Sexual Assault The Misadventures Of Venator

[Venator]

I apologize ahead of time if the format of these stories I am about to share is shaky or tangential in nature. Sometimes my mind skips and races or I forget things until later reminded.

Honestly, I had a good childhood - if I compare it with my friends childhoods, it was great. I didn't grow up in a ghetto, I always had plenty to eat, lovely shelter, affection - you name it. I have a very healthy relationship with my parents to this day. They never laid a hand on me and were always the first to protect and support me. When I was three years old my mother divorced my father. It wasn't a violent breakup of any sort, sure there was arguing and yelling but it was always taken away from my ears as to not upset me - my mom just couldn't handle getting that close to someone because, as I've discovered, she also has complex PTSD from 16 years of physical and psychological torment. Just wanted to lay some of that groundwork there.

During the latter part of elementary school and into middle school, my parents were thousands of miles apart. My mother snuck out in the middle of the night one night and got her first DUI, flipping the car because she wanted to end her life in a fit of drunken rage. She left me all alone, in the apartment. I went to school with my mother where I had no friends. She was self medicated by drinking the night away. It hurt me a lot. I'd try so hard to make her not drive, i'd wait up all night consumed with worry that she'd try to kill herself again. She racked up 3 DUIs and was placed on house arrest. On the third DUI, she had to spend weekends in jail and I was so lonely. I was embarrassed because I didn't have anyone to drive with so I could get my license.

Anyway, to get on topic with the sexual abuse part of my life - the first time I ever had an encounter with someone was when I was in middle school. There was a kid who rode my bus home that was entirely too old for elementary school, but was stuck there because of his broken home mentality. His family was absolute shit and I still have loathsome feelings toward them. He lived across the street. I could hear him being beaten. I had some pity. One day, as we got off the school bus with his brothers and sister, he started yelling and telling me how a man can do anything he wants to a woman because it's his right. I told him to be quiet, but he wouldn't. He grabbed my left breast violently and told me that he's doing it right there. I broke his nose. I slammed his head to the ground and kept slamming it and slamming it, some sort of animal taking over me. I don't count this success as much of a contributing trauma, but i felt it necessary to mention.

I am entirely too empathic most of the time. I sometimes feel others pain for them, try to carry their burdens because I can't stand to see them suffer. I could feel my mom suffering. This is also a broken feature on me these days. It makes me able to be walked upon. My pride often tells me that these hardships shouldn't contribute to issues I have now because they're in the past. I continue to beat myself up about this. I Feel weak. broken. guilty. more well off than others who have suffered so much more, yet I too suffer. I am weak.

This concludes part I. I'll come back to this a little later... mind racing. Feel nauseous remembering my mom's suffering. And I apologize again. Part II is of the main sexual abuse that I endured during high school. Just wanted to lay ground work.

 

[Venator]

Part II
I am going to get graphic.
Just a warning!

When I was in high school I had a pretty good network of friends. Eventually, we all found ourselves in the craziness of puberty, as such many of my friends sought out and obtained significant others or had offers open to them - except for me. I felt so alone, so out of place - I NEEDED someone. My friends became very busy with their SOs, so I was desperate for friends.

At a convention, while I was there with them, I met a man. He seemed cool enough - knew how to do some theatrical swordfighting so I struck up a conversation with him. I was so naive, so innocent. I'd only begun exploring myself, but had never had sexual partners. I sat down with him, obsessed, mystified for the rest of the night as he told me story after story of himself and his conquests. I was absolutely fascinated. I didnt' find him to be overly attractive, but his personality was so very commanding. He put his hand on my thigh and I continued to brush it away. I was 14 or 15, I can't remember exactly. He kept joking with me, asking for this tidbit of information or that. I later found out he had a whole file on me with every stat, every mark on my body.

Time passed by and I would talk to him between conventions. He would rant to me about his ex girlfriend and disloyalty. I have a very big loyalty complex, which he knew. It spoke to me. He kept bringing up sex, and I'd joke it off. I'd laugh.

Eventually, he began to pressure me into sexual type situations. He would feed things into my mind, such as:

"Well most guys don't like girls as big as you but I would. You have to take what you can get because you're probably going to have a real hard time finding anyone else. Don't you want to have sex like normal people?"

"Well you are pretty tubby. And so alone."

I was still uncomfortable. Red flags were raised. But at the same time, I felt I had nobody else. Mom was incarcerated on the weekends and becoming so hyper-religious and zealous I couldn't stand her for a while. Friends were engrossed in their own changes and losses. I stayed. I didn't want to be alone. He seemed to understand me and know about everything, I was so amazed. Little did I know he a B.S. degree - BS for BULLSHIT.

