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My Unsent Letter To My Rapist
1 month ago · · Depression, · Explicit
I was raped when I was 14. I have never said these words to anyone out loud. My rapist told me I could never tell anyone, not even my best friend and I haven't. Not because he told me not to, but because I don't know if I want the kind of attention that would bring. There are complications involved; for one, I was drinking. First time blacking out in fact. He was older and brought the alcohol to my house. Secondly, he is my brother. Step brother but that makes no difference when we've been family since I was 4 years old. We were just two siblings hanging out, playing quarters with a bottle of rum. Nothing weird had every happened between us. I was not afraid of him, I didn't think I had a reason to put my guard up, after all he was my brother, he wouldn't hurt me..the last clear memory of the night I have is going to the bathroom right outside my bedroom to throw up. I didnt make it to the toilet and puked on a pile of laundry on the floor then promptly fell asleep on top of the booze-barf covered clothes. He must have come looking for me because the next thing I remember was laying in my bed being tickled. Spotty images of him on top of me, shushing me as my ticklish giggles turned in to "stop" and "no" and my smile turned to panic as he put his hand on my mouth. And that's it. That is the last thing I remember before waking up on my couch in my room the next morning. I felt sick, and not just from the hangover. I knew something was wrong. Sharp pains shot through me from my abdomen. I went to the bathroom to pee and the truth of the night before became painfully unmistakable. I was on my period, I went to replace my tampon only to realize it was shoved far up inside of my cervix from him forcing himself into me. I frantically pulled it out then fell to the floor in a hysteria. I stayed in the bathroom for about 20 minutes, afraid to open the door because I knew he would be there. And he was. There to tell me that "WE" did something bad last night, despite the fact that I wasn't present at all. That I can never tell anyone, they might get the wrong idea about me. And lastly, that I had "grown in to such a beautiful and mature young woman" that he couldn't help himself, then he left. I was 14. He was the adult. He was the big brother. He was supposed to protect me. I didn't sleep for weeks. I rearranged my room. Flipped my mattress. Threw away my sheets. Rearranged my room again. Slept on the couch. Then tried to kill myself. I had a history of depression and self harm, a cutter. But I never wanted to die. A week after the incident I tried to jump off of the roof of my house. My parents responded by ripping me back inside, my stepdad threw me to the floor and hit me in the face repeatedly until my vision turned white and I couldn't focus on anything but the ringing in my ears and the taste of blood in my nose and mouth. Maybe he would have reacted differently if he knew his son had just raped me. Who knows. That night still triggers trauma for me to this day, but I don't hate my stepdad. He raised me and my siblings when my real dad wouldn't and it wasn't a cake walk. He didn't know how to handle a suicidal teen who skipped school and got high, snuck out at night all the time, gor suspended for setting a classmate on fire(he was not hurt) and regularly harmed herself. I wouldn't know how to handle it. The damage was done to me long before I was raped. It was almost to be expected honestly. By that time in my life I already felt like every bit of my pain came from men in my life who were supposed to be good to me. As I have mentioned, my dad left when I was 4 years old and my mom and stepdad got together right away(he had loved my mom for years.) My dad is a crack addict. I felt abandonment at a young age, and questioned my worth every day. The cliché "why doesn't daddy want me? Why aren't we enough for him?" He would pop in and out of my life for the next 10 years or so. Weeks, months, years would pass without a word. I rarely knew whether he was in prison again, living a happy life with some other family, or dead in some junkie den from an overdose. I was always afraid. I was always sad. And yet every time he showed up again I would beam with naive joy that this time he would get better and he would stay. My mom would scream at him all night while my sister held her hands over my ears as we hid in our bunkbed. The morning after was always the same. He was gone again, and so was our money, our TV, our car and anything with any value that he could sell for drugs. He even staged a robbery with a couple friends once. Had them show up to our door with guns threatening to kill my dad if my mom didn't give them all of her money. Turns out they were all buddies and my dad was in no danger, he was just getting creative. Things settled down when we finally moved out and got a house with my stepdad and my two stepbrother. Everything was good. One big happy family and my dad stayed away minus the letter from prison here and there. Until 5th grade when my mom almost died. She had a subarachnoid aneurysm that ruptured while she was driving. My 15 year old cousin was in the car thankfully and was able to stop the car and wave someone down for help. My mom was then helicopter lifted to a hospital where we were told she would very likely die or be permanently vegetated. 90 percent likely. Things had just started to seem like they would be okay and then this. I barely visited her in the 2 months she was hospitalized. I was so afraid. She barely looked human. Her head was shaved and there were tubes sticking out of her skull. Her eyes were black and the smell of the room made me sick. She didn't know who me and my sister were, she was yelling at the nurses and couldn't form full sentences. I wanted to run away forever. She was finally well enough to come home after extensive physical therapy and lessons to relearn how to read and write. She was a miracle. Nearly a full recovery minus short term memory loss and blindess in her right eye. She was alive and I was grateful, but then she slept. For months and months she slept. She was hooked on the pain pills the doctors gave her after her brain surgery. She didn't have dinner with us, didn't make sure I was getting to school or asking how it went, didn't get us new school clothes, she just slept. And I think