I was 14

I trusted him through association. My best friend’s brother. He was 26. I felt safe at their house. My first mistake.

My parents were out of town, I couldn’t go home. I shouldn’t have been alone after that, either. I went to a friend’s house. A person I trusted. Her mom tried to help, in her own way, and I’m grateful for that. She pushed me to report it and to go to the hospital. She never got my name right. I had known her for 4 years, and she never got my name right.

I had tried to kill myself there. A handful of sleeping pills, in the ER waiting room. It didn’t work. I didn’t even fall asleep. The cop asked me what I was wearing. He pushed me for his name. I tried to protect him. I still don’t know why.

My friend and her mother got into a physical fight after we came back from the hospital.

It’s like those 2 days were wrapped in violence. Happy New Year.
She kicked my friend out of the house. I didn’t feel safe there anymore. I left. I had another friend who lived on the same street. I was running out of options. My parents still weren’t back. I went to his house.

Our relationship was mostly me going over to his house to make out. We were never a ‘thing’ but we weren’t just friends either. I didn’t really want to go there. I didn’t really want to see him. I needed somewhere to stay though.

I told him what happened. It didn’t seem to faze him. I wasn’t looking for pity, but it didn’t faze him at all. He said I could stay there.

I wasn’t even there for 3 hours before he tried to pin me down and kiss me. I had told him what happened. I didn’t understand why he would do that. I locked myself in his bedroom. His mom banged on the door and told me I needed to leave. My parents still weren’t back. I didn’t have a key to my house. I locked myself in there until my parents showed up the next day.

They didn’t believe me. Their biggest concern was that I had 2 glasses of champagne.
The hospital kept calling my cell phone. I had given them a fake name. The one her mother mistakenly called me for 4 years.

My mom apologized 2 years later after watching an episode of Oprah.

I never talk about this. I can’t bring myself to participate in #metoo. In a lot of ways, what happened afterwards was way more traumatic than the actual rape.
I’m not sure why I am sharing this. I guess I need to get it off my chest. Thanks for reading.

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