It took some time to get here.
To tell this story.
To share it here.
It wasn’t easy.
It isn’t easy.
It’s scary.
I feel as if I’d be judged.
Then, I think to myself;

I don’t care if people judge me.
By what happened to me.
I really don’t care.
It isn’t my problem.
I’m not going to make it my problem.

*TRIGGER WARNING*
*rape* *violence*

It was an ordinary day for me. Nothing special, but I wanted to do some shopping, because I had done some spring cleaning the day before. So, I *needed* to buy new clothes, shoes etc.

I shopped and made my way to the parking lot. And next thing I know, I was shoved into the car, with a knife pointed to my throat. I was pinned down and my skirt was lifted up. I froze. I was told to keep quiet and if I screamed, he would stab me.

I was blindfolded, gagged, and taken into another car (it smelled different). He drove so fast, I was falling all over in it, and I realised it could have been a van with no seats at the back. At this point, no words could describe how I was feeling.

It took me many years later to realise what it must have felt like for me then.

The drive on the gravel road took forever and when we finally arrived at his destination. I was dragged out of the van and brought into what felt like an abandoned place. It smelled musty, dirty and old, and felt wet and cold.

I was shoved into a room, hands untied. I pulled off the blindfold, gag, and untied my legs. It was dark. The windows were covered with planks of wood. There was nothing in the room, just me and the coldness of the space.

I had no idea – until today – how long it took for him to come back in, but it didn’t seem very long. Probably 5 minutes. Maybe 15. All I remember was praying hard.

I remembered telling my therapist that I felt chills running down my spine as he came into the room. With his face covered, he said, “You’re going to like what I’m about to do to you”.

He pulled me towards him and blindfolded me.

He pushed me to the floor. I fought hard, but he was, obviously, stronger. He had one hand on my throat, and the other to take my panties off. I was still trying to fight him off, screaming to a point where my throat felt so dry, I couldn’t scream anymore.

I became very weak by then, exactly what he wanted, so he could devour me.
I felt numb. Tears streaming down my cheeks.
I thought I was going to die.
I felt lifeless.
I was weak.

His hands around my neck, gripping it hard.
I peed from fear of dying in his hands.
I drifted in and out of consciousness.
And he forced himself inside me.
Again.
And again.

It was dark and cold when I opened my eyes. My head was spinning. And as soon as I heard footsteps outside the room, I froze. “Not again”, I thought.

The door opened, a loaf of bread and bottle of water were thrown at me.

I haven’t recovered all that happened during that time. However, I knew I must have been withheld in the room for two or three days. I would have flashbacks and new memories from that particular traumatic past.

About a month ago, I remembered there were three perpetrators. They would take turns. I was beaten, spat on, and more. I was forced to perform oral sex.

The day I was “set free”, they shoved me out of the moving van nearby my house. I was practically crawling back to my house. No one was home. I remember feeling thankful.

But as soon as I got inside my safe place, I felt ashamed.
I felt used.
I felt dirty.
I felt exposed.
I felt violated.
I felt as if I was left to die.
They got what they wanted.

I was scared. I got to my room, stripped and showered.
I scrubbed my skin over and over.
I thought to myself, did that really happen?
It was a nightmare, wasn’t it?

Then,
I felt the pain.
The horrible pain.
I saw the bruises all over me.
I saw the cut (that is now a visible scar – something I remembered – a week ago – where I got it from).
They were real.
All I could think of was how to hide them.

I thought about my family and I cried.
Hard.
I couldn’t tell anyone.
I just couldn’t.
I felt dirty.
I felt ashamed.
My body was violated (to put it mildly) and I just couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone.
Not at that time.

—-

After all that, I was living in a bit of a fog.
I wouldn’t leave the house.
I would listen to music – very loudly – in my room.
My parents weren’t pleased, but I didn’t care.

Then, I just… started suppressing the memories.
I wanted to survive the year and years to come, and the best way forward TO ME, at the time, was to suppress everything.
BLOCK IT ALL OFF.
I became someone else.
I pretended to be fine.
I was so good at pretending, I didn’t feel like I was pretending anymore.

It never dawned on me that one day, all those painful terrors would come to haunt me.
Flashback after flashback.
Nightmare after nightmare.
One trigger after another.
This is just one part of many other terrors I’ve endured.

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