Yesterday was the 21st anniversary of when I lost my first child. I find it funny that I posted last year about the baby, and had only posted one public entry in this blog since that time. I have always found that I don't take the time to write nearly enough. When I write, I ALWAYS feel better. There is no exception to this rule. If I am stressed and will sit down and write it out, if even for only my eyes, then I always feel a sense of peace. On my bucket list, one of the items is to write in my journal/blog every day for one year. This is one of the few things that requires nothing but time. It will not cost a penny. It has been on there for about six months now and yet I haven't done it. Hello, my name is Liz, and I tend to be a bit of a procrastinator. We can talk about that later, though. Okay, yes, I did do that on purpose, but if you are reading this, then you must have been in the mood for a giggle anyway :) Nothing like throwing in a little joke to lighten the mood a bit, especially before attacking a more serious subject. I actually sent myself a text on Thursday night to write about the subject that is to follow. That was 3 days ago. So here I sit, in a dark, cold house, while everyone else is sleeping, about to pour my soul out to my slice of the internet.
Most people who know me well, know that 1998 is often referred to by me as my "year of hell". Although there were a few good things that happened that year, mostly it was filled with heartache and sorrow. This entry is not to go over every event that occurred, but rather to talk about one of the few that hit me the hardest and has stayed with me all these years. On May 15, 1998 I was raped.
This past Thursday night, there was an episode of Private Practice in which one of the characters was severely beaten and raped. I sat there, watching this television program, my heart aching, and having flashbacks of my own experience all those years ago. By the end of the program, I decided to analyze what my main emotion was at that moment. Was it sadness for that which was lost? No. Was it anger for what that man did to me? No. It was guilt. Guilt. I felt guilty that the person on the program endured so much. She had many broken bones, open wounds, looked like what you would expect a victim of a violent attack would look like. She told only one person that she was raped. She planned to endure it alone. This woman was a medical professional, she knew better than to keep it a secret, but that was her choice. My rape wasn't as violent as the one on TV. I had no broken bones, the only scars I endured were emotional. A man once had the audacity to tell me that, in fact, I should just refer to it as a "bad sexual experience" and get over it. Needless to say, I never spoke to them again. I was raped. If a woman says no at ANY point and a man continues anyway, when her objection is loud and obvious, it is rape. Rape is not about sex, it is about power. When I went home that night, I did not tell my husband. In fact, I didn't tell him until 7 months later when we were getting divorced. I did not report this man to the authorities. Without going into the details, I could tell this wasn't his first rodeo. This man raped me. His was an employee at the post office. To this day, 12 years later, I start shaking inside when I have to walk into a post office. At least I can now, there was a point during this time that I would break out in a cold sweat and leave because I couldn't stand it. I have gone through cycles in my life since this happened where I felt like I had it all worked out, dealt with, gone through, and I was just fine. But it always comes back to haunt me sooner or later. This is one of those things that no matter how you try, you just don't ever forget it.
So I sit here now, still in the dark, wrapped in a penguin blanket from my BFF feeling a bit cleansed from once again pouring my heart out about something that has been bugging me for a few days. Maybe someday I will be able to check off that item on my bucket list. Maybe in a year....