Monday, December 23, 2013

It was Oran, wasn't it?

After my stepbrother left the house that day he cornered me in my room, I think I called my stepmom. Not to confess anything, I did not know how to do that, or what to say, but instead to warn her about him. Believe me, I wanted to tell her, but instead I sent her an awkward warning about how he had confessed to being on a cocaine binge. You definitely cannot call someone while they are at work and tell them over the phone that you had been raped by their son. But this would get the questions started. This would begin the conversations we would have so that I could tell them. After they knew what had happened, they would take care of me. My father would comfort me and make me feel better- like I had value. Then maybe this hoorible feeling of dirtiness and shame would wash away.
The tension in the house was palpable over the next few days. My stepmother had gone looking into her son, investigating what I had told her. One night she called me into her room. She began to question me about her son. Her questions sounded accusatory, as if I was the one on drugs, not him. Then she brought up the letters I had written him in prison. I had told him I wasnt a virgin when he had demeaned me. At the time I thought that was true because when I was in Kindergarten, my friend Christina and I had been playing Barbies. After playing mommy and daddy, we had our dolls have sex. Then we got naked in her bed and pressed ourselves against each other as if we could have sex. [Looking back- she knew way too much about sex. This is an incredibly huge sign of sexual abuse.] In my innocence I thought we had had sex. I confessed this to my stepmom. She told me that that was not sex. It did not count. In my relief I said, that besides that my only sexual experience was when I had been raped.
Oh wow. The cat was out of the bag now.
Who was it?? Who Was IT? she questioned for over a half hour. I just shook my head. How could I tell her it was her son?  
Was it one of Oran's friends?
I immediately answered her, No.
Oops.The way I quickly answered her said a lot more than I intended.
It was Oran wasn't it? It was Oran? It was Oran, wasnt it? It was Oran. It was Oran!
She repeated herself for a few minutes in shock and aggressiveness. I finally caved.
Yes.
Oh no. Just like he did to his sister, she mumbled to herself.

What?
Watching as the reality of it hit her, I saw it overwhelm her and take her energy. But then only about a minute later, she stiffened as if she had told herself no. That is when she shut down. She finished talking to me and went and used the phone. She called my stepsister in another state. They talked for over an hour. I went to bed because the emotionalism of the situation had drained me. Admitting to being raped is acknowledging that it had happened. I did not want it to be true. Saying that it is true changes everything.It makes your nightmare real and you have to relive it. Bits and pieces of the rape came back. It was overwhelming. Over and over again in my mind, he raped you, played whether I wanted it to or not. You cannot block it out sometimes. So instead I chose to sleep. There was not enough in me to listen to it any more. Sleep was the only thing that could turn it off.