why I never told:
Tigger warning: rape and rape denial
Why did I never tell?
I’m sick of that question. Why didn’t I tell that I was raped? Twice? Because it was twenty years before I could say that word out loud without throwing up.
Because the first time, I had no idea what was happening. I was 12 years old, and it was the seventies. My parents—all the parents trusted and liked this man, who enjoyed the company of little girls. But I was sick when I got home from “playing,” and began to eat and eat to build a wall around me as protection.
The second time? I went frozen and couldn’t say stop. It was like an enemy had entered my body, and the shame that orgasm made me feel has colored every other orgasm I’ve ever had.
I’m a grown woman now and both my rapists are dead. But the pieces they took out of me have never come back. They won’t come back.
So. Why did I never tell? Because, like millions of other rape survivors, I know the truth. Nobody wants this story. The men who are pushing a rapist into the supreme court don’t want this story. I’m sick of the question, because we all know the answer: we work to recover from this thing that has been done to us, and we work to make the words come out of our throats, when they feel like another kind of attack, and we are threatened, or we are ignored.
Why did I never tell? Because the old men of the GOP who use their dicks like weapons because they know their time is ending don’t deserve it. And people that feel that my story is a burden, don’t deserve it.
And why did I never tell? I have been telling, with every word I put on the page. Every word. Yet, I’ve never told because the last thing about rape that can hurt me is the fact that I’m still afraid no one will hear.