Trauma

Some content may be inappropriate for young readers.

I love karaoke. When I was younger and had my eyes set on being the first woman president, my first presidential act was going to be to declare “National Karaoke Day.”  (Turns out there is now a National Karaoke Week… my heart soars)

I had just turned 21 and had been frequenting a local bar whose name has changed since then several times, for karaoke as many nights a week as I could.  I was never a big drinker, had lots of “karaoke friends” and even the bar staff watched out for me. I was the little sister so to speak of that crazy group and I loved it!

The first time he came into the bar I was helping out behind the bar. He came in with a regular and was sweet, funny and a steady flow of conversation provided an evening of entertainment and intrigue. By the end of the evening he had convinced me to give him my number along with a promise to “meet again soon.” I was flattered by the attention and in the few days to follow, the flattering texts and just thinking about you moments continued to fill my head with excitement as we made plans to meet again at karaoke the following week.

I rang in the new year with some dear friends… my first indicator that something might be off was the over 45 phone calls and text messages that I missed during a 5 hour  celebration with my friends.  I chalked it up to a little over exuberance and continued on toward the karaoke date with a bit of hesitation but not enough to keep me from going.

During the two days prior to our next meeting time, he continued to call and text incessantly… I began to feel wary, something just did not seem right. But our mutual friend convinced me that I was overreacting, that he was really a great guy.

The night finally arrived; I wore my favorite shirt and my new pink pants that I had gotten for my birthday. They were velour and the most comfortable pants I had ever owned. Did my hair, put on make up, and to karaoke I went. I ordered a beer and jumped into my normal karaoke routine waiting for him to arrive.  When he did arrive, much later than planned, he had a friend with him and had some story about his friend’s car not working and did I mind us all hanging out together.  While it seemed odd, I shrugged it off, said sure, and went up to sing the song I had selected especially for when he got there (it showed off my ability the best and he had said it was his favorite). He sang once that evening, a song he dedicated to me and my heart swooned… not because he that good but more because of the sweetness of the idea.

The evening continued on and they kept talking about a friend who has having a get together at his home and did I want to check it out. I said I would think about it but I wanted to stay a little longer. He offered to get me a beer, (my second for the evening) and I agreed. I sang once more and started to feel a little funny. Overwhelmed by the noise and lights and like I couldn’t breathe right.  It was then that they suggested leaving and I agreed quickly.  As we were leaving, my dear friend behind the bar questioned me as to my condition saying that something seemed wrong and was I sure that I was ok.  I readily assured him that I was ok, just felt a little off and I was going to leave with them and they had promised to take me home.

The rest of the evening is somewhat a blur… I remember bits and pieces.  I remember driving to a house and there being 4-5 other people there.  I remember him instantly being very physically attentive, calling me “his girl” and making sure I was never out of his sight.  I remember my head pounding and my going through the medicine cabinet desperate for some sort of Tylenol to ease the pain. I remember telling him directly “I am not going to have sex with you I don’t even know you” and him laughing and telling me not to worry.

In the morning I could not find my keys, or my pants and I wasn’t sure where I was.  My keys were across the room underneath my neatly folded pants along with my cell phone which had been turned off. Feeling panicked as to where I was or how I got there I quickly dressed and left noting that everyone else was sleeping.  Still feeling very off I went home desperate for more sleep. I had to work that night and so I got up, dragged myself to the shower feeling very sore and more “hung over” than I should have been after 2 beers.

While I was in the shower, I began to have flashbacks of the evening before. I remembered him pushing me up against the wall all the time telling me how beautiful I was and that I would be his Portuguese princess.  I remember trying to squirm away but him holding his hand around my neck just tight enough to keep me there.  I remember trying to pacify him by saying “let’s just go to sleep, tomorrow will be a new day.” I remember putting my keys and my phone next to me on the couch and having my pants ON! I remember him trying to come on to me and my pushing him away saying “I said no, leave me alone.” I remember waking up and he was on top of me, my pants were on the ground, one arm was holding my neck and shoulders down while the other hand was doing things inside me. I remember crying. I remember him starting to pull his pants off and my flailing trying to get away. I remember him speaking to me in a low quiet tone telling me “it’s ok, it’s all going to be alright, I won’t hurt you if you stay still.” The feeling of his arm tightening around my neck; praying in my head “get me out of here please.” Then mustering everything I possibly had, using my entire body weight and pushing him off me yelling “I said no.” Then everything going black.

It took me 24 hours to decide to go to the police, I didn’t know what to do, I was ashamed, scared, and because my memory was somewhat spotty I had no idea if anyone would even believe me.  The creepy police officer that took me to the hospital who was saying “call me if you need anything” while trying to slide his hand onto my leg. The nurse that was cold and hard, questioning me as to why it took me so long to come in. Clearly not understanding how scared and confused I was.

The months to follow carried with them significant heart ache, trauma and pain.  I was plagued with nightmares each time revealing a detail that I had remembered from the event.  My friends were angry, some at him, some at me (one friend told me I ruined their wedding, they were getting married a couple of days after everything happened and I was catering for them… which for the record I still did), and I was so ashamed that I told the most vanilla version of the story that I could just so that it would be over, so that I didn’t have to talk about it anymore.  The re-traumatization of needing to tell the story over and over had paralyzed me. I walked around in a fog.

I spent years that way. To this day I refuse to wear or be near anything velour. I’ve never sung that song again or been able to listen to the song he sang without wanting to vomit. I’ve avoided that house and anything near it.  Around this time every year I’m plagued with nightmares, irritability, the desire to hide in a hole and not come out.  It feels like everyone that looks at me can see my pain, the dirtiness, the scars that I carry.  As if I’m carrying my insides on my outside.

It’s always been easier to not talk about it.  Even though I have found a lot of healing from the event in my brain, my subconscious, my insides are still wounded.  The biological response, although I’ve fought desperately against it, still manages to rear its ugly head and remind me as if saying… “hey you… I see you… everyone sees you… you’re disgusting, you let that happen to you, you probably deserved it.” And the kicker… I never remember that it’s happening until I look at the calendar after wondering why I haven’t slept, or woken up soaked in sweat, or felt like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder and feeling like I might jump out of my skin. That I would just like to go hide in a hole until it’s over.

If you carry pain like mine, or experiences like mine and can’t understand why you just “can’t seem to move on from them.” Know that you aren’t alone. 

It wasn’t your fault. 

Everyone can’t see your scars, and they aren’t ugly. They are beautiful. They mean that you survived, that you have gone on to live the best that you can, they show pain transformed into beauty. And if you can’t seem to see that part yet, keep trying. It will come.  

Does it ever fully go away? I don’t think so. I’m not sure that it is supposed to.  But I do know that in sharing who I am, how I feel and what I see, it gives someone else who is hiding like me the freedom to know… they are not alone.

You are not alone. We are together. There is room in my hole. You are welcome here.