The R Word

“Look Into My Eyes” in SNM Horror Mag! Out, Damned Spot, Out!

The R Word

Cry rape.

How I loathe that phrase. It’s a misogynistic utterance that perpetuates rape culture and suggests that women lie about being raped. *Few* (about 1.5% of reported cases) women lie about rape. Anyone who lies about rape is the lowest form of life, in my opinion, except, of course, for a rapist, himself. But a person who lies about rape is pretty close to that level of low life.

I’ve been extensively researching rape and sexual assault in our society for the past six weeks. Some of my findings and sources I’ve shared on this blog, and I’ll continue to do so. I’m aware of the staggering statistics. I’m aware of how people react, and I understand why victims stay silent. But, even so, I’m not staying silent. Never again.

Two weeks ago, a fellow survivor and new friend invited me to talk with other survivors on a FB group discussing how to have the conversation about sexual assault and policing predators in our communities, as I’ve been talking about on this blog. She said my input could be really powerful, and she encouraged me to join if I felt safe in doing so. The importance of the discussion is paramount, and I’m thrilled to see the local burner community discussing it. I hear that the poly community is still spending a lot of energy on whether or not to have the discussion rather than having it, but that’s neither here nor there. And it’s really none of my concern anymore.

Although my new friend had started several threads and posted a link to my blog post to help get the conversation started, I knew that my ex might be a part of the group, so I didn’t accept her invitation at first. I just didn’t feel safe. Last week, however, after deciding to leave for CA two weeks early due to the unending fear of being in Austin because of these assaults, I wrote to her and asked her if she thought it would still be powerful for me to comment on the group. I felt inspired to hear her reports about how the discussion was going, and I wanted to commiserate with fellow survivors and be a part of the conversation I helped start. After checking with her that my ex wasn’t a member of the FB group, and she said he wasn’t, I decided to join the discussion.

It was indeed powerful! It was so beautiful! Survivors had a safe place to speak and community support, and I was part of it. There were survivors on there who hadn’t spoken out in over 30 years who felt safe to do so. Through this discussion we all felt safe. We shared opinions and stories, mostly privately because of sensitive information, but some publicly as well, keeping real names out of it. As you all well know, I’ve never disclosed the identity of my ex on this blog, real or playa name. Never.

For the first time in 5+ months I felt safe and heard and supported and loved.

But the safety for all of us was short-lived.

The last thing a survivor wants is to have her rapist show up.

But, of course, that’s what happened.

Again.

And, just as all my research over the past month showed is par for the rape culture, the community openly supported him. He protested his innocence and called out for support, and he got it. He offered to meet everyone to see what a great guy he is, and I’m sure he charmed them all. That’s what psychopaths do. He’s still in the conversation, although most of the survivors stopped talking, as they no longer felt safe either. That’s the last I saw anyway. Maybe they’ve come back by now. I don’t know.

I can’t know.

Because I, of course, had to leave the group. Just like I had to leave the poly community and dance community and stay away from Flipside. Just like I had to stay away from Barton Pool and most of the greenbelt. Just like I had to leave Austin. Just like I had to leave Texas. I’ve been afraid to go anywhere. My world has gotten smaller and smaller. I went through extensive therapy and counseling and healing and such to deal with the PTSD and fallout of the trauma this man caused.

Rape destroys lives.

Now, 2000 miles away, I’m finally starting to feel safe. I no longer have to look over my shoulder wherever I go.

I’m free.

For those of you who follow this blog, you know the struggle I’ve had over the past six months. Several times on this blog I explained, without getting too graphic, what happened, what 8 different sexual assault professionals said was rape. I’ve also said several times that no legal line was crossed.

Eight. different. sexual. assault. professionals. used. The R Word.

But he and the people who support him are acting as if I just woke up one morning and decided to accuse someone of rape. It’s absurd. Of course, I don’t blame anyone for believing him, as he is very charming and convincing, as I’ve said countless times. But if I was going to lie about it, I’d have a much better fucking case than I have. If I was going to lie about it, there would be a criminal investigation right now. And I wouldn’t have had to lie much either. Just the insertion of one little two letter word, and there would be a criminal investigation right now.

I didn’t lie.

