I was in rehab about 15 years ago, and we were all invited to
share a story about some event that shook us and made us consider
sobriety. My own story was short (OD and a plea bargain with the
judge) but I'll always remember the story of a woman I was with.

Tonight I am feeling particularly down as someone kind of pressed
my "Bitch Button" today, so I thought I'd write this one down
rather than wallow in my own self-pity. (It's like counting your
blessing in reverse I guess - I sometimes get over my own shitty
day by comparing my plight to that of others.)

Note: This didn't happen to me I promise you- but I always write
in the first person as I'm kind of incapable of holding a story
together if I try any other style.

#######

It was a particularly depressing day in mid-December and I was
doing some Christmas shopping.  The mall was packed and I
couldn't find a parking place at first, but finally found an
empty spot behind a closed-up auto repair shop.  My old car
didn't look too out of place parked between two broken down autos
that had been abandoned by the previous owner.

I didn't find much to shop for - just my mom and my sister who
were both back home in Colorado - so after picking up a few gifts
to mail home I stopped in and bought myself a few small things. I
couldn't afford it really. I have a shit job and no money, but I
hadn't really bought any clothing for myself since the funeral.

When I exited the mall, it was just after sunset.  I walked to my
car not even thinking about the isolated location or lack of
light, and when I turned the corner to where it was parked, I
found myself quickly surrounded by three large black men.  I
started to make a break for it, but one had a gun and the other
grabbed me firmly by the arm. Nothing I was carrying seemed worth
my life so I just gave in.

They took my packages and my purse and I thought everything was
done, but it wasn't. One of the men quite calmly reached down
with both hands and jerked the leggings I was wearing to my
knees.  It happened so fast I didn't even have time to fight.

I was shocked as I realized this might be more than a robbery,
but the big guy with the gun had my attention and he made the
signal to remain quiet.  I did. The other man pulled off my shoes
and removed my pants and underwear the rest of the way leaving me
naked from the waist down.

Without a word, he led me to my car and bent me over the trunk
lid.  It was all done so fast I didn't have time to fight or
scream.

I remember thinking the sheet metal of the trunk lid was very
cold and I was just glad I still had my long-sleeved blouse as a
buffer against the freezing surface.  The cool air on my exposed
bottom half wasn't quite as bad as the cold metal and I fixated
on that as it was a way to deal with the shock of what was
happening otherwise.

Then, I felt the first man position himself to enter me and it
all became real that I was being raped.

It's crazy to think of it now, but not a word was said as all of
this happened.  No demands, no pleas, no crying. The gun in the
man's hand pretty much said all that needed to be said.

My rapist was quiet and unhurried, driving into me fast and
establishing a quick rhythm that lasted just a few minutes. When
he was done there wasn't so much as a grunt, just that feeling of
suddenly feeling wet and full inside.  He exited and the next man
took his place.

It didn't hurt any more than sex usually had with my ex-husband,
who had never really been into foreplay.    I didn't feel
much...I mean I felt "it" but my mind had switched off in some
ways.  It wasn't a psychotic episode - I knew exactly what was
going on - it was more of a clinical detachment. I was aware of
the cold and the time and the fact that I was naked from the
waist down, but didn't really connect mentally with the violation
that was going on. It was just a steady thumping on my ass and
pressure in my lady parts.  It didn't seem connected with sex, or
men, or crime.

All three men had their turn - all in the same position and all
in the same hole thank the gods.  When they were finished, I lay
on that trunk and they stepped back.  I was aware that my sex was
coated with their sperm and dripping in ways I had never
experienced. I was embarrassed by that - but it was the kind of
embarrassment you might experience if you wet yourself in public.

One of the men opened my purse and retrieved my car keys and put
them on the trunk lid near my face.  Another put my pants and
shoes on the other side next to my head. Then they just walked
away.

I was afraid to move for a few minutes, but eventually the cold
got to me and I stood up.  I looked on the ground for my
underwear before realizing the men had taken them as a kind of
trophy, and when I pulled my thin leggings I realized I was so
wet with their semen that they soaked right through.

I went home to my little apartment building and did my best to
not expose my soiled self to anyone while I made my way up to my
little depressing apartment.  I lived alone now so at least I was
spared the indignity of having to explain the tale tell stains to
anyone.

I turned on the shower and just stepped in - peeling away my
clothing only after they were thoroughly soaked and the water had
heated up.  I didn't cry.  I didn't feel.  I stepped out once to
get a douche I had purchased months before thinking I'd celebrate
my single status and might need it to freshen up, but had never
imagined this.  It felt cold and dirty as I flushed their
ejaculate from my womb.  After that, I just rinsed until the
water was cold once again.

Then I ate something and went to bed.

You'd think that I would have spent the night reliving that
horrible event in my head, but to me it was just one more of a
long string of them in my recent past.

It all began when my husband lost his job.  To save money we
started using the old fireplace again to heat the house.  Because
we were always home since we couldn't afford to go out, we
started drinking too much, and I lost my job as well. We were
about to lose our house when a stray spark from the fireplace
ignited the stack of old newspapers we used to start the
daily fire and that blaze ignited the curtains and carpet. Before
we knew it the whole place was ablaze. I made it out and so did my
husband.

Our beautiful daughter who had been asleep upstairs...they, say
she probably died from smoke inhalation before she ever even woke
up. God I hope so.

We blamed ourselves.  We blamed each other.  If we hadn't both
been drunk and basically passed out when the fire had started
she would probably be alive.  There was an inquiry and there was
finger pointing.

There was fighting and there was divorce.   So there was no house
and no money, so I got the best job I could and a shitty
apartment on the wrong side of town.

And I spent my night thinking about all of that.  The rape didn't
even rate really.  It was done.  Over.  If anything, it made me
feel again for a few minutes even if those feelings were fear and
shame instead of just depression.

I missed my purse and my Christmas presents more than anything
else.

######

The person who told this story didn't make it by the way - she
killed herself after a relapse. I don't tell this tale hoping
some perv is out there who digs rape. Instead, consider this a
cautionary about how much fun rehab isn't...

(This writing is covered by international copyright. Please do
not post to any other site without permission. For more
information, contact twylamarie at ymail.com)