What do you name a blog post about rape?

I couldn't sleep last night.  I tossed and turned and got up for a snack and did some reading and watched the baby and husband sleeping, but I couldn't sleep.  I felt incredibly anxious yesterday, with no idea why.  Then it hit me.  Yesterday was the day, 10 years ago, that I was raped by an off-duty police officer in Columbus, Mississippi.  I knew it was during this part of September, but I had blocked the date from my mind.  A quick trip to my old livejournal showed me that yesterday was the day.

September 14, 2002, I went out with a police officer whom I had met online.  He invited another of his officer buddies along and we decided to have a night on the town.  Since I was only 18 and entry requirements for many of the bars were 21 and up, they bought me an entire bottle of Jagermeister and gave me some Xanax.  We rode around and I heard them talk about all the ways they fuck people over on a daily basis.  The seized drugs that they sold for profit, the people they harass just for fun.  When the two of them decided to go to a 21 and up bar, they dropped me back off at the dorm and promised to pick me up later.  I sat in my dorm room, starting to feel the effects of the Xanax, and downed the whole bottle of Jagermeister.  Two hours later they called me and wanted to pick me up, a friend of mine joined us.  I was fucked up.  We went to a bar, The Office, and stopped at a gas station on the way.  I should have known that something was up when the guy I was meeting with's friend kept telling me how sexy I was, how he wanted to have a good birthday (he was turning 30 that night).  I brushed it off as drunkenness and we ventured on.  At the bar, he kept rubbing up against me, telling me I'm sexy, begging me to give him a happy birthday.  In my naivety, I brushed it off some more.

We closed the bar down.  The four of us headed back to one of the two's townhouse.  I started feeling sick. Everything was spinning.  I couldn't focus on anything at all and needed some dark and quiet time.  The rapist said, "Here, let me take you to lie down.  You need some rest."  I trusted that I was being looked out for.  I trusted that I was being led to a room to lie down and sober up before going home.  He took me to the room and I laid in bed, unable to move, unable to speak.  He started taking my pants off.  I said no.  I said please just let me sleep.  Please leave me alone.  Apparently asking nicely gets you nowhere.  He kept at it.  Before I knew it I was completely naked with a man I had only known for a few hours entering me.  I screamed, "Leave me alone.  No. No. No. No."  But he didn't care.  He held his hand over my mouth and continued.  I don't know how much time went by but someone barged in and saw what was going on.  They left.  They fucking left me to get raped.  I was commanded to change positions.  I complied.  When you're being raped by someone who holds such power, not to mention weapons and handcuffs, you do what they say.  I was crying.  Still screaming to stop. Please get off of me.  He picked me up, naked, and ran across the hall to another room where he put me in the closet.  I passed out and woke up to him fucking me again several hours later.  I passed out again.  This time he was asleep and I left.

When I got back to my dorm room, I didn't know what to do.  Everything felt so surreal.  Did that really just happen?  Did I really say no?  Was I making it all up or was I just forced to have sex against my will?  I cried.  And I cried and cried and cried.  I cried until someone came in and found me crying.  I couldn't decide whether I should take a shower or not.  I wanted nothing to do with him anywhere on my body.  I wanted to be clean and forget anything had happened.  I cried some more.  In the middle of my sobbing I got a phone call.

It was him.

"So, should I be concerned about being called into my commander's office on Monday morning or is this our little secret?" he said.

"Don't worry.  It's ok"  I said.

But it wasn't ok.  It was.not.fucking.okay.

Hearing him ask me that question sparked something in me.  It removed all doubt from my mind.  I had been forced to have sex against my will.  I had been raped and used and treated like a fucking animal for some sick person's sexual gratification.

I told my friends.  16 hours had passed since it happened.  Being at a women's college came with the perks of being surrounded by supportive women.  6 of my fellow dorm residents begged and pleaded for me to go to the hospital.  Then they all went with me.

When we got to the hospital, I told them what happened.  I did not want to say who it was, but they would not proceed unless I did.  I begged them to not press charges.  I was so scared.

