshole, but Mike was angry. And he lashed out. A female acquaintance of mine told Mike what happened and that was the end of me. I walked into the lobby of my dorm to see him standing there with all the boys that I had kissed that first quarter, and anybody else who would listen. "You want to see a whore?" he questioned, proud of his power. "There she is," and he pointed right at me.
I froze, in terror and disbelief. And then I went up to my room and cried.
But it was far from over.
Mike memorized my schedule and followed me to class, ten steps behind me berating me. "WHORE! SLUT! CUNT! SLUT! FUCKING BITCH!" Every step. Every class. For days. For me to retell it now seems kind of surreal. I don't know why nobody stepped in.
A couple times, he got physical, grabbing me roughly by the arm and forcing me down in the grass on the courtyard so he could yell at me some more. I just sat there, figuring that if I just let him yell and yell and yell, he'd eventually get tired. He did. And then he'd get sad. "Why did you do that? I liked you so much. You seemed so perfect..." he'd trail off.
Only to get irate again and continue his tirade.
I shut down physically and emotionally. I quit eating. I became paranoid. I started going to class 45 minutes early so that he couldn't find me. He told me that he was going to tell everyone what a whore I was, and I believed him. I was convinced that everyone was talking about me, that I was ruined, nothing.
My RA finally stepped in and sent me to counseling. I went, and told the lady what was happening. And in one of the great disappointments of my life, the school did nothing. Not even when he swerved the car to try and hit me and yelled, "Hit that fucking bitch!" 3 years later. They just told me not to make him more important in my mind than he was, because he was only a person and only a sophomore at that. Hunh.
And that's the year Jody was killed.
And when I started dating Michael for redemption. I loved him, but it was not a healthy relationship.
Thinking about this stuff for me is not fun. I was asked (in session) what I did after the rape. I don't know. I just went on. The word victim was also used a lot, and I don't know if I like it. Victim. Of Rape. Victim. Of Mike. Victim.
I didn't even realize how much this stuff still affects me until I was talking about it and I could feel my voice getting louder as I said, "They didn't even do anything! I was a girl! I WAS A GIRL! I WAS LITTLE!" Most of the times when I recount this stuff my voice is, even. It didn't happen to me. I am strangely disconnected from these experiences most of the time.
I will say that it is good to talk to somebody about it professionally. Even though it is unpleasant and makes me feel angry and sad and longing to detatch, at least it's something. I'm going places.
Jane Says: I'm flip-flopping between "build a little birdhouse in your soul" and "one day, you will hate like I hate."
This entry was posted
on Wednesday, September 20, 2006 at 11:48 PM.
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Oh, Jane. I'm so sorry that all that has happened to you - you're right, you were a girl, and people should've helped you. It sucks when the people we trust will help and protect us don't. I hope dealing with it now will help in some way.
G:
They say that time heals all wounds. I am sincerely hoping that that is the truth. Although, seeing how angry I was STILL over 10 years later, I don't know. I'm hoping it is because I just didn't take the time to process it when it happened. And I'm in a much better place now. That's something to be thankful for.
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