The 9th
Thursday, Jan. 10, 2008 6:37 PM

"The only thing that scares me more than space aliens is the idea that there aren't any space aliens. We can't be the best that creation has to offer. I pray we're not all there is. If so, we're in big trouble." - Ellen DeGeneres

Yesterday marked my 9 year anniversary. I went through the entire day not realizing this until there was only an hour left in the day. Then it hit me, and I ate a cookie to celebrate.

Nine years ago yesterday I was raped. Nine years ago yesterday my entire life changed. Nine years ago yesterday I began the hardest struggle in my life to stay alive. I acknowledge the day every year not because I want to remember what happened to me, but because I want to celebrate the fact that I am a survivor. I survived it; and if I can survive that, I can survive anything.

Normally I sit back and reflect on everything that has happened in my life from that day forward. I relive the moments from a detached state of mind, remembering them as if they happened to somebody else. My perception is skewed at times because I was trapped in a dead haze for a very long time. Even though I was stuck there, I remember almost everything.

I have to remember. My life is still affected by that night. I believe it always will be. It's not because I can't let go of what happened to me. I let go of it a long time ago. I stopped hating the man who forced himself upon me and forgave him. It has nothing to do with that specific moment anymore. It's everything that's been an effect of that moment that will affect me for the rest of my life.

I fear sex. There are moments when I feel sexual but I want the sex to be rough. I want the abuse. I want to be degraded. Other times I want to do the degrading. But most of all, I don't want to have anything to do with sex. I am detached from it. I can talk about sex with anyone as if I'm sitting there talking about the weather. It may turn them on, but I don't care. It does nothing for me. I feel absolutely nothing, except during those rare moments.

I use sex. It's a topic I speak about freely. I don't talk about it to get attention, but I use the act, itself, to fulfill a need that is missing. For six months after that inevitable night, I slept around. I did not care who I slept with. I did not care how many men I slept with. I did not care if I orgasmed or if they did. The only thing I cared about was being used and using. To this day, it's an addiction almost as strong as my alcoholism. I crave the taste and scent of sex, but I crave the taste and scent of alcohol just a little bit more.

Confused yet? I crave sex, I use it, but I'm detached from it and normally don't want it. It makes sense to me, but maybe because I'm the one whose riding on this rollercoaster.

People often mistake my "talk" with action. They also assume that because I had this "wild" past, it means I'm a whore or a slut. They assume my present is exactly the same as my past. Normally I let the comments roll over me and beyond me. What does that person know? And what do they care? It only matters that I know the truth. The truth is, it's hard sometimes. I'm not ashamed of how many men I slept with. What I'm ashamed of is how I let them treat me and how I treated some of them.

I have the compassion and ability to love someone with all my heart. However, I can't seem to let someone love me back. The moment someone tries to love me, I shut them out. I push them away. I treat them like a stranger until I'm back in my comfort zone again.

That is just a couple of the effects from the emotional side. From the physical side there are effects, too.

Sometimes sex is painful for me. When it's painful, it feels like someone is stabbing me in the ovaries or shoving a broomstick up inside of me as far as it will go. When it's painful like this, I detach myself. I zone out until it's over. I become somebody else.

I found out a year ago I may not be able to get pregnant. If I do get pregnant, I may lose the child in a miscarriage or the baby will be born prematurely. This is the part that saddens and affects me the most. I've always wanted children - at one time almost six of them. Now I'm forced with the realization that I'll be lucky to have at least one.

And the list goes on. These are the things that will affect me for the rest of my life. It's not the rape itself, but the results of the rape. So every January 9th I take time out to be humbled. I make myself remember because it reminds me, even if it's just for a little while, how lucky I am to be alive.