It’s Always the Ones Close to You…

To give a little background about myself: I am a twenty-two (22) year-old African-American who was raised in the Caribbean – Antigua and Barbuda to be exact – where island life suits me just fine yet will jump at the opportunity to travel every chance I get. I love the simple things in life and enjoy my own company 90% of time. I’m not much of a talker and I hate putting my problems on people. I say all this because my personality plays a part in how I reacted with the situation as well as how I am today.

    Two years ago, I was in the last year of college acquiring my Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice but before that I was home on vacation enjoying some much-needed family time after being away from them for three and a half (3 1/2) years straight. During my time home, I reconnected with an old classmate from primary school. He was fun, easy-going, a jokester – everything that I wasn’t, and it was refreshing; almost like I found a balance in my life. And it helped that we knew each other beforehand so I was comfortable.

    The days leading up to me getting ready to leave for college to finish my last year, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I was elated and overwhelmed because our time spent together had been amazing, but I had to decline. I’ve read about the struggles of long-distance relationships and I didn’t want to be a part of that despite my feelings. But he convinced me…

    I went through the year floating on cloud nine because we texted almost on a daily basis, spoke almost every week and skyped at least six times a month. However, I was struggling financially and made the tough decision to return home instead of forcing a life in America. Although, it did give me another reason to see my boyfriend. I was gonna treat it as a surprise.

    One night, we were having one of our weekly phone calls where I let it slip that it was getting close to me coming home. Of course, he was excited and making plans for us which had me smiling but that smile immediately dropped when the topic of intimacy came up. After a year, I was ready for it – for him – but he got eerily quiet. I asked him what was wrong, and it was like he completely forgot we were having a conversation because these words will forever be printed on my brain:

    “My girlfriend wouldn’t like that…”

    My mind went blank for a second before it clicked: all the time I thought I was the girlfriend when – in fact – I was the side chick. His rationale: because I wasn’t there, it just happened. I was so hurt but I couldn’t turn back: I had already quit my job, possessions were already shipped home, flight was booked, and my lease was up the same day as the flight. I had to go back, but what I didn’t know was that I was walking into a situation that would change the way I think about relationships, interactions, intimacy and the likes about men.

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    It hadn’t been a proper month since I got back where I received more calls and messages than a CEO of a booming business in the seventies. It was draining but I never complained. I don’t like putting my problem on others, so I sadly took up the mantra: if I ignore it, it would go away. I also kept blocking numbers until my fingers hurt; I even made it known that I didn’t want to deal with him ever again. But did he get the message? Did it work?

    No, it didn’t.

    It got so bad that he even started showing up to my home. At the time I was still job-hunting, so I was unfortunately home whenever he showed up whether during the day or in the middle of the night. It took me loosing my dogs in the yard so that he couldn’t step an inch passed the fence! Ever since I that day, I thought I was free from months of harassment.

    Sadly, I only got three months of blissful peace before the dogs started making a bunch of noise in the middle of the night. Please know that my dogs don’t make unnecessary noise. It woke my family up. I did the investigating and I recognized the vehicle – it was him – so I decided to handle it. I went outside and demanded he leave without involving my family. Stupidly, I was coaxed into the vehicle with him and we had a full-blown argument.

    I was so riled up that I told him what he was doing was ridiculous and that the second I step foot out of this vehicle, I didn’t want him anywhere near me or my house. What I wasn’t prepared for was him putting an air about him that made me feel guilty for saying what I said. I even apologized for shouting. He took that as a sign that everything that he has done – the emotional pain and torment, and months of harassment – was forgiven and it was the green light for him to kiss me.

    I slapped him…hard. There was a pause. You would expect that one of the typical reactions for him was to stop and question my action, but no. He grabbed my wrists and put them behind my back then tied them with a jacket I was wearing before pulling my sleep shorts and panties to the side and pushed his dick into my dry hole.

    Everything in me shattered like a glass panel on a concrete sidewalk. It hurt so bad that I couldn’t scream; only tears fell and the beautiful memories that I had of him shattered just like that metaphorical glass panel. It was replaced by every grunt and groan of him finding his pleasure in an act that was not mutual and has now scarred me for the rest of my life. It was a literal out-of-body experience for me because I’m not lying when I say that I saw my body incapacitated with my face pressed up against the backdoor glass with tears streaming down soulless eyes, and he was pressing sloppy kisses against my skin in a sick way of showing affection.

    I screamed at my body begging to put an end to the torment somehow. But alas, I knew it was hopeless. I had lost a piece of myself that I desperately want back but can never get. I didn’t know it was over until he righted my clothes, kissed my cheek, opened the car door and all but shoved me telling me to get some sleep.

    I was like a zombie going back to house and my little brother was the first to ask me if something happened. Everything I learned in college about rape, the process of evidence, the courts - everything flashed through my mind of how tedious this was going to be and – knowing my demeaner – I didn’t want to go through that. That was the first time I’ve ever lied to him. I took a shower and scrubbed my skin with a bristle brush for damn near two hours trying to get situation off my skin, but it kept replaying in my mind and the tears started to flow again just as hot and powerful as the stream of the showerhead. The next day, I burned the clothes I was wearing because I didn’t want any memories in my house or anywhere near me. It was bad enough that it happened in front of my driveway.

    I couldn’t sleep for a month because every time I closed my eyes, it would come up vividly behind my eyelids like a successful movie premiere in the theatre. Then one day, he decided to show up at my house again in broad daylight. I had it. I made the conscious decision that there was going to be an incident that day and one person was going to jail while the other was six feet under. I grabbed one of the many cutlasses (machete globally known) that was littered around the house and flew out the house.

    He was smart; he didn’t exit his car because as soon as he saw me with the cutlass, he was gone. A trail of dust in his wake. I can’t truly be rid of him because we live on the same island and restraining orders can’t really work because it is a small island. But I have been successful; at a price. I don’t have a social life anymore, I’m scared to venture out and try new things and meet new people especially guys for fear that might be there. I’ve tried sex a handful of times and every time I did the deed, I cried and felt dirty afterward. I’m scared to share myself with anyone: my likes and dislikes, hobbies, etc.– even something as simple as introducing myself with my real name is difficult because I don’t want anyone finding me.

    I get anxious every time I’m around the opposite sex, especially if I don’t know them and physical contact is a big no-no. In a professional setting, I have to force myself to shake hands if I’m being introduced to the sex and I get antsy if I’m the only female in the room. I’m at a point where I want to try having a relationship but the thought of having to deal with guy scares me all because of him.

What I’m trying to relay with my story is that abuse, rape, trauma, and everything related to this topic is not always spontaneous and fit into one category. It can evolve, and you could be none-the-wiser even with red flags hitting you in the face.