A Life Gone Wrong - Part 1


This is part one of a three part series. I am writing my story as I can find the words and the strength to put them on paper.

The pain is real. It doesn’t go away. There is no magic eraser. There is no make-it-better pill. No sympathy and no understanding – just a label fueled by rumors and lies. It doesn’t end, not until death silences the talk – maybe not even then. I cope by avoiding. I don’t talk about the situation. I avoid people and places where the subject of children might come up – but sometimes even that isn’t enough.

People stare and whisper. They pretend to be your friend and talk about you behind your back. I have the proof – all the proof I need – in black and white, but to the people who matter the most, my children, it doesn’t matter at all. I am evil. Bad. I deserve to live a miserable life alone without friends or family and die a horrible death. They have said this online where hundreds of people have read it. No, there is no hiding. It is time for the truth to come out.

Here is how the story goes:

I grew up in a small town. I did not fear others my own age. They were my peers and although they made fun of me, that was life. They were not out to harm me. I did not believe anyone my own age would harm me. It was the adults to watch out for. They were the ones who molested children, kidnapped them and sometimes even killed them. My peers were safe – and I truly believed if I ever needed help they would help me if they could.

I moved to a new town at the age of 17. It was a larger town and I knew no one. Almost a year later, I had a boyfriend who was a year younger than me. I trusted him even though I did not know him well. He was – after all – a peer.

The relationship was rocky from the beginning. I thought that was the way things went. That is, until he left town for Thanksgiving weekend and I decided to come back home to visit my grandparents. He was not happy and by the time the weekend was over, so was the relationship.

I did not know what to do. I had been brought up to believe if I did not find a husband in high school I would die an old maid. I was sure now this was my destiny. I just wanted to die – and so, I tried to overdose on pills.

Then I heard a knock on my door. I thought it was him, so I threw up and hurried down the stairs to open the door. Instead of it being him, it was a friend of his and someone I did not know at all. I let them in. That was my first mistake. The friend said he heard I was alone now and wanted to introduce me to someone else. At first I wasn’t interested – then my mind started to wonder what would happen if I went out with this other person. Would my ex-boyfriend get jealous and come back? Would I have someone and not be an old maid? I decided I would find out.

The plan was made. He was going to let his uncle know he had a date and I was going to get ready. He would come back in a bit to pick me up. At this point I was feeling very sleepy. It was late and I was not a night person – but I was excited. I handed him my apartment key and told him to let himself in when he returned. After all, he was a peer and I could trust him – or so I thought.

When he returned, he was carrying a suitcase. He said he had been kicked out of his uncle’s place and had no place to go. Having been kicked out of my parent’s house at 18, I felt for him. I assumed it was normal for parent’s, aunt’s, uncle’s and other caregivers to want to be rid of their children as soon as they were of legal age – after all, like my mother said, she had raised me, she had done her job and now I was on my own. She was no longer a prisoner. She had served her 18 years. Thus, I told him he could stay. That was mistake number 2.

He drank. He used drugs. He lied. It was Christmas Eve when I finally found out just how much he lied. He had asked me to go to a party at his grandparent’s house. I thought he had found a job and was working – after all, he did say we would go after he got off work. Hour after hour passed and it was way past the time we were supposed to be there. I was growing concerned. Had he got hurt at work? I did not know if anyone would tell me – so I found the paper where he had circled the job and called. The man said yes, he had interviewed him. No, he had not hired him. Uh – hmmm – that was a hell of a thing to find out on Christmas Eve.

When he finally showed up, I questioned him. He said there was a misunderstanding and that we needed to go. I went. I drank for the first time. We had a fight. I walked halfway home. Someone offered me a ride. I accepted. I made it home safely. He showed up several hours later – drunk. We had a fight. He hit me. He raped me. I stabbed him in the hand. He ended up in the hospital. I threw his stuff out into the alley. I was done. I’d had enough. He was gone – or so I thought.

I changed the locks. I put knives in between the door and door frame. He came back. He kicked the door in. He beat me and raped me a second time. He asked if I liked it. I fought him, but I was no match for this strength. I watched helplessly as he took a baseball bat to the walls and lighting fixtures of my apartment. I cried silently, hoping he would go away, wondering if he was going to kill me. Finally, he threw the bat at me and walked down the steps. I heard the door close. I let out a breath, then screamed and cried for what seemed like an eternity.

When I looked up, a neighbor lady was standing there. She was concerned and said we needed to go to the police station and hospital. I had blood all over me. I was still shaking, but I let her lead the way.

The first stop was the police station. I filed a report. Rape. Battery. Breaking and entering. Those were the three charges. The police report was covered in blood. My blood. I was still bleeding. I didn’t care. I had to get those words on paper before I chickened out. I had to tell my story.

When I finished writing and signed the papers, she drove me to the hospital. I had to tell my story again. They had to do a rape kit. They sent a man doctor in. I was terrified. I had no idea what was going to happen but really I did not want to be touched. I just wanted to crawl under a rock and die. I wanted the nightmare to go away.

I laid on that cold bed in that room for what seemed like hours. She went in and out from time to time to find out what was taking so long. No one seemed to know. Then the doctor and a nurse returned. They told me I was pregnant. What? What did they just say? A baby? How? When? What? Oh –

Yes, I got pregnant from the first rape. I was in shock. Should I be happy? Sad? I was confused. How could this happen? Now what?

She took me back home. I walked down to my ex-boyfriends house. I wanted him to know. I was sure he would help me. Instead he called me all kinds of names. He used words I had not heard before. I was scum of the earth. I was destined to be an old maid – a nasty old maid at that. I cried. Again, I wanted to die. I did not have anyone to turn to. I did not know what to do. I went home, laid down on the floor and cried myself to sleep. I was truly alone except for this tiny baby that I was so unsure about.

Continue to Part 2


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