Unseen Bruises (Word Published)

Marrying young and being unworldly, inexperienced and unsuspecting had consequences.

At 19, 20, 25, etc, although I was intelligent, athletic and vivacious, I'd been sheltered. From alot of the ugliness of the world, which is fortunate and not so.  A very young woman then, I didn't know that life doesn't insulate good people, life doesn't protect Christians (or other 'good' religious people) from bad experiences. 

I certainly didn't know then what mental illness was. Mr. Christian Man's behavior was erratic, confusing and terrifying. Mr. Christian Man believed strongly, but wrongly, that I was unfaithful and a liar. Consequently, his daily actions against me, were based on me being an adulterer, whore, slut, lesbian, etc. 

Of course, I'm postulating all these years later. Even in the worst, last days of our marriage, I never one time believed Mr. Christian Man was waking up and intentionally deciding to make our lives living hell.

I'll leave the analysis of a probable mental disorder to the professionals. To me, I believe he was ill of mind or ill of behavior somehow and acting out, similar to a person who is experiencing schizophrenia. The voices in his head were very, very real, to him. He wasn't being purposefully abusive. I'll swear on the Bible or on my Mother's life. Never intentionally abusive.

Mental illness isn't a choice. It is an organic brain disorder. We as a society are more cognizant of the enormity of the problem and in many circumstances, we have drugs these days that can help the sufferers live normal lives.

But way, way back then, I didn't know about mental illness. Add to that mix a controlling man with his youthful, zealous religious beliefs and it can make for some baffling days and nights. He pounded Christianity into my head, I always came up short. He pounded my head and my body that I was not faithful. 

I thought I needed to try harder. I was trying to be a good Christian, a wife and the mother of a very small child.

I'm shocked now as I reflect, but even despite all this I was still trying to accomplish, I was making attempts to attend college, at night.

I had to finagle and beg to go to school, and consequently I was living in parallel worlds. Day to day was consumed in placating in various ways Mr. Christian Man's current abhorrent belief/rage about me. Naively, I just thought I'd missed the mark somewhere, like I needed to do better. If he didn't believe me, I needed to fix that.

While I no longer dreamed of being an attorney, I still craved knowledge. That was exciting to me. Learning, being humbled and stimulated by what others have achieved. Understanding concepts, development, theory. And history. And so much more. This was visceral, innate. 

This I remember as if it was yesterday. In the drizzling rain, I'm walking across innumerable parking areas, passing hundreds of cars towards lit buildings that represent education to me. There are niches where young co-eds easily sip coffee or hot cocoa from styrofoam cups and talk of life. It seemed quaint and lovely.

Contrary though, I'm walking steadfastly but holding my textbooks tight to me, knowing everyone else around me in this seemingly nonchalant environment did not know that I'd gone to battle to be here, walking bruised and beaten. I recall feeling there was an invisible parameter around me; I knew I looked normal, but I wasn't.

That vivid memory is smeared with the quiet terror that surrounded my life, making even these definite memories grey, obscured and impenetrable. Despite my efforts, there was to be no protection from a life of terror. 

Participating in class activities was a form of trying to achieve, trying to touch normal. Almost like being as worthy of the rest of the class. Almost like being safe. 

But I wasn't. 

Date Rape (Word Published)

It was about 1984 and I was invited by a guy I was dating - who I thought was a normie - to an roof top apartment party in Long Beach, California. Perhaps a more worldly, less naïve chic would have seen the clues. I did not. When I mentioned how fun it would be for both Sarahjoy and I, he informed me that it wasn't the kind of party for a child. Still didn't get it. Fer' stupid!

Dave arrived at my Diamond Bar, California three bedroom, two bathroom, cute house that I was still owning, thanks to my Mother, post divorce, to pick me up. I was vividly aware it was a cool neighborhood. Dave was with his 'married friends,' who were driving us to the party. I recall the car as a souped up brilliant black Pontiac GTO and besides the married couple, in the car was Dave, me, and someone who I had never met previously. The married guy's 18 year old kid, Mike was part of the group going to the Long Beach party. The married guy's former wife living in New York had sent their kid Mike to live with his Dad in Southern California - because he was 'out of control.' It seemed an understandable family situation.

The upstairs party was a bit overwhelming to me, I was never into pot. I did not like ever feeling out of control in my body. (My teenage days of drinking and diving were actually very short lived.)  The pungent smell of marijuana hung heavy overhead like a gloomy cloud on the otherwise lovely roof top apartment. It was an otherwise lovely Southern California beach-side community neighborhood and getting out as a young adult woman/mother felt good. I was pretty, intelligent and throwing out the word confident again, trying to mojo up again with life. The hip hosts were quite free with coke and pot and not being hip with all this, I walked downstairs to the apartment living space and was sitting on the sofa chatting garnering good feelings with a few people, including Mike in the background.

Someone asked me if I'd like a glass of wine and shortly thereafter the kid Mike brought my wine.

These are my memories thereafter.

I vaguely recall being escorted, pushed from behind through a group of people, feeling confused.

