August 27, 2015

The Time I Screamed & Wasn’t Heard. {Trigger Warning}

Ilya on Flickr

I could feel your heart beat through your hand as it held mine tight.

My 13-year-old brain flooded with euphoria as we walked toward your house. I was overwhelmed with compliments you had eloquently and purposefully placed in my head.

I had no idea this was pre-meditated. I was easy prey.

You smiled, as you looked down at me and my heart skipped a beat. Vanquished, I smiled back wondering if this is what falling in love felt like. Your hand tightly wrapped around mine, you lead me down the road to your house.

I felt special as we walked away from the beach. You picked me over all those other girls. Somehow an 18-year-old boy liked me and I couldn’t have been more elated.

So innocent, so young. I had no idea what any of this meant.

Walking up to your house I felt a sense of unease. I ignored it. I don’t know if it was fear or the pure ignorance of a young mind. I had nothing to base it on. I hadn’t even kissed a boy before.

You lead me through your house to your room. The smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol made me nervous and I pulled my hand back toward my body. You noticed my jitters and grabbed my hand tighter, forcefully. The air seemed to thicken as you lead me towards your bedroom. My heart started to pound in my chest.

I was a child.

Entering your room it felt as though my heart stopped. As the door slammed closed every hair on my body stood at attention. I was apprehensive but too unsure of myself to know what any of these feelings meant.

Within seconds the mood changed. I felt a wave of unease come over my entire body. My subconscious was telling me to get the hell out of there, but I stayed. Terrified, yet not confident enough to run.

I wish I hadn’t, I wish I had run.

Without notice I found myself on the bed, you on top of me. I could taste alcohol on your lips and the weight of your frame on mine. Fumbling through I kissed you back, wondering if this is what I should to do. I could feel your facial hair scratching my face as you kissed me hard, so hard.

I wanted to stop you, but I didn’t want you to think I was immature. I didn’t want you not to like me.

I didn’t know you wouldn’t stop.

Suddenly and without reason your eyes changed, you were no longer a boy—you were an opponent. I felt a shift in power—I was no longer a want, but a need or a conquest. Instinctively, I found myself placating your every move, desperately hoping the result would not be what I was feeling in my heart. Somehow, my psyche knew what was about to play out.

I quietly whispered in your ear; I felt uncomfortable, that we should stop, I was a virgin. You told me that it was going to be okay, that you weren’t going to hurt me.

You lied. None of the next few hours were ever going to be okay.

You had turned into a hunter and I was your mark.

An hour started to feel like a moment as if no time had passed. My subdued squeals meant nothing to you, they perpetuated you. It felt like you didn’t even know I was there. I started to wonder if I made you see that you were raping a person—me—maybe you would stop. I talked to you; I told you it was okay, that you didn’t have to do this. I told you that I wouldn’t tell.

You didn’t stop.

I turned my head to the side so I didn’t have to look at your face. I focused on a poster of Robert De Niro in Raging Bull and realised you were the raging bull. I could feel the pain in you, I wanted you to know that I could see your hurt. I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to do this.

You didn’t stop.

I had no clear thoughts; I had seconds, moments of clarity. Life-saving moments, how the hell am I going to survive this moments. Were you going to kill me? I felt the fear you had for yourself. I could see your pain. I begged you to stop.

You didn’t stop.

Eventually, I watched from above. I removed from the situation, as you raped me, over and over again. I left my body to be safe. To be capable of dealing with what was happening to me.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

Not until the bedroom door flung open and you ripped from on top of me. I have never moved so quickly in my life, rushing past that man who now had you up against the wall with his hand around your throat. I looked back once as I heard a crack, your face hitting the floor. I will never forget the sound of words, “What the f*ck are you doing boy, she’s a kid.”

That man, your dad, he saved my life. But you took something away from me that I can never get back.

You stole my innocence, but you didn’t take my power. My strength. I survived to tell this story.

I am a survivor, but that doesn’t mean I don’t forgive. I do not hold hate or contempt in my heart for this man.

My healing process started the day I forgave the man who raped me. In order to truly let go of the pain, I freed it with forgiveness. It was a daunting task. One that brought forth more emotion and pain than I thought imaginable. But in doing so it also gave me a voice.

Instead, I own the hurt—it is all mine, and he no longer has any power over me or my emotional state.

I believe strongly in giving a voice to women that are afraid to speak out. The shame and fear in coming forward after being raped in some cases is as terrifying as the rape itself. It needs to stop! We need to talk about abuse if not for the victims but our young daughters.

There is no fault in rape, it is just that—rape.

I wrote my story with a face covered in tears. But it is a story I am compelled to write. A story that I cannot keep selfishly to myself. I will be the voice of those that will not speak. Someone has to be that voice!

I am a warrior, not just a survivor. I will stand up for those that won’t speak. Hopefully by doing so, I can allow more women to come forward. To take a stand and never feel shame.



Yoga Liberated Me from the Shame of Rape.


Author: Darla Halyk

Editor: Katarina Tavčar

Photo: Ilya/Flickr

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