How well do we ever really know a person? We may know their favorite foods, movies, books, or stores. We may be able to rattle off ten facts about them without even thinking too hard. We may have spent our entire lives in the same school system or just met at college. Whatever the case, I want you to look next to you: maybe it’s your best friend, your roommate, or someone you’ve never met before, and I want you to ask yourself this, do I really know them? Some, if not most of you, may answer yes; however, I challenge you to think long and hard about this as you listen to my story. You see, my entire life, my best friends, boyfriends, hell, even my own parents, would have answered yes, and they could not have been more wrong.
Growing up, I had everything-food, clothes, a nice house, a loving family. I lived in a quiet Connecticut suburb, safe from the supposed ‘dangers’ of the city. I frequently got to take vacations and never wanted for anything. By many peoples’ standards my life was perfect; however, this couldn’t be further from the truth. What no one knew was that inside I was a wreck, a stranger in my own body, afraid to trust, to love, to smile, to laugh. Why was this? Well, it all started in April 2001.
I was 8 ½, four-feet tall, and felt like I was on top of the world-my biggest worry was what mom was making for dinner that night. I spent my Saturdays watching the Rugrats and arguing with my sister over who was better- the Backstreet Boys or Nsync. Then, it all changed.
We went on vacation-Hilton Head Island South Carolina. I was excited-my entire family (aunts, uncles, grandparents, and all 14 cousins,) had rented out a beachfront mansion for April break. I thought it was going to be one of the greatest times of my life-how mistaken I was.
It started the second day we were there. Everyone had gone inside to get ready for bed. The stars were out, the moon was shining bright, the waves gently crashed at the shore. There I sat, feeling like a bad-ass because my parents let me go in the hot tub. He was there too, all 6 feet 5 inches of him. At 16, he was the oldest of all the cousins; I looked up to him as if he were my brother, at times I felt closer to him than my biological one. He knew this, and for reasons I’ll never understand, he chose to hurt me in ways that are impossible to comprehend.
One minute I was giggling, excited to feel like a ‘grown-up’ enjoying the unsupervised stint in the hot tub. Suddenly, it all changed. He slid next to me ever so subtly, then, out of nowhere, shoved his hand down my swimsuit, forcing his fingers inside me. I cried out in pain. He shoved my head under the water, holding me down so long I thought I might drown. When he finally pulled my head to the surface, I was in a state of sheer panic and confusion. I tried to jump out; with one leg out of water and the other on its way I thought I might actually make it. Then, I felt his icy hand grip my ankle, yanking me back into the now hellishly hot water. I was bleeding-my knee and hands were covered with scrapes from the concrete. Throbbing with pain and racked with fear, I froze, unable to utter a single sound. He covered my mouth, telling me that if I ever said anything I would be the one to get in trouble. Being only 8, I believed him and thus submitted to his every demand. He resumed fingering me then forced me to undo his bathing suit and put my mouth around him. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity, then, out of nowhere, he just got up and went inside, leaving me pants-less and terrified. I tried to forget it happened, resume life as I had known it until then, but it was to no use.
The next day as I was throwing out my Popsicle, he followed me into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. “Why’d you throw that out, the cold would have felt so good” He shoved me down on the cool, white tile, undid his fly and shoved it in my face again. “Show me how you ate the Popsicle.” Yet again, he held my hair and forced me to give him head, moaning as pleasure coursed through his sick and twisted body. When he was done, he left me alone, in a state of shock, telling me I had to wait ten minutes so no one would notice. Ten minutes has never felt so long.
Two days passed and nothing happened. I thought I was in the clear. Then, day 6 came and this time, I was the one who was “pleasured.” I had gone downstairs to the room that the boys were sharing to steal one of my brother’s hats. When I turned around, there he stood, blocking the doorway with his massive frame. I tried to duck under his legs, but I was so small he just scooped me up and carried me over to the closet. When we were both inside, he slid the mirrored glass door nearly shut, leaving just enough space for the tiniest sliver of light to shine through. Shaking, I asked what he was doing. He ignored me, instead just sliding off my shorts and proceeding to give me oral sex and shove four of his long, cold, bony fingers inside of me. Somehow knowing that I would yelp, he had the foresight to cover my mouth with his other hand. As I struggled to pull myself away, he grabbed me by the neck, nearly choking me until I stopped moving. After a few minutes, my mom called down the stairs, “Chels, where’d you go?” Finally, a saving grace. I never felt so relieved in my life.
Before I could face my mother, I had to make sure I looked just as happy-go-lucky as I did before going down the ten steps that separated us. I went to the bathroom, and, wondering why I was in so much pain, tried to see just exactly what he had done to me. When I pulled down my shorts, there it was-a little red stain. I was officially no longer a “virgin.”
