A/N: This isn't the normal SVU story, but I want to post it anyway. This is based on a true story. This is my own SVU story. I had to take out some details for obvious reasons, but this is just a quick summary of my life before, during, and after my own assault. I hope that this story will help any other people, like me, who were hurt as I was. Names may or may not be changed.
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Survivor
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I knew nothing of the world around me, not that I wanted it that way. I was blinded by my parents' religion. They felt it was best that way, but I knew they couldn't protect me forever, though they tried. I was 12 years old and thought I knew everything about every aspect of life. I didn't know how foolish I was to believe that until much later in my life. But I was a kid. What did I truly know at that point in my life? Most of my knowledge was fed to me as I grew up. I never truly had a chance to experience life outside for myself until I made my choice. I would make a stand for myself.
At 12, I was obsessed with all men. I knew what I liked and what I didn't. But there was one person who topped my list. My neighbor Chris. He was 18, tall, muscular, handsome, and sweet, but there was a plus: he said he liked me too. It's not unusual for girls who grew up without a father or despising the father figure in their life to like older men. I was one of those girls then. There's a small truth to the myth that every girl wants to marry her father. I was raised by my step dad. How did I know what my father was like? Well, I hoped he would be something like Chris. Spending time with Chris somehow made me feel like I knew my dad.
I played basketball and volleyball at that time. Chris helped me practice both. But more than that, he was someone to talk to when there was no one else. He was the first person to listen or one of the firsts. My crush on him was obvious, but I would never admit it. My friends warned me against him. But after 12 years of being "Ms. Perfect", I wanted to show my parents what I could be. I wanted to prove to myself that I had a mind of my own, even if it cost me everything, which wasn't much in my eyes. And so I spent more and more time with Chris.
From the minute I got home from school to the time I was forced to come home, I would hang out with Chris. We'd play basketball or just sit on his from porch talking. We covered every possible topic. We laughed together and he never hurt me. I thought something great could come from our time together. I was right, but it was a different kind of great… much different.
May 27, 2005, my step dad came home drunk, as he did most nights at that time. My mom and I had already been fighting a lot. But it only got worse when he arrived. I tried to break them up. The feeling of shock was greater than the sting of being hit. I was 12. I knew I should've been used to it. I grew up being smacked around. I was only 7 when I first felt angry fingers tighten around my throat. I didn't understand until later in my life, but I was just 8 years old when I ran into the kitchen and held that old knife to my heart. Why was it happening? What did I feel? Why did I feel it? For the first time in my life, I thought I knew.
My cheek was red as I ran out the front door. I didn't bother getting shoes. I was too angry. The pavement was hot on my feet, but I didn't care. I couldn't go back. I wouldn't. I would go to Chris. He would help me sort everything out. He would make me feel better. He would make me forget about the bruise on my cheek. He would even make me laugh. He always did. And that day was no different.
We played one-on-one basketball for several hours. He was much taller and stronger than me, but I managed to win anyway. Part of me said he was letting me win. The other part said I was winning for real. Either way, it made me feel good. We must've played for several hours before we decided to stop. We sat on his front porch. By that time, he could clearly see the bruise on my face. He had seen them before. I was running out of excuses though. I used to say I ran into a door or fell down, but he never saw such clumsiness from me. Why would he believe it?
Christ listened intently as I told him my story. He knew about every bruise, every scar, every bit of pain that had ever been inflicted on me within the hour. And at the end of my story, I told him, "I just want to feel loved." And when he hugged me, I did, or I thought I did. My heart would beat fast, but I found out that night that it beat fast out of warning, not out of love.
It was nearly midnight before I said I had to go home. Chris said he'd walk me up. Being 12 years old, "in love", and naïve, I thought it was romantic. We walked up the steep hill hand in hand. The last few feet, I ran with him. On the corner where our two streets met, we stopped. I walked alone from there. He only watched so our "romance" wouldn't be found out. I turned to say my farewell. We usually just hugged, but he kissed me that night. He told me he liked me.
