By Jacqueline Evans
During the summer after my high school graduation, I was raped.
It hurt, and while it was happening, I was terrified. I recall every single strange thought that went through my mind during those few minutes. I remember wondering if I was going to die. I remember thinking that this wasn’t how rape looked in the movies, and shouldn’t someone be making more noise? I remember starting to make some noise, a tiny and pathetic cry, and my rapist’s hand clamping tightly over my mouth. I remember closing my eyes and randomly wishing that my dad would come and save me. Mostly though, through the terror and pain, I remember a strong feeling of ownership and blame for what was happening to me. What echoed through my mind was clear:
“I put myself here. I deserve this.”
The 16 years that have passed since that night have held a lot of change. Unlike certain parts of that experience that will stay fresh in my mind forever, the girl I was in that time of my life is a distant memory, a far cry from the woman I am today. At the time of my rape I was a budding alcoholic. It wasn’t long before I was the real deal, with an insatiable need to “feel good,” no matter what the cost. I used alcohol to try to fill a vacuous hole inside of me, and sometimes it worked. The problem was that sometimes it didn’t. Continue Reading…