One weekend I invited him down. It ended with him shoving his penis in my face as I tried to play a video game. He'd say "it isn't going to suck itself" and as I refused he would continue this barrage of pressure "real loyal friends would do this for me. You're my friend aren't you? What if I put some hot sauce on it, it'd burn me! You'd HAVE to suck it off!" My mother wasn't home, I felt dishonest. I said I didn't want to. Eventually after a great deal of time pressuring me, I caved. I was mildly curious but this felt so disgusting and shameful. I didn't do it because I wanted to, I did it because I was trapped in a house alone with him and he made me feel obligated for taking up his time.

We went out to a movie later. He kept shoving his hand up my shirt. So interesting, this is what everyone else did. I'd eventually reach a point of absolute panic and make him remove it. We played around in his car, i went down on him again because he stopped the car and refused to take me home until I blew him. I choked on the semen.

From what I learned in health class... this wasn't anything. Rape is only when you're violently attacked and taken. Date Rape is only when you're drugged at a party. I eventually consented... so it wasn't rape. So I told myself over and over. I didn't know that this word called "Coercion" also existed... and that it was also considered statutory rape because I was 15.

I can't continue this now. It's too much.

 

[kimba]

I give you alot of credit for writing your story. I learned about the penis at 6 when a babysitting neighbor of 12 forced me to learn. It still affects me to this day. The guilt and shame are still there where I hid them down deep. Welcome and great job sharing your story.

 

[Venator]

Part III - The Misery Hits Home

My mother always had a bad feeling about this guy. I lied to her about the things we did, about the things he did to me. I was so desperate for "friendship" and alone. These lies make me feel terrible. She knew something was wrong. The people at school I called friends knew something was wrong, they were deathly afraid of him. I took him to prom because nobody else wanted to take me. I know now that I could've just gone with my girlfriends - they would've hung out with me just as much as their dates. I was blind. His manipulation blinded me. Everyone was afraid of him. Deep down, I was afraid of him.

2 years after the first odd sexual encounter - After prom, we were wrestilng on the porch. He decided to piledrive me straight on my noggin. I was dizzy but prideful, so I pretended it didn't hurt. Later that night, on prom night, he decided to take me anally. By this point, I was practically a breathing meat puppet. After much refusal I just put my head down and decided to go somewhere else in my mind until it was over. He made me bite a pillow so I wouldn't scream. I begged him to use a condom, but he refused. He spit on it and went in dry. This is how I got HPV (warts). Going to the bathroom was bloody and excruciating for months. I cried myself to sleep, wondering why I allowed it to happen. Why didn't i scream for my mother? I was too ashamed. Too ashamed for her to see me this way, too ashamed for her to know that this was happening. She'd take him away. I'd be alone. Maybe sex was supposed to feel shameful, maybe I was supposed to feel hollow inside for I knew no other way.

I felt like I loved my abuser. He did not love me. He always told me he didn't love me, that I was just for him to play with. Yet, I clung to him like he loved me. What was wrong with me? I have no idea to this day. This is the exact thing that plagues me. I was addicted to him. I needed him to be online, I was obsessed, needed constant contact, validation. Why? I take personal responsibility. Yet, in taking such responsibility, I also blame myself. I hate myself. I loathe myself. I had defeated so much, overcome other adversities yet I could not conquer him. He was like a puppetmaster, pulling the strings - I, his marionette. I found later that he had dog eared and religiously memorized the laws of power and "How to Win Friends and Influence People"

The next day after prom we played airsoft. It is one of the few good memories I have with him, and I feel it is worth noting. I think it was the constant string of occasional highs (fixing computers together, airsoft guns, video games) of normal activities that reaffirmed that everything was somehow OK. I don't understand why. I still hate myself. I am ashamed. I am so ashamed.

After we got home, he told me I had to give him head. I, the good puppet, did as I was commanded after some protesting - can't we just play video games instead? Unfortunately this time, he shoved his penis in the back of my throat until I gagged and gagged and held my head down, smothering my nose in the process. I could not breathe. I was gagging - my suffering got him off. I vomited simultaneously as he ejaculated - the mixture came out of my nose, it burned so terribly. I was crying. He was laughing. I remember him laughing. Just laughing at me.

Getting close to the end of my ramblings about him. Going to stop for now. My anxiety level has raised, I'm gritting my teeth again and my heart is beating harder.

 

[cherryblossom]

Hi Venator,

Well done for writing all that you have - it takes serious courage. You are not weak in any way. I'm sorry for all that you've been through. I just wanted to say that none of what he did to you is your fault. You were a child when you met him, he used threats, and coercion to force you into these situations.

Keep writing, when you are ready, at your own pace. You are heard, you were raped and abused, and that is not your fault.

 

[Venator]

Part IV - Full Circle

I had eventually shunned my friends. Where I had felt strangely abandoned, so did they. I should've been there more for my friend who's sweet, loving father died suddenly. My mother had married a man yet again - the fourth one in her life. They are fortunately still married. He's a caring, honest and hard-working man. In the beginning they had problems, which did affect me - the house was so small I could not help but hear the screaming. I worked hard and helped them work out their differences when I was 17. I love helping people, but their stress kills me, slaughters me. It's tough.

