Just about everything in my life is arranged in boxes. I have boxes of stuff... tee- shirts, books, shoes, stuff for my portfolio... I have boxes of tangible memories if you will... birthday cards, letters from family and friends that I got while I was away at college, awards... My mind is organized in a similar fashion. Boxes that store information I gathered at school, boxes of memories; a box of memories for different people, places, and times. This box system seems to work well. It keeps me organized and helps keep all of my memories safe. I put them in a box, place a lid on them, and whenever I want I can go back, open a box, and look inside. I have one box though, in my mind, that this system doesn't seem to work too well with. It's a box of memories that I would like to forget. I try to put those memories in a box, and nail the lid shut on, so that I never have to see them again. Yet, these memories have a way of getting out. Especially at night.
This box is filled with many things, and I am sure that other people can relate. Like the memory of tripping in front of the boy you thought was cute in fourth grade. Or the time you ground out into a double play, in the last inning of the championship game, when the bases were loaded, there was one out, and your team was only down by one run. Something happened to me ten years ago that I put in that box and it has been crawling out ever since then. I am hoping that by letting it out myself right now, that it will be content, and that I will be content. In the past ten years I have told this story once. I didn't tell it to a person per se, but rather to my stereo as I listened to "Little Earthquakes". (Three years after it had happened.) In the past I have told three people that "it" happened to me, but I never told them my story though. All of this has not satisfied the memory or more importantly my soul and true being, and I feel that by sharing it now, it will.
In a box in my closet I have cards from my eighth grade graduation. In almost every one are the words "the next four years of your life in high school will be your best." Boy, were those words wrong. My father passed away the summer before my sophomore year in high school and in the midst of his death, there were so many other things that I was dealing with. Fifteen years of age is just one of those strange places. I think it is easy to be uncertain of who you are.. at least it was for me. I felt confused, abandoned, like an outcast. I clung to whoever or whatever showed an interest in me. I made a different group of friends that year in hopes of fitting in. New girl friends who had boyfriends, wore lots of make up, and talked about having sex. One of my new girlfriend's introduced me to her boyfriend's friend. I immediately clung. This was too perfect. A guy, four years older then myself, out of high school, with long blonde hair, who promised to show this "little girl" (which I really was now that I am looking back on that time in my life.) how to drive and play guitar. He showed interest. I felt like I belonged somewhere or to somebody for that matter.
He also showed this "little girl" who at the age of fifteen still had not got her period yet, had first begun to wear a bra that year, and had no idea what sex was what it was like to have her mind, body, and soul broke in all of fifteen minutes. "Come upstairs "little girl" I want to show you a new song I have been working on." A typical Saturday night at his house. His parents were out of town and my girlfriend, her boyfriend, myself and him were all just "hanging out". I remember so vividly following him up the stairs. Reading the back of his tee shirt. Words were covered by his long blonde hair. The pictures lining the wall of the staircase. Music blaring from the stereo in his room. How excited I was. How happy I felt. How all of that changed in a split second when I entered his room. How he turned around. Grabbed my arms. Kicked me to the floor. On my stomach. How confused I was. Terrified. He stepped on my back. Pinning me to the floor. Telling me "of you know what's good for you ***** you'll keep your mouth shut." The sound of the door locking. The dark. The smell of carpeting. No words came even though I tried. No scream came even though I tried. I couldn't move. He was on my back. Pulling my hair. "Don't make me hurt you." I did everything he said. He's lifting up my skirt. Taking off my panties. Panties my mom gave me for Christmas. It hurt. It hurts. The words. The feeling. It's over? Maybe? "See, you liked it *****." "Look at me. You're fine. Nothing happened." "Do what I tell you and I still won't hurt you." "Stay here until I come back and get you."
I do. I act as if nothing happened. I wait. I follow him back downstairs. I watch TV. I go home. I kiss my mom good night. I take off my clothes. Blood in my panties from my mom. I put them all in a plastic bag and then in my backpack. Tomorrow I put those clothes in my neighbor's trash can. Every part of my being changed in those minutes. They stayed in limbo as years passed and I said nothing. As I placed those minutes in a memory box and tried to nail the lid shut. That doesn't work. They kept creeping out. It wasn't until a few years ago that I learned that I could control that memory. I had to willingly open the box and look inside myself at what was there. At what happened in those minutes. I did that just now. I am in control. He isn't. I am telling you this. He isn't. This is a part of me. It makes me... me. I guess we all have boxes of stuff. Sometimes we need to look inside of them ourselves at the things that are in there. We need to not only look at them, but share them as well. Not only to help ourselves, but others as well. We can be in control. We can find people who will love and appreciate us for the things that we have in those boxes.
I was 15 years old and was at my friends house it was around 12:00 PM and we were getting tired so we went to bed an hour later her brother came in and saw me sleeping and decide he was going to be cute he came over to me and carried me in to his room when I woke up he was on top of me raping me and now I have a 3 month old baby from him.
I'm 17 and I consider myself a well-balanced person. This is the first time I've ever written about my rape and I'm really nervous. I think that I'm writing this because I've just met someone really wonderful who I care about a lot...
The first time I was sexually abused started when I was about 7. My mother's best friend had a son who was about 6 years older than me. I don't actually remember the first time he abused me, but I remember that he used to take me up to his room and make me kiss him and give him blow jobs. If I didn't do what he wanted he would hit me, but never in places that anyone could see. He was very cunning. That went on for about 3 years until I moved to a different town and my mother and his lost contact. I told my mother when I was about 13 that he used to make me kiss him, but I never told her about anything else, I'm too ashamed.
The second time I was abused was on my 14th birthday. A few friends of mine had thrown a surprise lunch for me. We stayed at the restaurant for quite a while and gradually people left. In the end the only people remaining were me and two friends of mine. We left the restaurant and walked outside. Outside we saw some friends of ours who offered us a lift home. We dropped my other friends off first and then I was the only one left in the car. I wasn't at all worried because the driver was my friend. He told me he wanted to show me something and took me to this dark secluded space. There he started to rip my clothes off. Then he penetrated me and I was in agony. I kept on telling him to stop, but he wouldn't. He just said that he would let me go went he finished. He raped me 3 times and then threw me out of the car. I don't remember walking home, but when I finally got home I had blood gushing from between my legs. Now I have met this wonderful person I would love to have sex with him, but I'm so scared. Please write to me, give me your advice.