Warning – This is quite triggering.
April is when many blogs are writing about sexual violence. This is my contribution. I want to explore the different types of rapes I lived through.
Rape is never simple. It always judged on whether the “victim” is worthy of support, or whether she is to blame, so can be toss away.
Rape is often a crime where maximum effort is made to get the rapist off the hook.
I have been raped by many men in many ways. I would say there one face to all rapists.
The face of – this is my right, and no-one will stop me.
I was raped as a young child.
This can get large amount of sympathy. But in my experience, only when there is a distance between the abuse and the listener.
Child rape often happens in houses where the child is unloved and tossed aside. Her abuse is made invisble, for she does not matter as a person.
When I was raped as a young child, I could not imagine telling. I could not imagine showing I was in pain.
No, my first rape taught that silence is best.
I was six, and I instinctively known the language of rape.
From 12 to 19, the rapes from my stepdad slowly built up.
It begun with sexually abusing in the bath. Slowly teaching me to ignore the pain. Teaching to abandon dignity. I learnt to forget I was a person.
From 17 to 19, it was a sick ritual.
I had become my stepdad’s sex object. I had no rights.
He would bath me. I had to be clean. Then I go to his bed. There I lay naked, as he would turn out the lights. It was a ritual.
A ritual that burns in my mind.
He would very slowly touch me all. He focus on making me have orgasm.
Then he could say that I enjoy it.
He would finger-fuck me, telling me not to move. Saying that if I move, it would hurt.
It often hurt whether I move or not.
He would do oral sex on me. Especially when he decided I was a lesbian. He said –
I’ll teach how to be a dyke.
I hated that, especially as he had a beard.
When he finish he throw off the bed. Making out I had force him to lose control. Only, I never believed that as he give me Playboy to read.
My stepdad would never see himself as a rapist.
He never penetrated me, so his clever words say I am not a rapist legally.
He is not a rapist coz it was a “relationship”. I was like a mistress.
I am speakless at that crap.
I threw myself at him, and he was too weak or depressed to say back off.
And he has the backing of my mother, so it must be acceptable.
He, like most child abusers believes he is misunderstood and should be pitied. And I am just bitter not to “forgive”.
Well he is a rapist . He raped my body, leaving pain still inside me. He raped my mind. Leaving me to lose faith in hope, leaving blanks in my memory.
He is a rapist.
Men that rape prostituted women and girls never think they are committing a crime. This is not help by the fact, that most of them get away with rape all the time.
I was raped as a prostitute. It was normal.
I was gang-raped, I was raped as I gagged and tied up. I was raped against a wall. I raped in a bed. I was raped in a subway.
I was raped in my vagina. I was raped anally. I was raped in my ear. I was raped as I was fisted. I had every hole they could find raped.
I had men who bite me all over. Men who pull at my clit with their teeth.
I was raped till I had no feelings.
I touch death with those men. I could not live with their torture.
But being raped as a prostituted woman and girl became invisble.
This was partly shame that I living with such violence.
But mainly it was because I know it would not be believe.
I felt I had “chosen” to be with those men, so I could not dare to claim that it was rape.
For, l like many rape victims (especially who live multiple rapes), believed it was not real rape.
For real rape is being violently attacked by a stranger. It is done to a woman or girl who is a virgin or lives a pure lifestyle.
Rape did not happen to someone like me.
Someone who know that their purpose was to be a sex object. Someone who could never remember or know how many men used her body.
It can’t be rape if there was an exchange of money, drinks or a use of a bed. That is just asking for trouble.
And how can it be rape, when the things done to my body make me lose words.
How can living with so much violence be rape.
Only, my heart know it could be nothing else. As I write now my heart is weeping.
Name it. Say it.
They were all rapists. They were sadistic rapists.
They could of kill me.
But my revenge was to live, and to say –
You are rapists.