Entry 2

Dear Journal,

I've been thinking... I don't know whether or not to consider it a blessing that my roommates weren't home, or that they didn't come home during that longest hour of my life. On one side of things... if they had gotten home maybe they could have stopped it, or at least forced me to report it. However, on the other side of the coin that might have scarred them for the rest of their lives too or even maybe put them in danger as well. I go back and forth on the issue, even though it doesn't matter. Whether I end up realizing that I wish they were there or not, one way definite or the other, it's not like it will change anything. They weren't there. I was alone with him, end of story.

The first person I told was a new coworker three days after it had happened. We were alone closing the store together when she came up behind me to watch me lock away the keys in the safe. That is when I lost it. My first full fledge melt down, and it was with the new woman I had barely spoken to. When I could breathe regularly again, after I convinced her not to call an ambulance, the words tumbled out of my mouth. Her response? She asked me if he knew that what he did to me was something I didn't want. She asked me if I was sure that he knew what he was doing was wrong. With my bruised wrists and my hysterical breakdown she still looked at me skeptically as I answered that he absolutely knew what he was doing, and absolutely knew that I didn't want it. I had screamed and begged the entire time. I said 'no' more times than I could count. Then the first time I told my new boyfriend, about a year and a half after, he asked me why I didn't 'do' anything. He asked me why I just 'let it happen'. The questions tore at my heart, for obvious reasons. Neither of these people are mean or evil. They aren't appalling or awful people. They just didn't know any better. Before this happened to me, I find myself wondering if I would have known any better myself? Would I have asked those simple but unintentionally hurtful questions like they had?

Telling new people never gets easier. It is awkward. Absolutely and 100%; unless they too personally know someone who had a similar experience. For the majority of the people who don't, there is never a good time to bring it up. It is something that, as a survivor, I could work into any conversation, solely because it is constantly on my mind... but isn't something that is socially acceptable to just drop onto unsuspecting people. I've found that the majority of the people I have shared my life split with tend to look like deer caught in headlights. It comes from left field, because it isn't something they had ever heard of happening to someone they actually knew. They don't want to accept it because to them, before that moment, it was just something that you hear about on the news or in the movies. They don't know what to say so either they end up saying something that sounds much like an accusatory statement to the survivor or they apologize over and over again for something they didn't do... only because that's all they can think of doing. Just prepare yourself, you are changing how they view the world with this confession. It changes a lot. And yes, it changes how they view you...whether it be a good change or a bad one, change is imminent.

So when do you bring it up to people? There isn't a designated set time to share your experience with someone. No matter how close you are or how close you believe you are becoming. It's been nearly three years since my attack yet I still have not found a way to tell my best friend. I let Santana go on her Italy trip in peace and when she returned and we moved into our new apartment, I let her think my strange behavior was because of stress from school and work. My parents and sister? They still don't know either. I dated my boyfriend an entire year before I blurted my secret out awfully at a lunch date with one of his cousins, someone I had grown incredibly close to over the year. I only told my boyfriend himself because of the panic attack I had when he whispered a familiar phrase in my ear. Now, as I grow closer and closer to his family, I find myself approaching a year and a half that I've grown to love these people yet there are so many of them that I continue to hold this secret from. The more time that passes by, I find the harder it is to share with them. Because like his sister said when I finally told her, "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

Every once in a while you'll finally work the courage up enough to tell someone who, as it happens, has already been familiar with this crime. Whether it be that they too have (unfortunately) become a survivor themselves or they have a family member or close friend who had been through the same thing, they don't look like a deer caught in headlights in the middle of the night when you utter the confession. I myself had an experience with this. I told an old friend one day when we met up for lunch. As my heart beat wildly in my chest when the words rolled off my chapped lips, I prepared myself for another awkward conversation. Only, the awkward tension didn't come. Instead, when I finally let my gaze meet hers she looked me in the eyes and replied, "I had a feeling." My initial response was a long release of a breath. She hadn't looked panicked or like she wanted to run, her eyes while they held a sadness for me that couldn't be described were strong and encouraging. But then her words echoed in my ears... she 'had a feeling'? What did that mean? Had I acted poorly? Had I let my mask slip and let her see how messed up inside I really was? I had spent years making a foolproof mask that kept my secret hidden from the world when I interacted with people, how was this possible?

I think she must have seen my panicked expression, or maybe I asked her how she knew, I honestly couldn't tell you because it all happened so fast but to my surprise she had continued the conversation. She continued the conversation for the rest of our lunch and then after, unlike anyone else I had told before who unintentionally diverted the conversation as quickly as they could. During lunch she had explained to me that a close relative of hers had been in my shoes for years. She explained that there was something about me that had reminded her of that relative. She could see behind my foolproof mask, because she had grown up with a relative who used the same one. She said that when she saw me again after all this time, she just knew. She knew and she made herself available for me to talk to. Her openness and sincerity is what led me to confide in her in the first place; it all made sense. The rest of lunch she asked me questions about it, about the aftermath, about how I was doing now. She asked me questions I had always asked myself, like why did I choose not to report it? She asked me questions and sincerely wanted to know the answers, she listened intently. She, unlike any of the others, knew that it was a part of me now and therefore treated it as such as opposed to running away and avoiding it at all costs.

Telling people and talking about it are two different things. I know that for me it is at least. Finding the courage to actually utter the word aloud to someone who doesn't know is quite possibly one of the hardest things to do on this planet. It takes the wind from your lungs, it sends your heart into a wildly beating frenzy, it causes your hands to shake, which is why after you drop the initial bomb... it's hard to continue through. It's near impossible to follow it up with the details. Only one person in my life, my boyfriend, knows about the sodomy.

It disgusts me so thoroughly that when I gather the strength and courage to share the fact that I was raped with someone I love, I can't physically bring myself to say the grotesque word aloud. "Sodomy" and "Anal"... Those two words are the most disgusting words to "the new me". I couldn't tell you if "the old me" even cared about those words. I can tell you that when those words are randomly heard out in public, or on tv shows or movies or the news, that the "new me" cringes, quite literally. I can't control it. So telling people? I can't do it. If it's too much for me to handle, than it absolutely would be too much for my loved ones. I'll spare them that at least, or maybe I'm just sparing myself. Either way, like I said, telling people and talking about it are two VERY different things. Saying it aloud to my boyfriend will probably be the last and only time that I ever speak it.

But then again, 'never say never'. That quote means something completely new to the "new me" than it did to the "old me"... because when I used to say it... it was just something you would say as you joke with your friends about how you are determined to convince them to go skydiving. Never in a million years would I have ever thought that I would be "one of those girls". I never thought I would be a "victim". I never thought I would be raped.

So 'never say never' means a lot more to the new Quinn Fabray... because I know better now. The thing that you think is the most impossible...CAN be possible. I learned that the hard way.

-Quinn

...

Author's note- First two entries are up. Thoughts? Ideas? Feedback for this new writer? Anything is wonderful. Hey, you took the time to read it, why not take the one to two minutes to leave a helpful review too? Thank you all again. Ciao.