I read a book about a woman's rape this morning. And I want to send it off to Casey with a little note inside, telling him to read it, telling him that bad things happen, and I didn't have it as bad as this woman did. I wasn't raped. It's odd to me how I can handle saying that word, rape, rape, rape, and not shudder, it just comes naturally. But the world molest. That word makes me want to cry, makes me need to find solace in my blood and razor blades again. But that's what happened to me. There is no way to glorify it, simplify it, make it seem less or more than it was; it happened and I could not stop it. I wanted to, and I couldn't. And each day I drive past his house thinking about how I want to kick the shit out of him, how I wish that I could just pull him to that same place behind the tennis courts and beat him until he was feeling a small fraction of the pain that he left me with. He did not give me physical pain, but I was left with scars that have haunted me ever since. I tried to give myself new scars to get over them, to let go of the ones he left. I've never written anything about it, I haven't told anyone about it in years. It doesn't need the telling to people who didn't know me then, didn't see the aftermath. I try to keep it hidden from everyone who didn't already know me, so that they won't judge me newly, won't think of me in a different light. I never wanted to tell anyone, but slowly it leaked out. Sean. Meagan. Casey. Mr. Wade, and finally, my parents. I know I told Bethany and Amy at some point, I don't know when, probably at the debate tournament. But I was still trying to make it disappear, still trying to cheapen everything by making it seem as if I were spinning a story out of my mouth because I was bored. I have hated myself ever since that day behind the tennis courts, not always consciously, but always. I've hated the fact that I had somehow enticed him, by the fact that since I had developped early, he wanted me. I hate myself for the fact that I was not strong enough to keep him off of me. I hate the fact that I couldn't tell anyone immediately, was too ashamed to do anything except cower in my shower and shake in the hallways of school. He only said something about it once, he told me he was sorry, after Meagan had yelled at him for hours inside the weight room in my clubhouse. He still doesn't know exactly what he did to me. I have not been able to have a conversation with him since, I wince at the very mention of his name, his name is unspeakable to me. I saw him once, after a football game on the way to my car. Hi, he said to me, as I passed by with my sisters. I struggled not to throw up in the parking lot. Part of my hate for myself, part of my hate for him, has been making myself unattractive - that is why I eat. I was always average, semi-athletic, and when he wanted me I no longer wanted myself. I wanted to disappear inside folds of flesh that would keep any man away from me. I didn't want to be overpowered. I don't know what to say anymore, but I want this feeling out of my body, out of my mind. I can't keep it inside, all I want to do is cry it out to someone. I need to let go of the fact that he put his hand inside me before I was ready, and kept saying to me, I'll stop if you don't want me to do this... over and over while I pleaded with him to stop, please stop. I hate the feel of a fence against my back, because I remember when he pinned my arms to the fence with his shoulders. I was so much smaller then; weak. I could not fend him off, and I could not scream because my voice was too caught in my throat, too worried about what had happened before he went too far, about how I had invited him, I must have invited him to take some kind of comfort from my body. I don't remember anymore. I thought I had washed it away, shut it up by not speaking about it. But now I need an out, because the book brought back so many terrible, terrible feelings that I don't know how to lock away again. I wish it had never happened, that I could go back to that 9th grader and tell her," it's a beautiful day, I know, but you have homework to do, you should study for geometry..." and I would hope that she would listen. Mr. Wade listened, and he told me that I will forever be a product of my experiences. I wish that I was not. I wish that I could let go. I don't think my parents really understand what happened; I told them, but they listened to my physical scars, not my mental ones. I told Casey, and he held me and told me I was special. He and Sean both threatened to kill him if they ever saw him. And Sean, Sean was the first one I told. I saw him that morning and I sat shaking on the steps. I did not stop shaking all day, and I shook even harder when I saw the boy in the halls. Sean had to hold me for a long time in order to make the shaking subside enough to walk. He was t he person that I could hold onto when I was spiraling downward in tenth grade. Now I have no one to hold onto, because I am grasping at strands that do not exist. I cannot voice this to anyone I know and want to hold onto, and I cannot censor myself anymore. I am flowing over, and I need some kind of grasp on something, someone. I need someone to hold onto. I know who I want to hold onto, but I'm not sure if he is prepared for this. I was never prepared for this.