I vaguely recall waking up in a gutter, in the middle of the night. Disheveled, uncomfortable. And being scolded by the boyfriend Dave.

I very vividly, however, remember waking up the next morning. I'm lying in a bed alone. I don't know where I am. I can't move my left wrist, I think it might be broken. I am still wearing the clothes I'd worn to the party.

But. They were not on right. It was summer, I'd worn a white, cotton, pants jumpsuit, with a purple Bohemian style caftan over it, a necklace and flat sandals. I went to the party cute. It was stylin,' but no where near inappropriate.

Now, however, style was the least of my problems. I had no shoes, no necklace, no bra. My white jumpsuit was on backwards and my underwear was inside out. I don't normally dress myself like that.

My hair was dreadfully disheveled. It had dirt in it. Like dirt from the ground, dirt. I had abrasions on my face, elbows, knees and tops of my formerly well pedicured feet. I didn't understand why it was difficult for me to move my arms. Oh, my left wrist hurt like hell. And, yes I was bruised vaginally.

I made my way to my doctor's office. He had treated me for a few years and was a very kind professional. He confirmed that I'd probably been raped, he said my wrist wasn't broken, just sprained.

My doctor is the one and only hero in this story. He was compassionate. He did what he'd been trained to do, he tended to the injuries on my body and on my soul, he cared about what had happened to me.

Rape is a maltreatment that beats you up, leaves you in the gutter, but you're expected to climb out of it and just move on. Hey, you don't have a broken arm, you don't require a cast, how lucky you are, move on! Pick yourself up girl, dust yourself off. Whatever injuries you have, they're hidden, unseen.

This was still the early 80's and I was still ignorant, my doctor was ignorant, but to be fair, most certainly,so were the police.

Because the kid Mike admitted later to the incident, but said it was consensual, I felt empowered to go to the police. But I was told by officers the situation would be my word against his, i.e., there was no case.

Nowadays we know more about date rape drugs. I read all of the Bill Cosby stories of his supposed date rape drug episodes with a dedicated, self-interested interest. If it takes Bill Cosby's notoriety for the world to acknowledge this ugly, vicious offense, then so be it. Shame, shame.

Not on me. Shame on these perpetrators. Stop shaming me. Stop.

I recall scandalous stories involving New York dance clubs and rape, through the blatant use of Rohypnol, aka, roofies. Nowadays because it's Bill Cosby, it is headline news. Some thirty years later, we're hearing same-old-similar horror stories - regarding Bill Cosby this time - with a particular drug of choice for the ladies. Don't shame the ladies.

I don't care what vehicle you choose, climb in one. Load it up with friends and please just drive down the damn road and get the word out. Yell loudly. Dammit! Shame, shame on you offenders!

My rape occurred in 1982 and back then DNA wasn't even well known, and, would not be for six more years until 1988, when DNA was first allowed to be admitted as evidence in courts.

Rohypnol, [roh-hip-nawl] also known as Narcozep, Rufies or Roofies is effective for date rape due to its amnesic effect, it messes with your memory. Research would reveal that users are unable to remember what happened under the drug's influence and they are often left feeling confused, sluggish and uncoordinated. Also, they can have some difficulty moving their limbs normally. Some ten years later, the U.S. Drug Administration banned the drug, due to continuing reports of its use as a date rape drug.

My fortress. 

So after going to see my kind doctor, I did what daughters do.

I was afraid, but I needed my Mommy. My Mommy is my heart, my Mommy, my Mother.

I called her.

But instead of offering comfort or understanding, my Mother became a now-insulted-by-this-incident Mother and she was unnerved. Sadly, I realized my Mother needed me to be the always capable, super-power daughter. I'd dented my halo.

My Mother questioned why I'd gone to the party.

I gave my Mother no response. Even in my scared hazy world, I knew it was an inappropriate comment. But it certainly shut me up. I learned to be quiet about it, act like it never happened. To be my Mother's daughter, I had a new requirement.

And, we never discussed it again. Ever.

I was learning that telling that I'd been raped made the rape worse.

I felt dirty, no longer legitimate. Like whomever I'd told that I was a good person, I'd lied to them. I was a fraud. I was ugly. Street level ugly. And you don't talk about it. Another taboo subject.

God I ached, longed for, cried for a strong man figure. Someone like an understanding father. And out of the blue, the loop is playing again, it's back. But now I'm angry, I've been raped and I'm well aware I have no male protector. 

I took a lot of showers.

And when I showered, I wept and moaned. I cried so hard I couldn't catch a breath, I heaved tears. The corner of the shower was my one and only safe fortress, my counselor, my only friend.

I sat in the shower and mourned that I'd thought I had value, and I never did.

How do you move forward. Like really. How the hell do you move forward, when you no longer have value.

I did what my Mother had taught me to do.

You get up and you Mother on.

But you are never the same. To this day, thirty-three years later, I question every movement a male makes, every action. EVEN if it is from someone who should be safe.

So, you wonderful men out there, if I'm skittish, there's a reason.

I got up and performed as the strong woman my Mother had raised me to be. I had a daughter to raise.