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1. Ella gave me a book by Alice Sebold called "Lucky". It's about how she (alice) got beaten and raped in a park outside her college campus the last day of her freshman year. At least I wasn't beaten about the face. There was no brutal fighting and no real physical harm. I don't even remember if he hit me at all. Layla said I still refuse to believe it was rape. She's right, I guess. I think it's selfish to call it that. It's glorifying something that doesn't need to be addressed anymore. It's been a year and five months. I should be over it by now. Yes, I get it. Rape = bad. But that's no reason for me to still be fretting about it after so long. I'm not over Justin being dead, or Ryan trying to do things to me in June/July of 2004. I mean, I have a right to still be angry with him, don't I? He was worse than Jesse. I was just afraid of Jesse to the point where I couldn't say no. I fought back with Ryan. The more I fought, the more he tried to do it. One time we were walking in the woods near Tom's house and he pushed me to the ground, held me there, and tried to get my pants off. The same thing happened in his basement. I was hitting him. Hard. He wouldn't stop. Screaming "STOP" over and over apparently has no effect on him. He never even showed remorse. Never. Not even when, 6 months later, he asked if I still hated him, and I said yes. He got furious at me. The only thing that ever stopped him was a parent or his sister coming down the stairs to se why there was so much noise. It was my noise. From me screaming and trying to get him off of me. I shot him with an airsoft gun repeatedly. I hit him with it. He didn't stop. I shot myself in the head one time with that stupid gun. I told him if he came near me or touched me again that day, I would do it. He touched. I shot. I couldn't hear out of my left ear for a week. He didn't stop. ---------------------------------------- 2. I eventually had to convince him that I was a lesbian and that I wanted nothing to do with the male gender ever again. I was, of course, lying. But it got him to stop. He refused to let me break up with him. I told him at least three times a day that he was not allowed to EVER tell me he loved me. He was not to call me "baby" or reprimand me for, or try to control, hurting myself. He did all of those things repeatedly and still came to my house. He came to my sister's graduation party. I stayed in the office with him and Adria because I didn't want anyone to have to deal with him. My mom took a picture of us. I set it on fire. Adria said he seemed weird. No shit. He's a psychopath. He would yell at me for not letting him do things to me, sometimes. He told me the more I fought, the worse he would make it for me. My shirts were always stretched out when I left his house. The black and the red "Happy Bunny" shirts were pulled to the extent that they didn't fit anymore. He would shove his hand down my pants, and I would wriggle away, making him take it out. He held both my hands in one of his (because I was so small and he was 6'5") and pinned me down. And kept me there. He took me up to his room one day. Pushed me onto his bed. Took my clothes mostly off. I cried. He didn't care. My shirt was on the floor, my pants were at my knees, my bra was unclipped. The only thing still completely on was my underwear. He would have taken those off too, had I not been lying underneath him. I kept them on. He would have fucked me on more than one occasion if I hadn't had the resolve I did. For a 110-pound girl (which is how much I weighed at the time), I had a shitload of resilience. I don't know if it's healthy to be writing about this. I've tried to push it so far back in my mind that it just goes away. It hasn't gone away. But forcing myself to relive it? I don't know. It doesn't seem right. I wish I'd broken his nose when I had a chance in hell to do so. It was wrong. I hate him. I want to cry. I want to kill him. I still know where he lives, and I can't go past his house without having an anxiety attack. ---------------------------------------- 3. I went out with him to get revenge on Tom. Tom hurt Layla really badly, the way I should have known Ryan would hurt me. Then he decided he liked me. I was going to make him regret it the only way I knew how. Jealousy. Either that or anger. He was going to be sorry for hurting Layla. So I got his best friend to like me. Enough to ask me out. It worked. It was always easy for me to get boys. Not keep them, but get them. Anyway. My plan worked. Tom got upset. In a way I blame myself for everything that happened after that. I brought it on myself, at least in the beginning. I made it seem like I wanted him, I let him kiss me in front of Tom to make him envious. I remember a conversation Tom and I had when he found out. When I felt my job was accomplished, I backed off from Ryan. Wouldn't kiss him in public or private. I only acted interested for a week and a half. I guess that doesn't sit well with some guys. He would pull out his sofabed in the basement, put a sheet on it, put ME on it, and lie on top of me to hold me down. I couldn't breathe right sometimes. Then he'd start what I call "The Wednesday Game". Wednesday = hump day. It makes sense if you can associate things like that. I hated it. He was violent about it. It never went so far that he'd go in me, since I was still a virgin when I got myself out of the whole situation in the end, but it HURT. He'd press so hard I thought I might break. He eventually got it to the point where he'd leave my shirt on but have me naked from the waist down under a sheet. I learned to block out what he did. Sometimes I'd even do what he told me to do. I shouldn't have done it; it encouraged him; but I did. "Ryan, stop." "No." "Ryan, please stop." "No." "RYAN! STOP! PLEASE!" "The more you tell me to stop, the more fun it is for me." Post a comment in response: |
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