L is for Lion in Sheepskin

This is the fourth installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart.  I still hope to have one every day, but we'll have to see how that goes.  I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on.  Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance.  The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told.  Some material may be triggering.  Please read at your own discretion.

To read from the beginning, find part one here.

"Are you positive this is a friend? The Captain grimaced, 'Those are cliffs of rock ahead if I'm not mistaken.' The sexiest thing is trust, I wake up to find the pirates have come."  
~ Tori Amos, Jamaica Inn

He was everything I'd ever dreamed of.  And for a time, in the beginning, He reminded me of Hero.  It was different with Him from the beginning.  I didn't meet Him at a party or a bar; I was introduced through the family that I nannied for.  My habit before now was to sleep with the guy first, then if he hung around he might get to know me a bit.  If not, well then he got what he wanted and I didn't have to worry about fighting him off or being uncomfortable saying no when he wanted it.  This was different.  I thought I might actually have a chance for someone to know the real me.  He talked to me.  We made a mutual decision to not be intimate right away.  I thought it was a mutual decision.  

At this point, I was continuing with psychotherapy and medication and although I wasn't "all better,"  I wasn't flying off the deep end either.  I was still keeping The Secret, because that's the first rule of Rape Club; you don't talk about Rape Club.  My therapist was decent, for once.  I told him all about Him and I can remember vividly my therapist telling me:

"It sounds like this is a true adult relationship.  You are respecting each other, talking to each other, and you are keeping your boundaries.  Good for you."

I don't know why that is the part of this whole deal that still bothers me.  It's not that I expected my therapist to know better; he was only going by my disclosure and getting information the Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon way isn't necessarily the most reliable.  I think it's that I remember the elation in which I described Him.  The way that I described our relationship.  I was giddy, but not in a school girl way.  In a hopeful way.  And that makes me feel more stupid than anything else on the planet ever could.  I don't mean to be nasty to myself.  I completely understand that through my experiences, I was an easy target.  I know that it's not my fault.  I KNOW all of this.  But when I look back at that moment, all the statistics, all the therapy, all the retraining my brain goes out the window and I feel so disheartened for 18 year old me.  I've played it back over and over wondering how...How?  How did he know?  It's as almost if those of us with the shame of our experiences and the lack of self esteem wear a sort of victim perfume that predators can smell.  And then they separate you from the herd for their attack.

It began innocently enough.  I cannot believe I just used the word "innocent."
When we (He) made the decision for us to begin a sexually intimate relationship, everything was wonderful at first.  He would constantly ask me if I was okay.  I think that even if it wasn't, I wouldn't have said anything at that point.  I was too grateful to have Him be asking.

Little things started to happen.  During sex He would say things that were meant to humiliate or embarrass.  I guess I would freeze up a little or maybe get a different look in my eyes because He would say, "I'm sorry.  I was just trying something a little different."  It was always explained away.  There came a point when He asked me to do something that I wasn't comfortable with.  The old me probably would've just went along with it.  But He had empowered me (so I thought) to have an opinion.  I told Him I wasn't comfortable.  Looking back, I know that He didn't want me to be.  That was the point.  He said, "I'd love it if you would just try it. And if you agree, promise me that you won't base your opinion on the first time.  Give it another chance and if you're still totally against it, then it's okay.  I'll be okay with that."

That logic seemed sound.  I couldn't believe that someone was even asking my input.  And doing something you're not comfortable with...totally makes sense to do it.  And then do it again.  Just to make sure you're not lying to yourself.  This was seriously the thought process that I had.  So I consented.  I decided I wasn't lying to myself and it wasn't something I wanted to entertain again.  He didn't even look me in the eye when He whispered coldly: "Fine."

Here's the thing.  All of that right there?  That whole thing that went on?  It was inappropriate.  It was manipulative.  It was coercion.  But that took me YEARS to recognize.  I felt BAD for feeling bad.  I felt STUPID for being affected by it.  After all, I had gone through so much worse in my life...why was THIS the thing that made me feel like shit the most?

He started not taking my phone calls.  Breaking dates.  Being too busy for me.  I finally went to His house and relented.  I had "thought" about it and maybe I was being selfish for not giving Him what He needed in the relationship.  He acted happy to hear that and let me come in.  He said He had thought about it, too and He didn't want me to be uncomfortable.  I was relieved.  We went out a few times in the next couple of weeks.  We slept together at a friend's house, staying there after a small get together.  He joked that there was a video camera in the room.  Then said He was joking.  Then said probably not. Then He laughed and said He was kidding. I became uneasy again.  He took me for a romantic walk by a secluded swampland.  While we had sex, he whispered in my ear that he could feed me to alligators in the water if he wanted.  Other times during intimate moments, he would say things meant purely to humiliate and embarrass.  Things that as far as I have come, I still can't bear to repeat. Not even in text.

