||It’s hard to know where to start.
It happened about two and a half years ago. I was in college. I started dating this guy Mark. Even though I was 22, I’d never been in a long-term relationship before. I was so flattered when he wanted to spend time with me, because I am overweight and had never been asked out before.
I was so flattered, and so desperate for love, that I missed some warning signs and ignored others. He was living with his estranged wife—he told me it was for the benefit of his 4 year old son. He would always complain what a bitch she was, and tell me that he couldn’t bring me to his home, or she would try to take his son away. He would take me places to have sex…back roads, strip clubs, etc. I assumed this was normal.
Eventually he took me to his home, after the estranged wife moved out. We would have sex, and then he would usher me out the door, always having something to do.
When we were together, he would sit at his computer for hours playing online games. I wasn’t allowed to talk, lest I make him lose. I sat quietly, and brought him sodas when he got thirsty.
Things went well for a while. I thought I was in love.
He would have me perform oral sex all the time. Then, one day, I had a cold, and my nose was running. It was hard for me to breathe while performing orally. He got mad and told me I was pathetic. I made the mistake of telling him I loved him. He got even angrier. He started slapping me again and again, yelling “Do you love me now?” over and over again. He pushed me over onto the floor and started having intercourse with me, as I was crying and asking him to stop.
I forgave him—I thought I loved him. I didn’t understand what I had done to make him so angry. I didn’t realize what had just happened.
Months later I was at his home. His son was asleep in the next room. We started to become intimate, and he said he wanted to try anal sex with me. I was a little scared, but agreed—I didn’t want him to stop caring about me. He entered me without lubricant, and I screamed for him to stop, and attempted to get off the bed. He twisted my arm behind my back and forced himself on me anally. I started crying, and he told me to shut up, or he would make it hurt worse. I buried my face in the pillow. I was terrified that his son would hear me crying and come to see what was going on. I went to the bathroom when he was done, and saw I was bleeding a little.
This time I understood what was happening, I knew he had raped me. But I loved him. The two ideas didn’t mesh well. I forgave him again. I figured anything was better than the years of loneliness I had experienced. I thought he was the best I could do as an overweight woman. I thought I was lucky he wasn’t disgusted by my body, like everyone else seemed to be.
A week later he called me and told me he was bored with me, and he didn’t want to see me anymore. I was crushed. I didn’t understand why he didn’t want me anymore.
I started having nightmares about the abuse. I would have flashbacks at weird times of the day—like sitting in math class. I started to be afraid to sleep alone. I would spend the night at friends’ houses almost continuously, just for the distraction. When I did stay at home, I asked my mom to sleep in my bed. She knew something was wrong, but I told her it was just stress from school. I’d sleep all day. I started missing my classes. I dropped most of them.
I went to the therapist I’d seen when I was in high school. She didn’t help. She didn’t seem like she believed me. I told my friends—they didn’t believe me either. They thought I was making it up because I was mad that he broke up with me. They stopped hanging out with me and started hanging out with him.
I would see him at the pool hall my other friends and I hung out at. He and his friends would point, whisper, and laugh. I stopped going out.
I didn’t know what to do. After about three months and a lot of thought, I decided to go to the police. I went in and gave a statement. They asked me why I waited so long to report the rapes. It was hard to explain to a male officer that I had still loved him. They interviewed him, and he said that I just liked rough sex. I did like rough sex, and was even into some light bondage, but that was DEFINITELY NOT what had happened in these couple of incidents—but I knew they’d never believe that. They told me that with no physical evidence it would be almost impossible to convict him. I gave up.
I was really messed up, and tried to commit suicide a couple of times. I also started cutting myself.
I finally told my mom what had happened. She told me she had been raped when she was younger, also. She understood, and she helped me through the mess. She was my rock.
Eventually I made new friends. I re-enrolled in college, which I’m proud to say I will graduate from in the spring.
I still have nightmares and flashbacks occasionally, but I deal with it.
I hope my story helps somebody out there. Realize that no matter how worthless you feel, you HAVE WORTH, and are worthy of respect. Don’t let anyone call you stupid or fat or anything else. Leave at the first sign of asshole-ness, because you’re worth MORE.
Lots of Love, Katie