I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. I was raped. It’s been 14 years and I’ve kept silent and it’s eaten me alive and it’s destroyed my life and I couldn’t say anything or do anything and nobody would believe me anyway because a guy can’t be raped by a girl everyone knows that. I was in college and she was in college and I didn’t want to, and she knew this, but she did, and one night she simply took matters into her own hands. I wept. I curled away from her and wept, and she lay there and put her arm around me and we slept, and the next morning she said to me, “I don’t know what that was for you, but I want you to know that for me it was wonderful.” And Then for the next few weeks before graduation we did it because what the hell was the difference I had already betrayed myself and it didn’t make any difference if we did it again. And then it was summer and I couldn’t stop thinking about it and she came to visit and we did it again because what was the difference right? Why did I do it? Why?
It was October before I came to the full realization of what had happened. Once more I asked myself why I had betrayed such a strongly held belief, and as I thought more about it, and what my thought process had been, and how it all exactly happened. And I realized that I never did act. She did it and I just froze. I froze because it wasn’t really happening. I just want to curl up and press further into myself until I implode and cease to exist. Welcome to my world. I didn’t act, and I hadn’t wanted to, and she knew that. She fucking knew it and she didn’t care. And I froze, and she did it and it took me five months for me to realize that they have a word for that. It’s called “rape”. Guys can’t get raped, anyone know that. I mean, a girl can’t rape a guy. But she can. She did. And then she went off and lived a happy life and I’m certain has no recognition of the brutality she committed. The life she destroyed. I was raped.
I was raped.
It’s been fourteen years and I just don’t have any hate left. I don’t have any fight left. I don’t have any hope left. I’ve become an old man, and even if there was a chance for me it is gone now with all those years wasted, hating not her but myself. I don’t know what more to say. I don’t know why I’m saying it at all, except that maybe, somewhere is another guy who can possibly know that he’s not alone. That he has to tell someone, even if it’s a doctor. And if your asshole of a doctor tells you “that wasn’t rape”, as mine did, because, duh, a guy can’t be raped by a girl (not spoken, but obvious), the proper response is “Fuck you, Doc, you weren’t there,” and get a different doctor. That’s what I should have done, but I didn’t. I just curled up even tighter, because if a doctor didn’t believe me then I KNEW I couldn’t possibly possibly tell anyone because NOONE would believe.
But I was wrong. I should have. And if it’s you, and if there’s still time for you, you MUST talk. Fucking scream it from the rooftops if you have to. I WAS RAPED. It’s the only chance you have to get your life back. Get it out or it will eat you alive. It will break you. I WAS RAPED. It wasn’t your fault but it was but it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t.
I’ve tried to cry, but I just can’t anymore. I’m all out of cry today, thanks for coming. But my eyes do water a lot. Everyday in fact. Must be allergies.
I want her to hurt, but it wouldn’t make any difference, it wouldn’t change anything. I want a time machine so I can go back and grab her by the throat and throw her across the fucking room. Not her now, her then — just before she did it. Because she did it and there’s no undoing it.
The overwhelming crushing sadness is like an avalanche — once it’s started it doesn’t matter what started it. It doesn’t matter if that thing is gone. You’re sliding and tumbling and there’s nothing to grab on to because everything is falling with you. That’s why you have to talk, because you have to stop the slide while you can still find your footing.
Soon the hurt will turn into numb. I’m finally there. I think it will be like turning off a switch. One day I’m going to simply shut down. They’ll find me eventually, just sitting in bed. I’ll be beyond caring. I’ll be beyond living. They’ll try to get me back, but they won’t know why I’m like that and I won’t say. I’ll just lie there and breathe. And sooner or later someone will maybe realize what a mercy it would be for them to put a bullet in my brain.
Don’t worry, Dear Reader. I’ll probably feel better in the morning. Or not.
(P.S. Please excuse my language. I trust you understand.)