I went over to His house on a Sunday night with cookies that I had baked for Him.  I knocked and didn't get an answer.  I was going to leave Him a letter with the box of goodies and as I set it against the foot of the door, the door creaked open.  I had been there several times with Him not home, so I just walked in to set the cookies on the table and go.  It was dark and I reached for the light.  A hand slammed on top of mine, flattening the switch in the down position.  I felt my hair being pulled, an arm around my waist, dragging me away.  I knew it was Him.  It's the reason that to this day, I vomit at the smell of Estee Lauder's Pleasures for Men.  But there were other scents and tactile things, too.  It let me know he wasn't alone. I don't even know who did what.  There was an incident in the whole ordeal that has led to my intense fear of firearms.

I choose not to share the frame by frame details of this part.  It's too personal and too hard and I have found that sometimes, it causes a sort of victimization to the listener (or reader), or that in some rare cases, people relish in the horrific details.  Like people who read True Crime novels not necessarily because they enjoy them...but because they ENJOY them.  I don't want to allow either of those to happen.  Also, I do believe that there's a little something sacred in keeping parts of your story private.  I don't say any of this to justify what I choose to share and don't because NO one needs justification in that way; but more to let any of you struggling know that it's okay to not share it all.  It's okay to share just the parts that you want to. It's just as empowering and healing to share as it is to hold back the things that you want to.

I was left in a state where I couldn't even say my name.  The most basic of personal identifiers was lost on me.  If I said my name, then that was who I was.  And that meant what just happened, had actually happened to ME.  That was something I just couldn't handle.  When it came time, when I was asked what had happened...I lied.  I said I didn't know who it was.  I kept another Secret.  I was afraid.  And besides those good people who were trying to "get to the bottom of it"  I didn't tell anyone that anything had happened at all.

This is the important part for parents, friends, clergy, therapists, whatever.  Are you listening?  This is important.

Why I didn't tell:

I didn't tell my mother because I had behavioral problems. I was a "bad girl." I feared that she would say "What do you expect when you act that way?"  I didn't tell her because she knew that I was sexually active with Him so I feared she would say "Ummm, he's your boyfriend and you have sex, right?  What are you complaining about?" (which is ridiculous looking back because my mother is the most supportive, most fiercely protective of me person on the planet...but I didn't get that then.)
I didn't tell my friends because (besides the fact that I had very, very few): I was afraid that they would tell other people and it would become gossip fodder.  I was afraid that they would be sympathetic in the moment but secretly think that I was a slut who deserved it.  I was afraid that they would wonder what the big deal was because he was my boyfriend.
I didn't tell my therapist because:  I felt stupid that he saw me making all this progress and I was so proud of my "adult relationship"  that how could I have let this happen.  How come I couldn't see it coming?  I was scared that because of my tendencies as a cutter and delving into emotional and physical masochism, that he would tell me that I must have liked it, or at least that I portrayed myself as someone who would like it.  I was worried about these things because they were all things that I was thinking.  I was bad.  I picked the wrong guy, again.  I let him dupe me.  And maybe this is just something that goes along with having a boyfriend.  Because I had no examples in my life of positive male/female relationships...I simply didn't know.

He picked me up the next Friday like nothing had happened.  I was afraid to get in the jeep with Him.  But I was more afraid not to.  I sat silently at his house at the kitchen table, refusing to sit on the bed.  After a while of no words from me he said:

"Are you pissed about the other night? Wow.  I'm really sorry, but I thought we were taking things to the next level.  It was just role-playing.  That's why we said all that crap earlier about you not wanting to do it and me saying okay.  We were setting it up.  Otherwise why would you have said that?  Cause you were enjoying it just as much as I was.  I thought we had agreed we would take it to the next level."

I know that this doesn't make a whole lot of sense, one because of my intentional vagueness (again, my personal reasons make this so) and because how could a person really have that come out of their mouth?  But it accomplished what He wanted it to.  This was all my fault.  I should have been more clear.  If I didn't want that, why did I come over that Sunday?  I was asking for it.

The pirate came to my ship and robbed it.  And left me with the shell.  But I was the one choosing to be out in the ocean anyway, right?

I found out that we were moving due to another military transfer.  I was relieved.  When I said goodbye to him for the last time, I cried.  I was so grateful to be getting away, but sickeningly enough, I really thought that I loved Him.  And I thought that I would miss Him.  I seriously don't know why....

His last conversation with me was jarring.  I have no clue as to why I was trying to hold on to Him.  But it was actually Him that broke off the relationship saying that long distance wouldn't work. He told me goodbye.  And then He said this:

"You'll be fine.  We had a fun run, kiddo.  But the truth is, I actually prefer Asian women."

And seriously?  That was the last thing He said to me.  I don't know if it's a form of Stockholm Syndrome that kept me so attached to Him despite everything, but at that time, the last sentiment hurt worst of all.

I eventually did mention something to someone in his chain of command.  The response I was given?

"Are you sure?  He's such a model soldier and helluva guy.  Maybe you misinterpreted things."

That was a major downside that led to a LOT of self blame.  But moving day came.  The upside was that I was free.  But I was still just a shell.  So, free to do what?

To be continued...