It is the complete domination of one soul, spirit and body. It reaches inside of your mind and body, tearing through any defenses you may have. It takes up residence in you like a festering tumor, and then send tendrils of despair into every atom of your being.
It makes you hate everyone and everything, including yourself. You believe you created the situation in which the rape took place. You believe that you were the reason, the cause, and ultimately, the invoker of it’s poison.
Rape is the reason you can’t get out of bed in the morning, preferring to cup your vagina in protection under the blankets. It’s the reason you look at every person in your life afterward as a potential predator. It’s the reason you want to shatter the reflection of dirty, dirty girl in the mirror.
Rape is the brillo pad you use 30 years later in the shower to scrub away the ghost fingers that you can still feel on your skin. It’s the scars on your arms when it gets so big in your head, you do anything to try and feel something other than dirty and used up, like a condom in the bushes. It’s the drugs you take to sleep, even for a little while with no dreams. It’s the next drink, and the one after that, and the one after that. It’s the night terrors, and the sounds and voices no one else ever hears, and the doubled locked doors, and the checking on your baby, and the quiet tears that you cry when your spouse is asleep so you don’t wake them up and cause a scene.
Rape is hearing your father slip into your room. It’s the feeling of his fingers inside you and pushing your legs apart, even though your legs are so little and the joints don’t move that far apart. It’s the bedwetting you purposely do so he is disgusted and leaves you alone.
Rape is seeing your own child and thinking, ” She’s too pretty, too tempting for them.” and being afraid for her, even though nothing has happened yet.
Rape is the little girl trapped in your head, being chased by the boogeyman all day, every day, all night, every night, and you can’t sleep or think or change how fucked up your head is, even now, when your all grown up.
Rape is me. It is something that I am the survivor of. It is the defining factor to who I am. It’s is the person I have become, because nothing else I do or say is bigger than that in my life.