It is 4:16am the night after it happened. I can sleep and am in a great deal of physical pain. I go to a strict military school where nothing is allowed. I am thin, athletic and way too nice. It sounds ridiculous, but I can't keep the men away from me (there is only one woman to 7.29 males).
One night, to escape, some friends of my roommates friends brought us vodka to cheer us up. Well, I was homesick and absolutely fed up with guys. This guy seemed nice and we even talked about the fact that I was a virgin and that so many people tried to take advantage of me. Well, I woke up the next morning in a robe and will a sore head... at least that is what I first noticed. The more time, the worse everything got and my memory started to come back. My womb throbbed with an unbelievable pain. I bleed and could barely go to the bathroom. I next felt my head... it was completely sore... I had been knocked unconscious. Every side of my head. Bruised started appearing everywhere... huge, black bruises.
Then, I laid back in bed with a headache and saw a condom package that he had tried to open, but couldn't get open. I next noticed the blood on my bed. By this time, I was starting to put it all back together. I couldn't control myself. I though about taking the whole bottle of Tylenol, but then realized that I loved my family too much. (if I misspell words, I apologize). I realize that I could have avoided this ever happening.
I went hysterical... I have always held sex as a very special thing that I would wait for the love of my life. I then told my roommate because I had heard that you need to talk about it. That was horrible. I currently feel like utter shit. With more time, more events are coming back to me. I came conscious once will he was in me.
I am going to the doctor tomorrow, but am petrified. We have such a big, important week of school... I don't know how I will make it. I am a soldier, well trained in self-defense, close quarters combat and a boxer... I couldn't win. The bruises indicate that I tried.
In 15 days, I get to see my family for Thanksgiving leave, I think I'm going to try and tell my mother. I am a strong person, but I have a tendency to keep all my real emotions inside and only expose the positive ones. People can never tell when I am upset or having a bad day. Reveille sounds in 2 hours and I am nowhere near sleeping... I hope that you all are doing better and are on the road to recovery. If you ever need anything in the world, I would love to help.
im = Badmoon18
I'm a law student, and I suppose it was inevitable, but we're discussing rape in criminal law class, and it's been much more traumatic for me than I expected. I've been having nightmares, and it's all I can do to sit through class.
I have to say two things that I'm ashamed even to admit: I never reported it, and I still think it's my fault. I was married, and having marital troubles. My husband had moved out, and I had met a charming, intelligent man at work. We used to talk, and shared an interest in literature. I had known him for weeks through work, and had let him borrow one of my favorite books. He wanted to show me the house he had just bought, and his library. I trusted him, but felt more comfortable following him to his house in my own car. Since he lived out in the country, about a half hour drive, he persuaded me to park my car at a strip mall and come back for it, so he didn't lose me if I followed him. It made a bit uncomfortable, but I felt foolish for being so suspicious, and I worked with him, so I thought I knew him. I wasn't familiar with the suburban area where he lived, but we talked comfortably on the way to his house. Once there, we sat and talked for a while, but he seemed nervous and agitated. In a way, I was a little flattered by that. He kissed me, and I'll admit an attraction. I thought about having sex with him, and was excited, but thought it probably wouldn't happen that night, if it did. I thought I'd be in control.
He left the living room for a while, and apparently went somewhere in the house to take drugs. When he got back, he began talking more animatedly, and eventually became sort of manic in his conversation. He started with all this paranoid talk. He was black, and I was white, and we lived in the South. He seemed convinced that "they" were watching us, that they had his house bugged, that there was a conspiracy against him. We worked for a law firm, and he was frustrated by the inability of a black man to get ahead in that environment.
He began to talk in an insulting way about our mutual friends at work, then began insulting me. He called me a whore, a slut, a cheap bitch. He said he wasn't even a college graduate, that he'd been in jail, that he'd played along with my fantasies because I was so easy to play. He started getting excited at the idea of having sex with a white man's wife. He pinned me against the sofa, held me down and kissed me. He was 6'4" tall, a weight lifter, extremely heavy. I pushed at him, insulted him, yelled. He started choking me, hitting my head against the arm of the sofa. He smoked, and he tried to burn me with a lit cigarette. He grabbed and pinched at my breasts, poured some kind of liquor all over me and licked it off. He was laughing, and flushed, and amused by my struggling. He pulled down my jeans. He had changed into shorts when he got home, and apparently had on no underwear. He forced himself into me on the sofa. I don't remember thinking the word rape. I don't think I even put that term to it until recently. I did not want to have sex with him, but I didn't fight, or scream. I just shut down. I don't remember struggling any more, or thinking, or anything. I just kept thinking that this wasn't happening, like a litany in my head it kept repeating that this wasn't happening, that I'd be safe at home in my bed and it was all a bad dream. I just wanted it to be over, so I could go home and crawl under the covers and be safe.
When he was through, and he didn't use a condom, he held me, told me that he loved me, asked me to tell him the same. He said he wanted me to have his baby, his son. He hoped he'd gotten me pregnant. He held my throat, squeezed my shoulders, forced me to look at him, and forced me to tell him that I did love him, to admit that I was a whore and that I deserved to die. He told me he had a gun. He said that I was divorced, that he'd performed a divorce and I was his.