I told the police exactly the way it happened.

I told all eight sexual assault professionals exactly the way it happened.

I told them what happened: they said it was rape. All eight of them.

They used the R word.

Again, I really don’t blame you for believing him. I still want to believe him. More than anything in the world. I would give everything I have, save my husband, for it to be all a big misunderstanding somehow, and I’ve said that several times on this blog over the past six months, too.

But not one kind word in nearly six months.

I didn’t come out of this relationship calling him a monster. I loved him and defended him for months.

MONTHS.

My therapist had to work weeks with me for me to even begin to see the underlying abuse. Because something wasn’t right. I felt violated. Assaulted. Abandoned. And I couldn’t understand why. Even though I felt like what we shared was transcendent, the loss of such a short-lived relationship should not have affected me so profoundly. But it did.

My therapist at the time said it was as if he was tearing the very fabric of my soul.

And yet, I still defended him. And yet, I still called out for any sign of a misunderstanding. Again. And again.

Nothing.

And yet, I still wanted to believe. Fuck. I still want to believe.

Ah, yes. The joy of the trauma bond.

But, I won’t believe. Not now. It’s too late.

So, those of you who doubt me and my story, please remember this:

Rapists almost NEVER admit to rape.

Especially if you call it “rape.” 1 in 8 will admit to rape if you describe the scenario but don’t use the R word.
This is not fun for me. I’m in survival mode, nothing more. I’ve been barely functional for the five-plus months, and now I finally know why…because I was raped. Only it was so masterfully enveloped in a consensual encounter and explained away afterward, that I questioned it for months. And months. Adding to the confusion and trauma. I haven’t been able to have sex for six months with any semblance of an emotional connection without crying, not even with my husband. Even the few times I’ve had casual NSA sex, it’s been extremely difficult to keep it together. I can’t even watch sex scenes in movies. This is the reaction of someone who has been raped.
I don’t lie. And those of you who know me, know that. You know my level of integrity. I still have people who knew me from HS tell me that I’m one of the most genuine people they’ve ever known. And if you know me, you know that’s true. Remember, I’m not the one who deceives lovers about having HSV2. He is.
Psychopathic Narcissists are charming, manipulative, and convincing. They are arrogant. They don’t take responsibility for their actions. They are incapable of empathy. His post on that group shows that he’s been reading this blog the entire time. He knows the kind of agony I’ve endured, and he hasn’t offered one kind word. Not one kind word. And then to show up in a place where survivors *had* a safe place to discuss and make it unsafe for me and for them, chasing his victim and other survivors away. That is a man with no empathy. Period.
Just because he hasn’t raped you doesn’t mean he hasn’t raped someone else. Like this guy, “married to a beautiful woman” who has no idea about the women (yes, plural) he’s raped, he’s “known for being a great guy, friendly and easy to get along with, a community/political activist, a fervent volunteer in the community, and a person who rises through the ranks quickly due to successes at work.” Sound familiar?
The community will likely never see the monster, as one has to get very close indeed to see the monster within. One therapist suggested that’s what the first assault was for, as punishment for getting too close. Who knows.
Think about the last six months, each time you were out with your friends or making love or laughing or dancing or swimming or something simple like going to a restaurant without having to look over your shoulder in fear…each time you loved and kissed and flirted and hoped…if you were falling in love, meeting someone new and exciting, dreaming of your new future, bringing each other to orgasm, I was doing one of the following: hiding away out of fear; breaking down; crying; talking to sexual assault professionals, therapists, lawyers, or cops; shielding my eyes so I didn’t inadvertently see his car when I had to drive past his exit on the way to work; in a state of catatonia; crying; having a panic attack; in yet another therapist’s office; crying; reading up on psychopaths or sociopaths or narcissists or sexual assault, as it was the only way for me to get through the next few minutes without breaking down again, without missing him so much I was nauseous, without remembering how blissful it was, without questioning how he turned on a dime, without realizing it was all I lie.

That’s what I was doing.

As much as I’d like to tell everyone exactly what he did to me and show everyone what he’s capable of, it’s not safe for me to post that here in detail. And If I’ve become anything through this ordeal, it’s self-protective. I have alluded to the assaults before in poetry as well as other blog posts, so you can look there if you choose.

