Many people will be celebrating this holiday weekend with friends and family - celebrating Independence Day. A day of Freedom. While the holiday is typically synonymous with family gatherings, fun road trips, backyard barbecues and fireworks, for me it hasn't always been that way.
Twenty one years ago this holiday weekend I was raped. I can say that word confidently, no longer hanging my head in shame. No longer feeling it was my fault or that I asked for it. I do not seek pity. I do not seek 'heroism'. I am not a rape 'survivor'. I will never call myself a rape 'victim'. I happen to be someone who was raped - as unfortunate as it is...it just is.
This weekend used to be difficult for me. I remember the first time my husband and I traveled to the St. Louis area for a minor league ball game. It was over the Fourth of July weekend and my anxiety was so high, it was hard for me to enjoy the game. Eight years had passed at that point, but I had yet to travel to the area where my innocence, my freedom was taken. I couldn't talk about it then...the guilt still consumed me.
Three months after the 'incident', my rapist (who was my boyfriend at the time) called to say that he was engaged (he was four years older than me) to the gal he cheated on me with. Yeah him. He got to move on. I was forced to move home, take a semester off school, and try to figure out what the hell was wrong with me. The answer? NOTHING was wrong with me. It was him.
One year after ex-fucker (my husband's and my nickname for him) got married, I got a call from his wife's attorney...asking if I'd testify on her behalf. Apparently, the charming white knight beat the crap out of her and she was clinging to life. Thankfully she survived.
My rapist went to jail, but not for my rape. I was one of the many young women who didn't report my rape. But I knew, at the age of 24, that I couldn't let him get away with hurting someone else. I testified. I drove to St. Louis by myself, the longest two-hour drive of my life. I got up on the stand and answered all of the questions in which the prosecutor had prepared me for. I sat there, with the devil smirking at me. I sat there, with his loving mother crying and trying to smile encouragingly at me (she did not raise her son this way. Her adopted son was evil, she claimed).
I told the court about his controlling ways. No sir, he never punched me. Yes sir, he did slap me. Yes sir, at times I feared for my life. Yes, if he didn't want me to leave the room, he would block my space, not let me get around him and would twist my arm around when he finally side-stepped. Did he mistreat animals? Yes sir. He gave me his Boxer, whom he treated poorly. I brought Boomer back to school with me. He drove to my college and took her back and attempted to rape me for the second time. The second time? Asked the prosecutor. Yes sir.
I tried to keep my composure as I relayed the incidents of the Fourth of July weekend. I tried not to look up. I did not shake. I did not cry. And then the defense asked why, if I was raped, didn't I report it. And I responded...because I feared that what he did to Jane (not her real name) he would do to me.
My rapist went to jail. He was sentenced to only six months with time served (three months). I had three months to enjoy my freedom. I went to Norway and when I came back, I was working in Jefferson City. I went to get a restraining order and was told that since he posed no threat to me, I could not obtain one.
Ex-fucker got out of jail two days after my birthday. He called to wish me a happy birthday. That he found my number in the phone book (panic set in because my address was on the listing too). I, again, tried to get a restraining order. That failed.
Two weeks later ex-fucker showed up to my apartment. He wanted to 'thank me' for sending him to jail. That he really enjoyed it. I called 9-1-1. The cops showed up. He spent the night in jail. I tried again for a restraining order. It was in the process when I got another call from ex-fucker.
It was October 29, two days before his (appropriate) Halloween birthday. He called to thank me again for sending him to jail. That I was a bitch. He killed himself that night.
My rapist is dead. And even in death he tried to make me feel like shit. At the time, I felt a bit of guilt, but mostly relief. He could never harass me again. He could never hurt anyone again. I mourned for his mother, who lost her son.
My rapist went to jail for a crime other than rape. My rapist is dead at his own hands. The worst thing I can do is to fear July 4 and October 29. He took enough away from me, he didn't and doesn't deserve that.
Now, I look forward to July 4 celebrations with my family and October 29 is really the best day ever because my son was born on that day.
I am not a victim. I am not a survivor. I am just a gal, a wife, a mom who danced with the devil to soar with the angels.
If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, abused or are in an unhealthy relationship - get help. Without my friends Mark Mlynarczyk, Jill Potts, Frank Daniel Reller and Fr. Michael Mulhearn, my story might have had a different ending. Much love to my husband, Rick Stoneking for showing me love and patience through all of my trigger moments!
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