Where it All Started; Hey Randy

The following post is what started it all…posting as Melina Leigh and all. I posted this under my real name, and the backlash from family was, well, I wouldn’t call it backlash if it was considered acceptable, now would I? But, yes, this post started it all. And, well, I have been feeling a bit of an urge to write more about what happened to me, to work through some things, but I have other responsibilities that have to come ahead of really sitting down and hashing it out. And, if I’m honest, I know it’s going to be a gut-wrenching, soul draining experience, one which I do not know if I can deal with right now. So, in the meantime, I wanted to at least post this as Melina. It was always in my plan to do so, but because of all of the drama it caused, I wanted to put some time between the initial post and posting as Melina. Soooooo….here it is, long, drawn out intros and Dr. Suess-like verse and all…ML

 

Nearly 12 years ago, on the night of January 24, 2001; rather, probably more accurately, the wee hours of the morning of January 25, 2001, I lost my virginity. It was not exactly by choice. It took more than a year for me to realize that it was not my fault, and if I were to be completely honest, I’ve spent much of the last 12 years avoiding dealing with this trauma. I was raped. But, I still feel, and perhaps always will, a sense of responsibility. I was stupid drunk that night; I allowed myself to lose control; to lose so much control that I couldn’t speak, let alone tell this guy no. Perhaps this is why I am now such a control freak. I also often feel as though I have no right; no right to be traumatized, no right to have avoided dealing with what happened to me…I mean, I know a young woman who was gang raped while in a foreign country, and left in an alley to DIE…and here she is, less than 10 years later, making sure there is legislation in place to protect other young women in the Peace Corps. My experience was not so traumatic, was not a near death experience, and I have done nothing, back when it happened, nor any time since, to keep this from happening to other women. Compared to all this young lady went through, and so many others whose stories I’ve read, I feel my experience insignificant. My therapist says it was not…and I must deal with it. I’m starting to delve into it in therapy, and also, now in writing.

A huge thank you must be given to those friends who helped me that night, and the following harrowing days as I dealt with this…situation. I don’t know if I ever did thank them back then…I do remember what was done for me, and who was there, and it will not be forgotten. I must also send many thanks to my writer friend Rachel “In the OC” Thompson, who opened up about a childhood trauma in a recent post (http://omgabe.wordpress.com/2012/09/26/a-letter-to-the-pedophile-next-door/). Reading Rachel’s post allowed me to write about my own experience…it finally felt like it was “okay” for me to begin writing. I am sure there is more to come; I know I’ve only just begun. For the following post, I refrained from doing much editing…I think that some things are best displayed and conveyed in the raw. I don’t know why the rhyming started in the second half; it could just have been a way to avoid, which I am so very good at. I know it seems almost Dr. Seuss-like, but I just could not bring myself to change it. So, here goes nothing….L

 

Hey Randy

I rarely drink vodka, Randy, because of that night. I’ve never played quarters again, because of that night. Do you remember Randy?

I know your first name was Randy; I do not remember your last. I know you were hairy; I do not remember your face. I know that for weeks after, I thought every average-looking scruffy guy I saw, I thought it was you.

I know it was my first time; to which you said every chance you got, “No Way.” You heard “OOH,” when I said “OW,” the only words I could mumble that night.

I sent my friend home, I thought you were cute. I still planned to wait for marriage; I did not want it, not like you did.

I thought I loved another man; it was his face that kept appearing in my mind. So was the word NO, but I was too far gone. I don’t know how or when my clothes came off Randy; but the next thing I knew; you were naked and hairy above me as you poised to do the deed.

I got home a mess, still drunk as could be. Despite the late hours, a crowd I did bring, and I could not answer the question, Randy, did you cum inside me? Because of my stupor, my crazy drunk self, folks planned my next day. I did not know that answer, so to the clinic I went, hung-over, ashamed, and blaming myself.

I went through the exam, the tests. I answered the questions, “No I was not raped, I brought this on myself.” I really believed this, and sometimes still do; on the rare occasions I allow myself to think about you. A pill I did swallow, a life perhaps ended. My friends thought it best, and I think that may be true.

Our story should end here Randy, and I wish it were so. Some friends said you raped me, and I told them “No.” That should be the end, but twas not as we both know.

I got a call, Randy, about a week later; they told me something was the matter. A disease they said, but with a cure. I must come in for meds, and call you for sure. I had to call you, to tell you the news. Again you said “No Way,” for this and for more. You called me a liar, you might as well have called me a whore; “I don’t have it” you swore and you swore.

I went back to the clinic, and drank the swill, the medicine was a powder, not even a pill. Barely home from the trip, or just the next day, I got another call. She told me to sit down, and I was filled with dread because I assumed I was dead. No death sentence Randy, no, not at all. The hospital made a mistake, for goodness sake!

The results were bogus, so yes you were right, but I still had to call you again and tell you that night. You insulted me. You said I cried rape. Anything I said, I kept the blame on myself; you did not believe me, and told me to keep quiet. Your version was truth, mine was all fiction. And so I acknowledged the blame as my own; “I did this to myself,” I often thought, with much conviction.

As months passed, Randy, there was backlash. I was told how much I liked it; those folks heard that from you. I tried to move on, and so I thought I did. Then one year later, Randy, it hit me like a freighter. You are my rapist, Randy, a rapist and traitor.

It doesn’t matter, your last name or your face, you took something from me, something I cannot replace. It doesn’t matter I was drunk and unable to speak, you violated me Randy, all you did was take. You can tell yourself lies, you can spread them too. But hey Randy, I know the truth about you.

 

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Posted on March 30, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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