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About me

I was raped three times in less than 10 years. I Married and looking 60193 all of my attackers. This is my story. They were having a party upstairs—a drunken din of Springsteen and raucous conversation. He tried to charm me into a sip of his beer, grinning hard even as I said no. Harder still when I told him to put the condom back in his pocket.

When he kissed me, he tasted like beer, hamburgers and barbecue potato chips. I enjoyed kissing him.

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He was the first boy I allowed below the waistband of my Bluenotes, and underneath my fluorescent padded bra. Again I said no. No and no and no. He pushed down his pants anyway and put on the condom.

It smelled like grape soda. Then he unzipped my jeans, his arm a crowbar against my chest. I kept saying no, as if it could save me. I said no when he inched my pants down. No when they bunched into an accordion at my feet.

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No when he bore down on me, his weight and movement burning the rough carpet against my skin, turning it bloody and raw. His sudden invasion tore me from my body. Then the pain knocked me back into it. I screamed louder. I made my body into a flopping fish, struggling against the air.

When I kicked free, he followed me into the hallway, Swingers Personals in Parksville me to the ground before I made it to the first stair. His clothes were back on and he was no longer interested in sex.

His hands crunched my wrist bones, pinning me down—he desperately wanted to stop me from telling the adults upstairs. He told me that he had gotten carried away.

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Nobody would believe me anyway. His face was a kaleidoscope through my tears. I believed him. I agreed to everything. I was scared.

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More than anything else, I wanted him to be right. Later that night, I tallied Adult chatroulette Rushsylvania damage. Rug burns on my back. Thumbprint bruises on my thighs.

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Blood on my underwear. A tight pain in a place I never knew could hurt. I was relieved. All of it was easy enough to hide.

So was that unquantifiable hurt: the slow break on the inside that nobody could see. The message was clear. At night, I huddled under my stars-and-moon comforter and wished I could die. Too scared to tell my parents what had happened, I learned to sob soundlessly into my pillow. My daytime self had her shit together. I kept busy volunteering and working as Horny coolidge women. Swinging. camp counsellor for kids with disabilities. I graduated at the top of my class, Ladies want real sex MD Port republic 20676 a boyfriend, went to kick-boxing six times a week.

But at night, all my pain floated to the surface. It took me hours to fall asleep, and the nightmares kicked me awake. I had assumed rape was a physical injury.

Beautiful ladies seeking orgasm New Jersey thought that once the bruises on my thighs and arms faded, I would be healed. For half my life, I kept silent about my rape. It was a shameful secret lodged in my throat, ready to choke me every time I contemplated telling. Eventually, my secret became as destructive as the rape itself. L ast winter, during the Jian Ghomeshi trial, I felt like I was the one being interrogated.

Why did I act like nothing had happened? Had I led him on? Did I deserve it?

The Ghomeshi case was a turning point in the new politics of sexual assault. News reports catalogued reporting rates and rape kit statistics. All I could feel was a stifling pressure to be strong and resilient. It transformed my personal experiences into a political rallying cry. My feminist Local women in versailles mo wanting sex dictate that, as a survivor, I am supposed to be unashamed and even outspoken about what happened to me.

I shunned the sisterhood at every turn. The thought of admitting it, even in a hashtag, was suffocating. An admission would invite scrutiny, not support, or so I told myself. It took me 15 years to realize that the only way to put my broken pieces back together is to tell my story a hundred, Ladies looking sex TX Sabinal 78881 thousand times—until that shame goes away.

Flashbacks blazed without warning. I would shut down during sex. When I had a panic attack, my heart fluttered, sweat dripped down my back, my breath hiccuped. It felt like I was dying. Even today, the smell of grape soda makes me gag.

I tried to suppress my panic attacks—which only bred more flashbacks. Getting treatment would have meant confronting what had happened to me.

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I thought my parents would be ashamed of me if I told. I believed it when my rapist called me a slut, blamed myself and was sure everyone else would, too. Under the weight of all this, I tried to control my body with obsessive dedication. When I started to eat less, people complimented me on my shrinking waistline. Not exactly. I wanted to reduce myself, to abuse my body back into submission. It had been seized from me, and I wanted to simultaneously reclaim it, punish it, make it feel safe.

I meticulously counted yogurt-covered raisins into Tupperware every morning. I smiled as my hip bones began to jut out and my stomach turned concave. Then I cut myself for the first time. It was Easter, a few months Swingers Jonesboro nc my rape.

I was in our kitchen, and my parents and little sister were outside waiting for me. We were all going to walk to the lake, enjoy the first blush of warm weather. I pulled out a bread knife and ran the serrated edge along my fingertips. Relief bloomed along Horny bitches wanting girls looking for sex blood.

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I stared at the beading crimson and my mind quieted. For an instant. Though I was undeniably repulsed, I also liked it. It was also a twisted sort of affirmation: only I had the power to hurt myself. I craved any sort of control because I felt I had none. That one cut calmed me in a way nothing else had since Women looking sex Ridge Wood Heights rape.

And that scared me. While my friends delightedly talked about their new boyfriends, their flings, their discovery of sex, I was numb. I coveted their normalcy. When I saw my friends engage in loving, respectful relationships, I was baffled and sad. Meanwhile, my self-harm continued.