I thought we were friends. I trusted him. I believed in him. I didn’t know that one sunny spring day he would force himself on me. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that I had been raped. So, I pushed it to the back of my mind.
I left feeling like I wanted to die. This was the third time that I had been touched. That a boy or man had put his hands on me against my will. Why the hell did this keep happening to me?
I had so many questions, but I pushed them through the back of my mind. I needed to go home. I didn’t want to go home. I went to my best friend’s house. I cried. She hugged me. She begged me to call the police. “No” I responded.
I didn’t want anyone to know. I couldn’t take the ridicule from the kids at school. Two boys had forced themselves on me on the school bus. They held me down as they tried to kiss me. Grinded on me as I begged them to stop. They felt my breasts.
I couldn’t sleep. I went to the school counselor. They were so upset and concerned. They filed a report. Called my mother. Reported the boys. The boys were popular. I was not. I was vilified. Ridiculed. I asked for it.
Funny thing is how can you ask for something you didn’t want? How could you ask for someone to touch you inappropriately as you begged them to get off you? Damn kids. I hated men. I never wanted a man.
The rape brought up those same feelings of inadequacy. He was popular. I would be ostracized again. I couldn’t take it anymore. The saltiness of my tears mixed with the shower water as my best friend bathed my naked body and cried with me.
I made her promise. Promise not to tell anyone. A child promising to keep the secret that her best friend had been raped.
I didn’t know the magnitude of that burden that I asked her to carry. I just needed to get home. To take care of my brother and sister. I had to heat up dinner, help with homework, clean the kitchen and put them to bed.
I cried myself to sleep that night begging God to take my life.