I was laid on a hospital bed, stripped of all of my clothes so that they could be taken as evidence.  A cold, unlubricated speculum was inserted into my vagina.  Hairs were plucked one by one.  The doctor said, "There is evidence of notable forced entry.  You have the kinds of tears we often see when a woman is forced to have sex against her will."  I was given antibiotics and told that I could not leave until a detective arrived.  12 hours later we were done.  It was 7:30 in the morning and I was scheduled to take a history exam that day.  I called my professor and let him know that I had just gotten out of the hospital and could not make it in to test.  He said I could come the next day but not to bother showing up unless i had proof.  Proof?  You want fucking proof?  You want me to PROVE TO YOU THAT I WAS RAPED not even 48 hours before?  I laid in bed and cried all day.  The next morning I went to take my test.  The smug little professor asked to see my proof.  I gave him my discharge papers.  I told him that I had been fucked against my will and that I could not believe that he was subjecting me to providing him with proof.  I sat down to take my exam.  As soon as I sat the tears started flowing.  I couldn't get my pen to write anything other than, "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE.  I HATE YOU.  FUCK YOU.  YOU'RE A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT".  After filling my essay questions blanks with nothing but capitalized obscenities, I got up and left.  That was the last time I attended any of my classes.

I went back to my dorm and didn't leave for weeks.  I had friends get me food.  I didn't want to leave campus.  I was scared.  I was scared that everyone knew who I was.  The story had been on the news but my name was not mentioned.  I was scared that I would leave campus and be pulled over by a policeman, knowing who I was, ready to get retaliation.  I closed myself off.

When I was ready to leave for the first time, I went to Wal-Mart with some friends.  We pulled into the parking lot and the first thing I see are several police cars parked in front, blue lights flashing.  I hyperventilated.  I couldn't do it.  Get me the fuck out.

Weeks went by.  I was called in for questioning multiple times.  Each time I gave the same story.  Each time I was called a liar.  The highway patrol was in charge of the investigation, since it would be a conflict of interest to allow the police department to be.  I remember giving my testimony to one gentleman who was real gruff.  My dad was with me but I asked him to stay in the hall.  I didn't want him to hear it.  I didn't want him to have to think about his baby girl being held down and raped.  I was hurting enough.  I didn't want him to hurt, too.  After I gave my testimony, the patrolman turned off the tape recorder.  He asked me if I knew what happened to liars.  He asked me if I knew the ramifications of lying.  He asked me if I knew how I was damaging this man's life, all for the sake of wanting attention.  He told my father that I needed to see a counselor, preacher, psychiatrist, ANYONE, because I was a liar and I had problems.

Weeks went by again.  Early November rolled around and Grand Jury was in session.  I was called to give my statement.  I sat for hours, waiting my turn.  The end of the day came and I was asked to come back the following day.  I came back.  I sat for three hours.  Then I was told "your taped testimony will suffice."

On November 13, 2002 (my birthday) I received a phone call from the district attorney.  He said that my case was no bill.  In laymen's terms, there was not enough evidence to take my case to trial.

I guess the video footage of the men buying my underage self liquor was not enough.  I guess having a witness to the crime was not enough.  I guess having every article of clothing I wore that night stripped away from me was not enough.  I guess the tears and infection I got from being forcibly fucked were not enough.  I guess his hairs, found tangled in mine were not enough.  Nothing was enough.

I applied for help from the Mississippi Victim's Compensation Act.  I was BILLED for my rape test kit and couldn't go through the psychological trauma of being forced to pay for it anymore.  My request for assistance was denied.  They could not help me because I was engaged in illegal behavior at the time I was the victim of a crime (being under 18 and drinking).

That hospital visit is still on my credit.  I won't pay it.  I've paid enough.

I lost my full academic scholarships that I had worked so hard to earn in high school, because I was too depressed and scared to return to class.  I lost my ability to go anywhere alone because I was too scared to go otherwise.  I lost the security of knowing that my body is mine, because it wasn't anymore; it was taken away from me.  I lost relationships with people because I could not get close and was too absorbed in my own issues to be able to handle anyone else's.  I lost my sense of trust in other people.

I've told my story many times, but I've never written it down.  The tenth anniversary seems an appropriate time to do it.  The images are all still there.  I can see them when I close my eyes.  I can remember the fear I felt, the inability to move while this was happening.  I shouldn't have to live with this.  No one should.