Sunday, September 16, 2012


Today, for the first time in months, I looked right into the eyes of the man who raped me. I knew how I was supposed to feel, a terrifying mix of rage and fear, the desire to kill, a definite certainty that it was, in fact his fault and his fault alone. But what I actually felt was even more scary. When I stared down into those brown eyes, I felt...nothing. I didn't feel a damn thing.
I didn't really feel much at the time, either. It didn't even really feel like rape. Even though I said no. Even though I fought.
I guess, sometimes, that strong feelings of love and hate just cancel out automatically.
You know what the worst part of this is? No one knows. I can't tell anyone. We seemed too happy for someone far on the outside to believe me, and another close friend was raped by another man that I had close ties to, so I can't tell any of our mutual friends, my best friends, in fear that they would just think I wanted to sap their attention. I can't tell any of my new friends, because they would all have ideas of what I could do about it, actions I could take, getting police involved or my family. But I don't want to get anyone else involved. I don't want to alert the police. I just wish that I could tell someone, one person, so that one person could know, and one person could assure me, with complete and utter certainty, that everything is going to be alright, and that I will live again someday.