Sexual assaults

I have been raped three times in my life.

I blocked the memory of two of them for many, many years.

I want to document them as therapy.

Who the hell gets raped three times? Why me? And why do I feel shame? The last one I remembered (which was the first) propelled me into a short-term therapy, the kind offered by an employer’s insurance where you get ten sessions. She told me to talk about it—a lot. Get it out. Every time I talk about it I will heal a little more, she said. Telling/confessing to someone that I was raped has been difficult. Healing? Really? Sisterhood? Saying that such a thing happened three different times is extremely difficult, because I believe it changes how others see me. One can feel pity or compassion or anger or whatever for a woman who has been raped once. A woman who is repeatedly raped by her husband gets sympathy. But when it has happened three times, well that’s a different ball of wax. I think it makes me a freak of some sort. So I don’t think I will “tell” anyone anymore.

This blog is where I will forge my therapy, journal style. A one way journal, where I can purge myself.

Here at the beginning, I’ll let anyone read this. If profanity bothers you, leave. If you say/comment anything I don’t like, I’ll take it down. I may misunderstand some comments and take them down. If I do—sorry. This is about me and how I feel.

If I somehow manage offer comfort to another woman, I’m glad.

They were all very different and occurred under very different circumstances. The only thing they share in common is that the rapists were rich, white, American men who had a sense of entitlement—to me and my body.

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