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.

Or not.

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.)

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10 Responses to

  1. r says:

    Hello….Fred…are you still there?

    Your words pierced me like an arrow. Someone, somewhere, will find this page through a google search (as I did) and maybe have their lives saved.

    But… have you finally failed to save yourself? Or have you stopped writing because you finally found that you could save yourself?

  2. Pingback: Suicide Genius » Blog Archive » Contact

  3. She The Anomaly says:

    What has always hurt me the most in any situation was that someone would WANT to hurt me.

    I believe that any time anyone does something against your will it is WRONG.

    I have read that even if the female accidentally enjoys a rape it is still considered rape if it she did not consent and the offender is still considered a criminal.

    I imagine it is possible that a rapist could trigger physiological reactions that would help them along even if a person is not interested. It is even possible, and very likely, for a person who is very sensitive to have more than one feeling at the same time about a situation. It may be that there were parts of you that did not want to, and other parts of you that did. If you did not consent and she knew that, then it was rape.

    Here is a citation for you:

    “Some men may believe they were not raped or that they gave consent because they became sexually aroused, had an erection, or ejaculated during the sexual assault. These are normal, involuntary physiological reactions. It does not mean that the victim wanted to be raped or sexually assaulted, or that the survivor enjoyed the traumatic experience. Sexual arousal does not necessarily mean there was consent.” – The National Center for Victims of Crime


    I thought up so many possible answers to your other questions… I don’t know if they are correct. I am afraid to say much because I know that this is an extraordinarily delicate subject for you. I will wait to see whether you ask for the ideas I have.

  4. Fred says:

    Yes, I have long been aware of the distinction between physical response and anything emotional/mental.

    Punch “male rape” into Google and, once you get past the several million porn sites you will find some interesting stories relating to your citation, including, for example, burglars who rape the male homeowner (and physically get him off) so that he will be too shamed to report what happened. There are some incredibly awful people in the world.

    Actually, the though that there were others out there like me was one of the big reasons for starting this blog. One more page for somebody to find.

  5. She_The_Anomaly says:

    If you want more people who have had this happen to them to be able to find you, you will need to do keyword optimization. You have been rather discreet in your wording, which is totally understandable. In order for people to find you, you need to put the exact terms and key words that people are searching for into key places. This will mean being significantly more explicit. The good news is that you happen to have chosen the absolute best blog software for keyword optimization. Look up stuff like “SEO for wordpress”. SEO stands for “Search Engine Optimization”.

  6. She The Anomaly says:

    I came to check for comments and I realized that I have some more validation and encouragement to give to you today. The first thing is that there is a trait which is very common in gifted people called “Emotional Over-excitability”. One hallmark of emotional over-excitability is feeling more than one thing at the same time. Below is a cite that mentions the “extremes of complex emotions” and the fact that people react as if we are “frequently incomprehensible”. If your feelings seem strange, don’t think it is because anything is wrong with you. This is very likely to be normal for a gifted person. That is a large part of why I recommended finding a psychologist who has experience with gifted patients.

    The cite:

    Another thing I’d like to mention is that people of your generation were raised to have some pretty rigid beliefs about what it means to be male and female. Ideas about gender have changed significantly from what you were probably raised with. There are, of course, always going to be die-hards, but there are also many people, especially in younger generations who will be understanding. I think you will find much more understanding than you expect if you find yourself motivated enough to seek it out.

  7. Fred says:

    “What has always hurt me the most in any situation was that someone would WANT to hurt me.”

    Mine was not a case of such. She didn’t want to hurt me per se — she was simply so intensely self centered that her own wants overrode any consideration of what I did or didn’t want. It wasn’t malice; it was callous indifference.

    “People of your generation were raised to have some pretty rigid beliefs about what it means to be male and female.”

    I am distinctly old-fashioned in certain regards. When American culture asked the immortal question “Why is it that when a woman sleeps around, she’s a slut, but when a man sleeps around, he’s a stud?” my first thought was “Yeah, they’re both sluts.” Unfortunately the popular culture went the other way. Again, getting back to Her, she was so caught up in that cultural perception of sexual permissiveness, that she literally thought there was something wrong if you *weren’t* having sex. We were dating, so “of course” we should be….

  8. Twisted says:

    I too have horrific memories, but mine are of alcohol-induced violence that occurred during my childhood. It is hard to accept that someone’s ignorance can be their innocence in that they did not intend harm.

    • Fred says:

      “It is hard to accept that someone’s ignorance can be their innocence in that they did not intend harm.”

      I suppose there is a distinction between “intent” and “culpability”.

      It’s like first-degree murder vs. manslaughter. Either way, somebody’s dead.

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