I am planning a "rape memorial" a "celebration of my life". There was 10 years I hid this away under my bed like some hoarding of memories. My family was not able to cope well with it either. In two weeks I'll be having a celebration. The plan is to invite people who this affected and who were there to offer comfort during my battle to get this man convicted. 10 years is a lot of repression to get through. I'm not assuming 10 years worth of grief will pour out of me at rocket launching speeds leaving me exhausted and empty in the end. I'll still have pleanty to deal with. This week is just mean to allow me time and freedom to grieve what I haven't been allowed to do.
After being raped, I still went to school where I continued to pretend like it never happened. It was a secret. I kept it a secret through high school and the many relationships I tried to have. I felt like it was my job to just pick myself up out of a puddle of cum and despair to help become better about what happened. Just keep a happy face. The years following the incident I felt like a zombie. I was dead. Before I was radiant and a happy child. Post rape, I became addicted to drugs, alcohol, and sex. I faked my way through many sexual relationships trying to find love and fulfillment. I tried to find the next high to mask the pain. If I couldn't get drugs or alcohol to disillusion myself, I'd seek danger and adrenaline. Speeding, jumping off bridges, running across traffic at night, and hooking up with complete strangers in horrible places.
This event will be huge for me. I am worried that my family won't take me seriously or try to help too much and not focus on the healing. It is like my innocence has died and I never got a funeral for it. For that little girl who used to be so happy. This week I am focusing on writing a letter to that child. I'll also focus on the happiness and joy that has come into my life since this has happened. I want to remember that I was not alone. I chose to sin against my parents, leave my house in the hopes of running away from previous grief from a grandparent's death, hop in a car with a stranger, and be transported to hell and back. I used to think I was alone. I was so angry at God. How could he allow a child to go this way in life? He must not love me or I must have earned this horrible fate.
I was broken and in the car (which is usually where I break down). My tears were pooling up inside my chest aching to leave my body. I thought to myself, "How is it, that I am here?"
This was the answer I received from the Lord.