Do you ever google yourself?

What about your first boyfriend?

First girlfriend?

First rapist?

Yeah, me too.


The first time I found him he’d found Jesus. And a wife. Kids, too.


I didn’t know he’d raped me. I didn’t have those words. That concept. That self respect. That ownership of my body.


I found him again this week. I looked because I remembered the first time. I barely remember. But I remember.

I don’t want to remember.

But I remember.

I know now that he raped me. I have those words. That concept. That self respect. That ownership of my body.

This time I found his mugshots. Plural. So many.

Domestic violence.

Strangulation.

Violated restraining orders.

I didn’t spend much time looking. Those were just the records for one state. He doesn’t live there now. Not sure he ever did.


I wasn’t even old enough to drive back then. Neither was he. Forcing his adult-sized mistake onto me. Into me.

I never told. Didn’t have those words, that power, that ownership. It didn’t matter that I never told. My silence wasn’t what created the rapist.

He already had that thing that said this is okay. This is how you do. This is yours. You don’t ask. You take. You are entitled to this. She is a thing. Use. Take. Own.

Even Jesus couldn’t stop him.