Two more similar events happened (that I remember) before we finally returned home. However, when we got back to the northeast, I thought I was in the clear. For a few months, nothing happened. Then, I slept over his house (we all lived within ten minutes of each other, and his sister and I were inseparable, so this was nothing new). The abuse started again, getting rougher every time.
The last time it happened was March 9th, 2002. It was his birthday. The family had celebrated that afternoon and my parents let me sleep over. I was down in the basement, with his sister, peacefully dreaming of my dog, when suddenly I woke up, in his arms, being carried to his room. He threw me down on the bed, took my shorts off, flinging them only god-knows where. On the TV was a porno; he told me “I want you to do exactly what she does.” Again, came the forced oral sex-both giving and receiving. Then, he vaginally penetrated me (something that had happened many times before). He rolled onto his back, making me “get on top”. However, instead of continuing the ‘normal way’ as I had come to know it, he decided to mix things up a bit, this time anally raping me. As he shoved himself inside me, my eyes went white with pain. I looked at the clock-2:34 am. I shut my eyes, telling myself it will all be over soon, just be quiet or we’ll get in trouble, someone will catch us. When I finally opened them again, the big red numbers on the clock read 3:21. He was finished, I could feel his semen inside of me. I scrambled to find my shorts, it was a lost cause. Instead, I grabbed my underwear and sprinted into the dark hallway. Crying and trembling, I collapsed on the ground. Somehow I managed to pull myself together and went back to bed as if nothing had ever happened.
Years passed before I had any recollection of what happened to me. At 11, I started having night terrors-not your typical nightmares, these were dreams that forced me to open my eyes although I was still asleep, while letting out blood-curdling screams as if someone were repeatedly stabbing me. One time, it was so bad neighbors called the police because they were worried that something actually was happening. Confused and worried, my parents took me to my pediatrician, but he found no reason for the terrors-the best he could say was that this was typical of someone who had been sexually abused-it was the brain’s way of processing trauma while still protecting the individual, when I was ready, any recollection or evidence of abuse would surface. However, knowing my family, he said any type of abuse was impossible.
Three years later, I proved him wrong. The flashbacks were constant-I could barely function. I was cutting and had come up with a concrete suicide plan. March 9th 2008 was the date. But, I couldn’t keep my pain a secret anymore. I was checked into the adolescent psych ward where I finally said the words-he raped me. My family was in shock-never had I seen my father, a robust, stoic, reserved man cry, but he was reduced to sobs as he held me, apologizing for failing me as a father. My mother, in disbelief, couldn’t process it-all she could do was let out a gut-wrenching sob, doubled over in her chair. She still cannot understand it, and I fear she never will-no one in my family really will, it’s not something that is supposed to be understood.
The next year was spent talking to lawyers, going over evidence time and time again, until finally, on October 30th 2009, he was sentenced to 10 years in prison. He would be registered as a sex offender for life- I felt that my pain and anguish over the last 8 years finally made some sort of sense-at least now others will not suffer my fate.
When the trial ended, I thought my life would finally turn around-maybe one day I might feel normal. But then, my mind decided I was ready to process more information-more memories of abuse, except this time it was a different perpetrator-his younger sister. It started when I was 11, the same time I was having the night terrors. She was 13. She slept over numerous times, and each time, she forced herself upon me, kissing me, forcing her fingers inside of me, and shoving my hands inside of her. It lasted several months until abruptly, it stopped. Ashamed and terrified of putting my family through yet more pain, I refused to tell anyone, swearing I would take it to my grave. I intend to keep this promise-never again will I break my grandmother’s heart-she will not have to see the family she built ripped apart, torn at the seams. So, now at family functions, I wear that smile on my face, putting on a show for everyone else around me, pretending I’m healed, I’m finally getting better, even though in reality I’m slowly crumbling, breaking into a million little pieces every time I see her face.
Those 11 months when I was 8 and the recurring abuse three years later forever changed my life. I am constantly battling depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. I have difficulty trusting anyone, struggle to feel some semblance of happiness, and constantly look over my shoulder to see if someone threatening is around. Being raped doesn’t just physically fuck you, it has mental and emotional ramifications that are nearly impossible to put into words.
He stole something that wasn’t his-it was supposed to be mine to give. He stole my innocence and robbed me of a childhood. She took away any sense of dignity I had left. But, here I stand before you, a successful student at BC, taking my life back. I refuse to let their cruel and selfish acts control my bright and promising future. But remember, I am the exception, not the rule-many people with similar situations don’t make it this far. That being said, I want you to remember what I asked at the beginning of this speech. Look at the person next to you and ask yourself again, do I really know them? Remember, appearances aren’t always what they seem. Abuse happens everywhere, regardless of life circumstance…I’m living proof.