DISCLAIMER: Please be advised that I am not going to “soften” words and use things like “grape” or “SA.” This post includes talks of psychological manipulation/coercion, rape, sexual trauma, etc.
I don’t have any designs to “bring back” the movement that hit with #metoo nor do I have the knowledge about whether it’s even still active. But… I do want to finally share my story. I’ll provide some context as to why it has come up.
It’s been just shy of a decade since the event itself happened and I stuffed it down into the depths of the Void inside me to avoid the shame, guilt, disgust, and plethora of other negative feels and side effects it caused. However, day before yesterday, The Boyfriend and I were discussing Safety Tools in regards to a new D&D book he got for his birthday called “Heart” – which can get really dark. The subject of children dying and rape came up as scenarios that could possibly enter into a campaign with this. Given my unique experience, I had to divulge a little about what happened to me and – lo and behold – I got triggered and started to cry a little…
I thought I’d moved past it, but that was definitely not the case. I mean, stuffing it and not dealing with it is totally how you deal with trauma the right way, yeah? Lol. Anyway, I was actually shocked at the trigger and crying. I also cried some that night when we went to bed, after asking The Boyfriend if I was “too much” (he said no). Like, wtf brain?!
So yesterday, when I got to my telehealth EMDR appointment, that rape was what I asked to manage in our session. Fuuuuuuck, it was rough (to put it mildly). Part of EMDR is literally revisiting past traumas. As such, revisiting the rape I went through was… difficult AF (I honestly can’t bring up any better/more accurate words for it). There are, thankfully, techniques and such before and after to buffer something as heinous as rape trauma. And afterwards, I asked The Boyfriend if he could help me with giving me a safe place by holding me – he agreed without question – but, only after I did an ugly-snot cry in the shower.
And thus, the story…
Around Aug/Sept of 2015, I was dating The Dementor (ex-boyfriend) and we had a huge blow-out fight and broke up. He moved to his mother’s farm in Missouri. I was devastated. The Son (autistic) was 9 years old at the time, and I was once again a single mother without support from a partner, let alone The Son’s father. We had, at the time, 50/50 joint custody, week on/week off (since April). I had recently met Voldemort (the “friend”/rapist) on a motorcycle misadventure where I’d gotten stranded and he’d come to rescue me. When The Dementor moved out, he almost completely took his place with helping me with The Son, the house, cooking, etc. He didn’t live with me, but he was around enough that it felt like it.
For 3 solid months, Voldemort ramped up the psychological manipulation. He made such wild assumptions that we were dating (despite being told directly, several times, that we were not) that I was convinced he was psychotic, he vehemently expressed his jealousy over literally any male in my life that wasn’t him, and within all of that were his dastardly attempts – in a variety of ways that I could never have thought up myself – to convince me that we should have sex… “It will cure my anxiety and things will be better between us.” or “If you don’t, you’ll regret it.” I can’t even repeat some of the other – very threatening – ways he tried.
Side Quest: Let me pause here and remind you that I had just gone through a shitty breakup. I was NOT in a good space mentally or emotionally. And I’m not explaining this to convince anyone of where I was at in my head – it is just the facts. Deep depression, despair, loss, major heartbreak (I truly loved The Dementor) and working my ass off raising a special needs child while holding a split-shift job down was fucking exhausting. Voldemort was my only help and I didn’t see any other avenues at the time. I didn’t HAVE any other avenues.
And then, I had a garage sale. I needed money to fix my car (also had a motorcycle at the time). I used what money I had to fund the little lock box to make change for the garage sale. Voldemort helped (using manipulation tactics the entire time, which I rebuffed). And at the end, I’d gained a couple hundred more than what I’d put in. I think I had about $700 in it. I don’t really remember, there’s a lot that has vanished from my memory surrounding the rape. I put that box in the top of my bedroom closet and covered it with a blanket, because I had to go to work the next morning and it was too late to go to the bank that day. When I got home from morning shift, my door was open, like someone had forced their way in. I called the police immediately. They didn’t do shit except ask if anything was stolen, and at the time it didn’t look like anything had. No dusting for prints or any other such thing. Whatever, though. I checked my closet and sure enough, the money I had was gone. I knew IMMEDIATELY who’d taken it – Voldemort. He was the only other person that knew I even HAD that money. But could I prove it? Nope.
I fell into such a deep despair that zombie mode came hard and fast. I’d just had a huge (to a single mother) lump of money stolen from me and getting my car fixed, paying bills, and many other things I needed – right out the fucking front door. Voldemort came over and I didn’t have a single ounce of energy left to deal with his bitch ass. I was scared he would fly into a rage if I accused him. He consoled me, as any “friend” would do, and offered to stay at my house that night for safety reasons, in case the robbers came back. Fucking bullshit ass story, but all I could do was nod in agreement. At that point, I didn’t care if I lived or died. It was the week The Son was with his father, too.
That night, he came into my room when I was crying in bed about how shit things were. I had not said that he could stay with me in my room, but he also didn’t ask. He only offered to sleep in the living room to make himself seem nicer than what he really was. I didn’t resist his advances. I didn’t participate like I would have if it was consensual, but at that point… I just had nothing left and couldn’t fight it. I thought, “Maybe he will stop after this, if I just let it happen” (great logic, huh?). After 3 solid months of his bullshit manipulation and vitriol – I caved. I didn’t tell a single soul what had transpired.
Some time later, I’d gotten some insurance money for my motorcycle and got a new paint job. My friend Darryl rode my bike out of the shop and I squee’d like a little girl with a new toy, jumping into his arms for a huge hug. Voldemort came out of the shop office with The Son at that time (my week to have him) and saw this transpire. I had to go to work, so I kissed The Son and took off. By the time I’d gotten there, my phone had been blown the fuck up with jealous and angry texts from Voldemort for “kissing” another man (I did not do that, and fuck his bullshit psychosis anyway). He had threatened to leave my son home alone if I didn’t come home right then and there. I worked in transportation at a special needs school, I couldn’t just hop off the bus and leave. So… I called Gravity (Son’s father) and let him know what was happening. He went into protecc mode (the only time he ever has with me) and immediately went to my house to get The Son and kick Voldemort the fuck out. I sent angry texts back to Voldemort telling him to get the fuck out and never come back. And that was the end of that.
I moved to Missouri with The Son in November of that year (2015), to reconnect with The Dementor. It was a mutual decision between us. Some time in the next couple of years, I told him what happened with Voldemort. I cried. He said he was sorry it happened, and that was it.
I’d also told my friend/mentor Ursa… and she is the reason I was able to accept that what had happened to me WAS a very real rape (by coercion). It took me a long time to accept that. And it made me fucking angry. The shame, guilt, and disgust at myself for “allowing” something like that to happen never got dealt with. Too much happened in the years following and it just slowly faded into the background… until 2 days ago.
Now, outside of this blog, I’ve only told 4 people. The Boyfriend (not in detail) and my EMDR therapist. So with that session, I felt the need to tell my story in my “journaling” blog today. It’s a huge step for me, but I’m surprisingly ok with it.
And here is the news story that happened 5 years later, solidifying how crazy and dangerous Voldemort truly was… I have to say, I’m REALLY fucking lucky he didn’t hurt my son.
Who IS EnchiPants?! 