My grades suffered toward the end of high school. I failed three classes that I was good at - including Art III. My art teacher cried and screamed "Why, why didn't you do well? You are so good!? Why didn't you do the work!?" I felt bad for making her cry on my behalf. She's happy to know I'm doing so much better with my art now and making something of myself. My AP Calculus teacher was on the verge of tears. I did all the work in class, knew exactly what I was talking about, could do integral equations blindfolded - but never did the homework. I was failed in that class too, but she gave me a calculus book to read that the school had surplus. A lot of people believed in me. They saw a change. They knew something was wrong coming on like a freight train, a trend I wouldn't see until years after the fact. Luckily, I went to summer school and ground away at my old failure - just because I knew I could. I had enough credits to graduate.

After we graduated, I moved 800 miles away to live with my father in New Jersey and go to community college where I was born. That summer we decided to go to Hershey Park. I was still in contact with the asshole, so I asked him to come up and go to Hershey Park with us. He'd never been there so I figured he'd enjoy it.

It is worth noting here: I was starting to get agitated with him all the time. Always so emotional. He told me i was just a cold, emotional woman. I believed him. He put women down a lot. Sometimes I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

During our visit to Hershey Park, my stepmother's mother fell off of a shuttle car as we were exiting to go to our parking space. She was old and frail, so she had to be taken to the hospital for damage to cervical vertebrae. We had to get a hotel for that night there. Asshole and I went home the next day on our own since we took 2 cars, so we had the run of the house to ourselves. He tried to penetrate me anally and couldn't so he forced his way in. After just the head, I was screaming so loudly he finally stopped trying.

Then later the unthinkable happened.

That night as we were laying in my room, he wanted to play around again. I was nervous, moreso than usual. I was sick of him by this point. The constant exposure to him for a week was taking its toll on me. I could feel my parents hated him but they were gone. I was growing so increasingly agitated with him, something repressed within me was clawing at my chest. He told me he wanted to have sex with me. I was a girl, deathly paranoid of pregnancy and not ready to give up her vaginal virginity. The bottom line is that it just wasn't something I wanted. Period.

I already had my pants off from begrudgingly trying to play earlier and failing. I refused. Said no, I didn't want to like so many times before. He begged and begged and begged. No, was my answer still. The night was hot. I can still smell him now as I write this, I can still feel his weight on my chest. He was already in an opportune place. I know he used a condom. I'm concentrating really hard, trying to remember but it's a sensory overload, my mind disconnects over and over, I can't see...

I remember him penetrating me, and it hurt. I kept begging him to stop, clenching my thigh muscles as he pushed them apart with his own legs, bearing his full 260 pounds down on my chest. I was afraid of him then. I begged him, no... no over and over again no. He ignored me and kicked my legs apart and thrust into me over and over. I cried. Eventually he must've taken my silence as consent. I wasn't there. He must've mistaken the whispery gasps coming out of my throat like tears that couldn't be shed as moans of pleasure.

Or he was just a true mental sadist.

This is where it goes blank and blurs together. I remember the heat of my lizard's night lamp near my face. His awful smell, oh his smell. i wasn't worthy for him to shower for, no. The look of my finished basement, the fake woodgrain pattern with the purple-ish light casting strange shadows. I don't remember anything beyond this, did I shower? I think I showered. I stammered "it...w-w-was... o-o-k..." as he asked me "see you liked it didn't you?"

I don't remember if he came in me, I don't remember at all. He wouldn't leave my bedroom. I couldn't escape him. I cried myself to sleep that night.

My therapist asked me if I wanted to do some sort of therapy to remember what happened.

I don't. Oh god no. I'm at work fighting back tears... I just broke something by tugging on it too hard. The customers can't see me like this. No - I have to finish this thought.

The next day I saw him making a sandwich in my kitchen before I was to go to work at Chuck E. Cheese's. He was goofing off, holding the ham in his hand like he wanted me to be a dog and take it from his hand. I jumped up and crunched into his finger. He raised his hand to hit me but never did. Or maybe he slapped me in the face? This too is sort of blurry and blank. He told me he would hurt me when I got home. He never did, though.

At work the whole night, I felt empty. I stamped people's hands cold and emotionless, barely muttering a greeting. I was in trouble. Nobody asked me how I felt. Only reprimanded me. The hours dragged on. I was afraid of going home. For the first time in my life i truly recognized the fear I felt for this man. I listened to the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack over and over. I felt ashamed and used. I wondered - is this how sex is supposed to feel? I felt so nauseous. I stumbled around every hour in the costume a broken woman. Broken at 17.

Broken..
[SUDS fluxuating at 8-9... gotta stop...]