"Unbroken Threads: A Woman's Journey Through Hardship and Purpose"

Shame

"The shame associated with date rape is a deeply distressing and pervasive emotional burden carried by survivors. This form of sexual assault often involves a betrayal of trust and can leave survivors grappling with feelings of guilt and self-blame. Society's persistent victim-blaming narratives can exacerbate this shame, making it even more difficult for survivors to come forward and seek support. 

Breaking the silence and dispelling the shame surrounding date rape is crucial to fostering an environment where survivors can access the help and healing they deserve, without fear or judgment. It is essential to remember that the responsibility for date rape lies solely with the perpetrator, not the survivor."

Even after almost 26 years, I still find myself burdened by self-criticism. During one of my and Justin's numerous breaks, I spent my alone time attempting to make a new connection in the hopes of eventually moving on. The day prior, I had an encounter with an attractive international football player named Red at the mall. Red, a 24-year-old, had caught my eye.

We spoke over the phone a couple of times. In the '90s, my means of communication were limited to a home phone and a pager, so Red and I hadn't engaged in much conversation. I assumed that Red had invited me to his place to get to know me better.

At that time, I was just 19 years old, and given my limited experience with men, I had no expectations beyond a friendly conversation. I borrowed my mom's new car to visit him, telling her I was spending time with my cousins, a lie that would only compound the problems later on. I arrived at Red's place around 6:00 pm, dressed in a cute skirt and a crop top. He resided in an upscale condo, known for its luxury. 

To my surprise, when I stepped inside his home, I found it devoid of living room furniture, with most of his belongings still packed in boxes. This situation led us to spend time in his bedroom, a decision that would turn out to be a significant error in judgment.

His bedroom was immaculate. The bed was huge, so there was plenty of space for us to sit separately. Red turned on the television so we could watch a show while we talked. Not 20 minutes later, he was on top of me. That skirt that was once cute was now easy access. My "No's" went unheard as he did his business. As soon as he finished, I got up and left.

As if the situation couldn't get any worse, it did. Once I reached my mom's car, I quickly realized that one of the tires had been maliciously slashed—clearly an act of revenge, likely orchestrated by a scorned girlfriend I was unaware of. I found myself in a precarious predicament. I had lied to my mother about my whereabouts, so I couldn't turn to her for help. My embarrassment over the situation made me determined to keep it a secret from everyone. What I did next was born out of sheer desperation.

Knock, Knock! That's the sound of me knocking on Red's door. I asked for help changing the tire. I was at his mercy once again, and he took full advantage, once again. Red surprisingly agreed to fix the tire but insisted that we take a quick trip to the store to purchase some food and drinks before changing the tire.

Reluctantly, I accompanied him to the store, even though it felt rather unusual. In hindsight, I realized that if he needed to dispute my claims of rape, he could refer to surveillance footage, as we went shopping together after it happened.

As we shopped together, a growing sense of unease settled in me, and my anxiety escalated as we returned to his place. After having a drink, he ushered me back into his room and uttered, "The first time wasn't as good as I'd hoped. Let's see if you can do better." At that moment, I felt trapped, with no apparent choice but to comply.

Once we were done, he surprisingly praised my performance and, at last, changed the tire. That night, I silently wept, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. I took a long, quiet shower, choosing to keep Red's actions to myself. At that point, I was more concerned about maintaining my reputation as a good girl than admitting my imperfections and lies.

I confided in Justin, knowing that once he found out that I'd been with another man during our break, he might not want me back, and my intuition proved accurate. I only told him because, at that moment, he was the one I trusted the most. However, he accused me of fabricating the story as a way to divert attention from my guilt of cheating. Technically, we weren't together; we were on a break!

Justin questioned why I hesitated to report it if that were truly the case. That permanently marked the end of my relationship with Justin.

I must have dialed the rape hotline at least ten times, each time ending the call before anyone could answer. In my mind, I associated such actions with scenarios where women were subjected to brutal attacks by deranged strangers in parks or relentless stalkers following them home. I didn't feel deserving of that kind of help, as my situation seemed incomparable by comparison. For some reason, Red continued to page me. He even called once and asked if we could officially date. What!? No.