His high, or whatever was wrong with him, seemed to be fading, and I thought that I could get out. I didn't know where I was, and I had been yelling without any response, so it was a pretty remote neighborhood. I didn't have my car, and didn't know where I was, even if there were cabs or busses out that far, and didn't think I could call the police. I just saw the looks on their faces, me a married white woman who had gone home with a black man in the South, and thought that they'd think I deserved it, especially after I had been kissing him on the sofa and had told my friends that I found him attractive. I couldn't believe how stupid I had been, how badly I had misjudged him, and I couldn't bear the thought of everyone knowing what had happened. My husband would find out, all of my coworkers, my whole world. I just kept thinking that it wasn't happening, not really, not to me.
I pleaded with him to take me back to my car, cajoled him, pretended I had had a good time and liked him. I didn't know how to get back to my car, didn't know how I was going to get home. I got him into his car, and drove, with him giving me directions back to my car, all the while he was ranting about how much he loved me, how much he hated me, how he was going to kill me, himself, my husband. He kept going over his performance, how he had been, making me tell him how good it was, while he threatened me with a cigarette and made me tell him he was better than me, better than anyone, that I was a whore. It was the most nightmarish half hour of my life, worse than the rape in some ways, because it was all mental. He was rehashing the rape, expecting me to talk about it as if we were a couple and I had enjoyed it, insulting and degrading me, and making me agree with him that I was worthless and disgusting. I was so angry, and so ashamed, and so helpless.
I finally got back to my car, and he drove off. I went home and cried, and soaked in the tub, and slept for 12 hours. A couple of weeks later, I reconciled with my husband. I never told him about that night. I never told anyone. I still haven't, until now. My rapist was also my coworker, and he began stalking me at work, sending me dozens of emails a day, coming by my office, confronting me in the parking garage, leaving ominous notes and "gifts" on my desk. I didn't know what to do - I didn't think I could get help without discussing the rape, and I thought I had caused it, that I was responsible. I didn't want people scrutinizing my behavior, because my moral position wasn't the highest, going home with a man I was attracted to while I was married. I didn't want my personal life intruding into my workplace, didn't want to have to explain all of it to human resources in an effort to just get him to leave me alone. He'd call me at home, and hang up, and my husband thought I was having an affair. When it finally got too much, when the harassment at work and by phone at home had gone on for more than six months, I talked to human resources about the harassment, and my fear of him, without mentioning the rape. They called him in, he said we were having an affair, and they questioned all my friends at work and obtained all our emails. Though the emails of the last six months were clearly all from him, and all threatening, there were bantering, flirting, semi-sexual messages we had exchanged prior to the attack. It was beyond embarrassing, though I never told anyone at work about the rape. He was not fired, just warned to leave me alone. He didn't, and I finally quit. I moved away, because the fear of him made it impossible for me to live there anymore.
I know I boxed myself in, feeling there was no one I could turn to, but I didn't think that I could tell my story without being judged for my own behavior. I know that it's not true that I deserved what happened to me, and after more than a year I think I'm ready to talk with a counselor, and with someone who cares about me. It was an ugly incident, but it's not my dark secret, I didn't do anything wrong, and I won't continue to feel ashamed and dirty for hiding that incident in myself.
My full name is Jennifer Leigh Jackson Cook Weeks therefore I go by J.C. Weeks or Jezzy. I am 27 and I live and work in a small town in west Tennessee. It is the kind of place where when a bad crime or terrible thing happens almost everyone knows the victims and or the survivors. My attack happened in September of this year.
I had stopped at a store on my way to work to pick up something to eat for dinner. As I stepped out of my truck a clean cut young guy asked me for change for a dollar. As I reached into my truck to get the change he subtly grabbed me and put a knife to my back. He told me to get in with him and drive.
I drove for a long time all the while my mind was racing as what to do. I figured as long as I was doing the driving I was probably okay because he needed me to get him where he was going. But then he had me stop on a rural road and he started to drive. Then I knew that if I didn't do something I would probably end up dead. So when he stopped the truck in a field and open the door I took my feet and kicked him as hard as I could. I fought him with everything I had but he was just to big and to strong.
I ended up raped almost strangled to death, stabbed twice once in the shoulder and once on my face, two fingers and a knuckle broke, and a slight skull fracture. When he was done he left me in the field with no clothes on and tied to a tree. I was found at dawn by a hunter who was chasing after his dog.
I stayed in the hospital two weeks and just now went back to work. I work in a hospital and have gotten patients in who will do something say something or even resemble my attacker and it makes me lose my breath and nearly pass out from the memories I just don't know if I'll ever get over it or ever feel safe again as that the police have not found a trace of who did the crime
The hardest part was I was taken to the hospital where I worked first then transferred, so all my friends and co-workers knew what had happened and then it was in the paper two days later so the whole world knew. I am having trouble talking to my co-workers and all because I keep thinking that they know everything and it upsets me because up till now I have always been a private person. But for everyday that goes by I know I survived and will one day learn to live with it but I hope it comes soon cause it is hard to be around people and all
J. C. Weeks
im = jezzy