I was fourteen and had already lost my virginity to a guy I barely knew, liked, or cared about. I was never one of those girls who saw themselves saving it until marriage. Knowing what I know now, I believe my first sexual assault happened much earlier in my life from my father, but I don’t remember any details so all I can do is speculate.
At this point in my life I had already turned to alcohol and drugs as a constant coping mechanism, so when a friend of a friend invited me to a college party I agreed immediately.
He was nineteen and a couple towns away from me. I told my dad I was spending the night with a friend and I’d be back the following afternoon. I walked the few blocks to the school, where we had agreed to have him pick me up. I couldn’t wait to get drunk, and when I arrived he and a friend were waiting, beers in hand. I climbed into the back seat, grabbed one for myself and chugged it before we reached the interstate. They had the music up, so I could only hear pieces of what they were saying.
“…. So hot….. Can’t wait…. She…. Fucked up…”
They were smiling and laughing, so I followed suit while drinking my second and third beer.
We arrived at their house about thirty minutes later. When we walked through the door I should’ve realized something was wrong when it was the three of us and two other guys there. They must’ve seem something in me change because they assured me that everyone else would be by later, and we’d just play some drinking games while we waited.
The five of us played a couple rounds of Kings cup. One of them handed me a mixed drink and said I’d like it and until recently that was the last thing I remembered.
I realize now I must’ve been drugged for everything to go downhill so fast.
I have images of one of them holding onto my arms while the rest forced themselves inside me. I remember a camera at one point, and something shoved in my mouth so I couldn’t speak. I remember years streaming down my face as I stopped struggling in hopes that it would be over soon. I remember waking up with bruises the next morning and thinking I must’ve been pretty drunk and fallen over.
I can remember almost everything about that night, because the images play in my mind nightly. I wake up covered in sweat and tears. I hate my body for betraying me, even today. I hate that it reacted to what they were doing to me, and still does. And I hate myself for not remembering even one of their names.
I know it’s not my fault, and I know one day it’ll be a distant memory, but the past year and a half since I remembered had been hell on earth, and most of the time I can’t wait for my time to be over.
— Survivor, age 23