Last November, I was raped. Twice.
It was date-rape, and for a long time, I kept it to myself; wouldn't even tell my folks. I just wanted to pretend that it didn't happen, but you can't run from your problems and ignoring something never makes it go away.
Eventually the stress caused me to snap. I went berserk. I cut off over 14 inches of my hair, leaving it a very short bob (though I did end up donating the hair to "Locks of Love"). I took as many of my Robaxins as I could (each pill is 500mg, and I took about five of them), as well as all my Kolonopins that I could. I hoped that I would over-dose and die. When that didn't work, I got my hair wet, put on a racer-back and a pair of shorts and went outside (it was the dead of winter--late December early January) hoping to freeze to death. I was found and, against my will, brought back in and put under suicide watch.
Finally, I elected to tell my mother what had happened. I had to do so in a letter, as I couldn't even bear to say the words. I was ashamed of myself for what had happened; felt like it was my fault, felt like a whore, felt stupid and weak. My mother, as to be expected, told my dad what had happened. Since then, I have told other family members (including "family" that aren't related to me like my "Aunt" Kelly and my "Uncle" James). I was starting to feel better, starting to move past this on my own.
Then, the proverbial shit hit the fan. For an assignment in one of my classes, I had to keep a journal of my thoughts, feelings, and the happenings of the day. I did not know that I had to turn it in for it to be read--I thought that it was personal. My professor saw that that had happened from one of my entries and informed the Dean. I was called into the Dean's office. He suggested to me that I seek help from the Bluegrass Rape Crisis Centre.
Thinking that that would help me, I went and asked for assistance. I was sent to a therapist. I thought it would fix me, but it has made me worse. In each session, she would make me relive it, talk about it. Pick that scab open. It has made me far, far worse than I was before. Before, I was just a bit uneasy around men that I perceived as a threat (big guys, guys that look mean, pervy-looking guys), but after talking to her, there are only four men that I trust outside of my own family. I often feel anger and resentment towards men that I had never felt before, sometimes even lashing out at my own father. The therapy was intended to fix me, but instead, it only served to break me further.
I can barely even watch any sort of action or horror movie because I am afraid that there will be a rape-scene in it (as those have become far too prominent in films these days and really should stop) and it will cause me to panic--serve as a trigger and ruin me for the rest of the day. I used to love horror and action films, but I am anxious, now.
I know that I am just some anonymous person on the internet and that none of you will likely care or even read this, but I felt like I should share.