For so long I just wanted to die, to fade away, to disappear.

But now, I’m not going to disappear.

Fuck no, I’m not.

Now I’m not going to give up or give in. Now I’m rebuilding my life after being forced to move 2000 miles away just to feel safe outside my own home. Now I know what sexual assault looks like, even the “gray” area, and I’m going to teach others.

Now I found my voice again. I’m no longer scared. I’m no longer frozen in shock.

I have found my voice again.

And I will tell anyone who will listen. Silence is the abuser’s greatest weapon.

So, did I “cry rape”?

No.

Neither instance was legally sexual assault, and I have never said it was.

Eight sexual assault professionals, including a legal advocate, a lawyer, and a PTSD/sexual assault recovery specialist said the first instance was rape. Forcible rape. And that’s when I started using the R word. Seven of the eight said the second instance was sexual assault, the eighth said it was sexual abuse. The cops said both instances in legal terms were “sexual exploitation” and “domestic violence.” Every single professional I’ve spoken with, including the cops, recognized the mind and actions of an abuser.

So, whether or not you call it “rape” or “sexual assault” or “sexual abuse” or “domestic violence” or just a real sadistic fuck using emotional manipulation and violent, angry sex to punish and hurt another person, it all adds up to the same thing: this is a dangerous man.

One of the reasons he’s so dangerous is that this monster hides behind such loving affection, happy-go-lucky attitude, a deep spiritual facade, and oh-so-rational words, that no one will ever suspect it. So, of course…

The community supports him and shuns me.

He laughs and smiles and jokes with them.

Of course he does, he hasn’t been traumatized.

He has “three wonderful relationships.”

Of course he does, he hasn’t been traumatized.

He goes to burning events and to dances and to Bedpost and to poly dinners.

Of course he does, he hasn’t been traumatized.

He goes on runs and hikes and swims without looking over his shoulder in fear.

Of course he does, he hasn’t been traumatized.

He has sex and cuddles and laughs and orgasms with his lovers.

Of course he does, he hasn’t been traumatized.

These things and more he and his assaults, body and soul, have robbed from me.

And all this time. All this agony. All this public processing. All this struggle. All this fear. Where one kind word from him could’ve eased so much of it. One “I’m sorry, let’s talk” could’ve saved me weeks of anguish and suicidal ideation. Thousands in counseling. It could’ve save me days of catatonia. Disassociation. Weeping for hours, days, weeks. Unable to write fiction. Unable to work. Unable to cook. Unable to pay bills. Unable to function. Suicidal to the point that my husband was terrified of getting off the phone with me, because what had happened to me was worse than death. Loss of hope. Loss of self. Loss of control. Loss of safety. All, by the way, common symptoms of PTSD and Rape Crisis Syndrome.

Playing with someone’s heart is not a game.

Playing with someone’s soul is not a game.

Violating previously established boundaries and sexualized aggression for punishment is not a game.

It’s rape.

And yet, nothing.

Not one kind word. Not one call. Not one text.

But even if he had texted or called, it still wouldn’t have changed the assaults. Admission and an apology, or even just acknowledgment of my anguish, would’ve gone a long way, though. It would have at least showed me he cared. That it wasn’t all a lie.

But it was.

Every “I love you.” Every “I adore you.” Every “Look into my eyes.” All of it.

That’s how much he loved me. And that’s how much he loves you, too. Just wait and see. You’re just a placeholder, just as I was, there until he’s bored or you no longer adore him unquestionably or just because he feels like it (because it is all about him, after all). I only hope you don’t let him in as deeply as I did, and it may not be as bad for you. That’s the thing that makes me cry still all these months later (and yes, I still cry every. fucking. day): I will never let anyone in as deep again. I may never trust anyone again, not after this deeply profound betrayal.

Thanks to him.

That’s his lasting gift to me.

So, no. I’m not “crying rape.”

I’m using the word eight. different. sexual. assault. professionals. used.

I’m using the word that describes what he did to me on every level of my being: psychological, spiritual, emotional, and sexual.

I’m surviving. I’m protecting myself. I’m using the only thing I have: my voice.

And, I refuse to stay silent.

-_Q