I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I’ve lost count of all the times that I’ve been unsuccessful in compiling the right words together. Each time I’ve begun to write, emotions that I thought I had processed come back to the surface. Scenes I thought I had buried, re-appear, and an endless amount of tears and fears fill my heart and mind. It’s a nasty cycle, but I have words that need to be written. I have a story that needs to be shared.
I wish with my whole entire heart that these words never applied to me, but here I am. I’m finding the voice that was silenced for too long.
Too many girls walk in the silence of shame and guilt. Too many feel alone. Too many know this pain. Too many don’t survive.
And gosh, what a tragedy- The statistics say that it happens to 1 in 3.
Rape.
It’s the hardest reality I’ve ever had to admit to. The hardest word to add to my story.
You see, my story goes like this:
I was raped the first time 11 years ago.
I was just a little girl. I was 16. I was a virgin.
That man? He stole something from me that was mine to give away- something that I treasured dearly and had pledged to gift only to my husband on my wedding night.
I was raped for the second time 9 years ago.
I was broken and naive. I was too drunk to defend myself or even comprehend the situation I had found myself in.
That man? He knew I was impaired, but his horny ass wanted mine anyway.
I was raped for the third time 3 year ago.
I froze. I felt I had nothing left to fight for. It was easier for me to lay still and disassociate than to be present and fight.
That man? He didn’t care that I said no, he overpowered me anyway.
That’s 3 different assaults. That’s 3 different times a man entered my body against my will. That’s a violation on 3 different occasions. 3 totally different, unrelated scenarios. It wasn’t about the clothes I wore. It wasn’t because I ‘asked’ for it. It wasn’t because I wasn’t ‘strong’ enough. It wasn’t because I didn’t scream ‘loud’ enough. It wasn’t because I didn’t ‘fight hard enough.’
No.
There was nothing I could have done. It wasn’t my fault. It was the selfish bastards that demanded my body- it’s their fault. The reality is that they were hungry, they were starving for a body, and if it wouldn’t have been me, it would’ve been another girl. There’s no stopping a horny man who wants to fuck- they would’ve gotten their way with someone else.
But what about me? How the hell was I supposed to recover and become that ‘survivor’ that people tried to dub me as? If we’re being honest, oftentimes I didn’t feel like much of a survivor- and sometimes, I still don’t.
Broken became my identity.
Depressed became my comfort zone.
Shame became all consuming.
So many times I didn’t have the energy to move, to respond to texts, to hang out with friends, to shop, or even eat. People saw my pain, but no one would dare to meet me in my suffering to ask questions or offer help. And who could blame them? I rightfully earned the title of ‘fun vacuum’ because I didn’t want to do anything. I was fighting the scariest demons. While my mind didn’t remember all of the details of those nights, my body did. For a long time, it took every ounce of me to just deal with the thoughts that bombarded my head. I was constantly in a state of reliving those horrid nights over and over again in my dreams and everyday life. My heart wouldn’t slow down. There seemed to be a permanent lump in my stomach. I was always on high alert.
I was barely surviving.
It took every fiber of my being to make it to the next day.
My light was dim- barely flickering.
I was fighting for my life.
I had nothing left except a skeleton covered with skin. My soul felt lost.
I didn’t want my body anymore. It didn’t belong to me. The right to my own body wasn’t mine, and I didn’t want it. Strangers had broken in and destroyed every vulnerable part of me. They filled my body with their poison.
I believed I was disposable- what else was I to think? Seriously.
I was left inches away from a dumpster- did you hear me? A DUMPSTER, a freaking trash can- I was left bleeding, bruised, crying, scared, and naked beside a dang dumpster. I was trash.
And get this. NO. ONE. CARED.
No one came to my rescue. No one came to help me find my clothes. No one protected me. No one stopped them.
My reality was my nightmare and I was living it.
And the hardest part of all of this? They didn’t even know my last name. They knew nothing about me, and yet they have been inside of me.
I was just the object they used for pleasure.
I WAS NOTHING.
And what about consent?
They sure didn’t get it from me.
My no meant HELL no
In fact, I pleaded, BEGGED, cried, screamed over and over again that it hurt, that I didn’t want it, to PLEASE stop.
I said please. He was wrecking me, stripping me of all humanity and dignity, yet I still said please.
But to each of those men? I was nothing. I was an object. I was not human. I had no dignity. My value was based on my body. I was there for mere pleasure. They tore me open and invaded the deepest part of my being. And when they were done, I was left laying beside the trash dumpster- broken, alone, full of their DNA, and forever changed.
And afterwards?
They got up. They stood tall. They moved on.
Me, however?
I got up. But all that was left was a shell of the girl that ‘use to be.’
I would love to be able to wrap this letter up with a pretty little bow, but the reality is- rape is a nightmare. It’s impossible to write a story about rape and make it pretty. Rape is hideous. It doesn’t get to be attractive.
Sometimes there’s not a happy ending and this is one of those times. Rape wrecks people. It wrecks families. In today’s society, discussions on rape aren’t welcome. I genuinely understand, it’s hard to talk about an invasion of self. I don’t think I’ll ever fully be able to comprehend the fact that in our culture, it’s more shameful to be raped than it is to be a rapist. Rape victims have to walk through and prove the most heinous crimes when the only evidence is their memory and the crime scene is their body. Justice isn’t guaranteed. And people don’t want the dirty details of assault. It’s too hard to hear. They turn their heads when rape is mentioned. I get it. Talking about rape isn’t comfortable.
But let me tell you this, being raped isn’t comfortable either.
I can’t be silent any longer. Even now, 9 years after my first assault, alI I have to offer is a broken whisper and I’m trying to lean in to let you know that you’re not alone. It happened to #metoo. Speak your truth, sister, even if the only thing you can muster up is a whisper.
I longed and needed just one person to validate me. I needed to know that I was seen, that I was believed. I needed my pain acknowledged and to know that I was not alone. But in order to hear that, I had to speak. I had to tell my side. I had to be open and vulnerable about the deepest darkest moments of my life.
To be heard after years and years of silence- years of shame, guilt, disappointment, blame, disgust, hurt, heartache, heartbreak- is SO incredibly liberating. To know that I’m still a human and I am not what those men did to me is indescribable. I don’t have to play the role of a victim, because that’s not who I am anymore. I got the victory in that war. It’s impossible to hold up the banners of victim and victory at the same time. It’s a daily choice- a daily battle I still have to fight. I don’t feel like a victor everyday. Some days I still struggle to survive. I’d like to say that I choose victory every day, but the truth is, it’s hard and it hurts. Some days, I still grieve what’s lost.
Regardless of how you feel today:
You, my girl, are a survivor.
You are brave.
You did what you had to do to make it through alive.
And if you’re reading this, you’re still here and that’s enough.
You are still loved.
You are still wanted.
You matter.
Your story matters.
And.
You are not alone.
Rape sure as hell is a part of my story and quite frankly, each time was a pretty defining moment in my life, but it’s not my identity. Rape isn’t who I am;
I am Layne