that's when my stepdad started slipping. They had just recently wed, fully committing himself to raising 4 kids. And we all slipped. Once my mom was back up and moving around again she was angry all the time. She had a temper, but after the surgery she had no filter for it. She was always yelling, breaking things, smacking us, smacking my step dad. Simple tasks were difficult for her so she would just get furious with frustration. And at the end of all of it, she blamed my stepdad for not doing enough. It was always "why do you let these kids act like this? Why don't you do something? Why don't you f*ck me? Why isn't the house clean/dinner done/bills paid/anythingandeverything." And he took it all and bottled it up. For years and years he bottled it up. My sister and I often thought he might try to kill himself or kill my mom. Something snapped in him after a while and then whenever my sister and I fought with my mom, she would again say "why do you let them talk to me like this?" But now he was done bottling and being blamed for doing nothing. The first time he laid a hand on me he pushed me down the stairs. The same night he slammed my sister in to a wall and nearly broke her wrist. Things went on like this for a while. My sister was my bestfriend and probably the only reason I survived my childhood. Which is why I carry a huge amount of guilt that she had to be the one to find me the second time I tried to kill myself after the rape. By this time I was 15. I had been talking to a friend about not wanting to exist anymore, little did I know he took it very seriously. I was home alone. He called my sister and the police and told them he thought I might hurt myself. They arrived at about the same time. I was in the bathroom frantically cleaning up the blood stained sink and floor with my sister just outside pleading for me to open and the cops threatening to break the door down if I didn't. I opened it, she rushed to hug me and wrap my wrists with wash clothes, and I was taken to an ambulance and then to the hospital for stitches. (Side note and my first experience hating the police: before putting me in an ambulance they sat me on the couch and proceeded to laugh as the went through every room in our house, rummaging through dressers and closets without a warrant or a reason, and found my moms 2 little legal weed plants. She had her license to grow posted on the wall right next to the plants, weed was how she kicked the narcotics after the surgery, and they still ripped them out of the house and paraded them outside in front of the whole neighborhood who were curious why there were ambulance and cop cars at our house. So they illegally raided our house and stole from us, humiliated us, all before putting me in an ambulance. FTP.) I digress, back to the main point. I thought about telling my sister or my mom or my stepdar about the rape. I thought it might make me feel better, but there was never a right time. A few years later my sweet, gentle, smart and amazing other brother passed away in his sleep from a heart condition. He was only 20. It was then that I knew I could never tell my parents. One son dead and the other raped his step sister? No way I could hurt them like that. So I have kept the secret. I am 27 and its still my secret. I know I am not responsible for what happened to me. I do not blame myself. I encourage other rape survivors to tell their truths if they feel brave enough. But i don't think I ever will. We don't talk, I see him at family events. He has never apologized, never brought up, but he can barely look me in the eye. He has a wife and 2 daughters now. Please believe me when I say if I thought there was any chance he would harm another woman or his girls I would speak up. But after everything, I don't believe he is evil in his heart. I believe he made a drunken mistake. One that is inexcusable and hurt me in such a way I will carry the scar forever. But that's all it was. He made a series of bad choices one night and I believe he suffers it every day too. I don't want him in jail, or disowned, or publicly shamed. I don't want anything to do with him. Maybe its my own fear of causing ripples in an already damaged family that has endured so much pain. Maybe some day I will face him and ask him to say, out loud, what he did to me and maybe that will be enough. I write this now, 27 years old, laying in my bed with salty tears rolling down my cheeks and in to the corners of my mouth, while my boyfriend sleeps in the guest bedroom of the home we own together, giving me space from the fight we just had. My trauma has a gender. Men have hurt me. Men who should have protected me. Father, stepfather, brothers, boyfriends, but i don't hate all men. I don't even hate the men who hurt me. But in these moments when the man I love is yelling at me, he wears all of their faces. It is not fair to him. I want to believe he would never abandon or betray me. I want to believe he is different and good. But what if we take the next step and have children, and its too hard for him and he starts drinking more and leaves us? Or tries to force me to do something I don't want to do? Or blames me for "being very pretty" and therefor asking for attention from predatory men? What if I told him my truth and he is disgusted by me? What if he hits me? What if I hit him? What if our children grow up in the same pain and violence that I did because I'm too fucking broken? Look at me from afar and you would praise me for overcoming a troubled childhood. I moved out at 17. Got my own apartment and a full time job. I'm a pharmacy technician and make great money. I bought a house at 24 years old. I have happy, healthy pets and my relationships with my parents have never been better(crack dad included-hes a few years sober and doing great.) But every time I argue with my man, it all comes flooding back in and I find myself hyperventilating in the shower grabbing the razor with the angel and devil on my shoulder pulling me back and forth between "fuck it, slice and dice yourself until there's nothing left" and "but look at how far you've come and the progress you've made. Plus the scars are embarrassing." But I am alive. I am trying to trudge on and find joy anywhere I can. I am trying to trust. I am trying to heal. Everyday I am trying. I could go on for hours. There is always more to say. But I will end with a quote; "I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us"