My smile faded quickly as he slipped his hand up my skirt. "No! Chris, that's not funny!" I exclaimed, trying to resist. But he was stronger than me. It was no use. He pushed me down onto the ground. I couldn't move. I wanted so badly to cry out for help. But who would come? Mom—the one who hit me? My step dad—the one who hated me? Chris certainly wouldn't.
When he finished, he pulled me up to my feet and kissed me one last time. "You said you wanted to feel loved," he said with a large smile.
The anger resulting from the abuse and neglect I had suffered for years exploded then. I shoved him back and ran home. Everyone at home was asleep already, so I snuck into the bathroom. My face was bruised and tear-streaked. I looked at my reflection in pure loathing. I yanked open the bathroom door. I found that same old knife in the kitchen and went back into the bathroom. If this was actually happening to me, I could make sure I was never so stupid again.
For what seemed like hours, I dragged that knife across my arm, the blood dripping into the sink. And I felt myself hardening out of anger. But the worst part was: I hated myself more than I hated Chris.
Months later, I never went one night without cutting my self. One day at school, a dear old friend of mine pulled me off to the side. He looked me over. It was a hot day, but I still wore an oversized hoody. "You don't have to drag that knife across your arm to make you feel alive," he told me quietly so no one else could ear. "And you don't have to starve yourself to get to that spiritual high."
I frowned, looking down at my thin and fragile frame. For the first time, I realized how tiny I was. The numbers on the scale always seemed so large, but at 72 pounds, I was barely hanging on. But what was there to hold on to?
I never told anyone about my rape until years later. My mom found an old notebook in my room. It was a novel I had been working on. It told my story, but she didn't know it was mine. I had written details about my rape. She thought it was some perverted story, so she took everything, all of my writing. Writing had been my way of staying alive. After speaking to my friend so many years back, I never cut myself again. It took time for me to stop starving myself, but slowly, I had managed. But the day Mom took my writings that had saved my life so many times, it was too much. I was begging her to return them. I wanted to feel safe again. And she refused. I couldn't stop the words. "I was raped!" I yelled. I didn't know how to explain why I never told anyone. I didn't even know exactly why, though I had my ideas. And the best was: I never thought she cared. When I told her that, she yelled at me, telling me how ridiculous that was. And maybe she always did care, but I never FELT that way. I reported my rape that night.
Over the next months, all I could think about was my rape on that night. I was forcing myself into a deep depression. I hated life, but the best way of avoiding the subject was to pretend to be happy, and that's what I did.
Now, 4 months after I reported the rape and nearly 3 years since it occurred, I come to make a stand, to encourage everyone who was abused, manipulated, or raped as I was. I will never be the same. I trust so few people. Walking down the street, there are people who look like Chris. The fear of being raped again strikes me each time. I will always be afraid, but there is life after being sexually assaulted, and it can be just as good as life before the assault.
Chris is now serving 87 years on another charge. He attacked my neighbor, an 82 year old woman, beat her nearly to death, and threw her in a dumpster at a local high school. He wasn't convicted of my rape. It never went to trial. There wasn't enough evidence. No one saw it. There was no DNA, nothing but my word against his. But telling someone helped me. 3 years of keeping it inside and taking my anger out on myself nearly destroyed me. But I'll be 16 soon. I've regained what confidence I had and more. Some days are hard, but Chris has 86 years left of his sentence without the possibility of parole. He can't ever touch me again. And he won't touch another girl.
80 percent of rape victims in the US are killed by their attackers. Another 5 percent commit suicide within the first year after the attack. Another 5 percent become drug addicts, sex addicts, or alcoholics. I am in the 10 percent of rape victims who haven't been killed or become an addict. Only 1 percent of rape victims across the US make a stand for those who can't, the victims afraid to speak out. I am in that 1 percent. I survived 3 years. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done. I survived though. But then again… I'm a survivor.
THIS IS FOR ALL VICTIMS OUT THERE! YOU ARE NOT ALONE!
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Thanks for reading. And if you're a victim like me, I hope that somehow, this helped you or will in the future.