Did You Tell Your Rapist to Stop?

I never felt like I had the right to call it “rape,” because I never said stop

*Trigger Warning: this article contains descriptions of sexual assault that may not be suitable for all readers. Fearless community, please read with care.*

I have tried to write the true story of my rape for years. I never dared to tell anyone about the reckoning of my adolescence openly. I have never dared to admit I was raped openly. It has taken me until this very moment to call it what it was — rape. I never thought I had that right. Why? I gave consent.

I never told my rapist to stop. He didn’t pull me into a bush; he didn’t force himself onto me; he just invited me to his home. I willing went. I got up the nerve, lied to my parents about where I was, and got on a city bus to his house.

I was 14.

He was 24.

After school — in the 9th grade — I took a city bus to my friend's house. We were meeting after school for a group project. It was mid-afternoon, around 4 pm. A man twice my age sat in the seats adjacent to me.

I smiled, and he winked. He started talking to me and told me I looked familiar. Instantly I thought, he looks old enough to be my sister's age. I asked if he knew my sister, and he said she went to his high school. My sister is ten years older than me.

He then asked me for my BBM pin — BlackBerry Messenger. It happened so quickly, the next thing I knew, my BlackBerry was in his hand, and he was inputting his pin and phone number.

As I got off the bus, he said: “Text me!”

I had the biggest smile on my face knowing someone twice my age was interested in me. I texted him immediately. Then the question I worried about came through my BlackBerry.

“How old are you.”

“14.”

I was an awkward, chubby teen. Boys didn’t like me as more than just a friend. I was the “funny friend.” Boys wanted to hang out with me because I was funny, but none of them wanted to date me because I was “fat.” So when someone of the opposite gender was interested in me, I was blinded by excitement. I was vulnerable, and I am sure he knew it.

Over the next three days, we texted, got to know each other, and then, he invited me to his house. I was excited to get to hang out with him finally. I thought it was so cool that someone in their 20’s wanted to hang out with me. I had never imagined that someone would like me.

Finally, I went to see him. I arrived at his house, and he brought me into his basement apartment at his parent's house. I remember thinking how cool it was that he could have an entire apartment in his basement that he had to himself.

I thought I was doing something adult when he invited me to his bedroom. Isn’t this what adults do? I followed, and we watched a movie. Then he got on top of me. I wasn’t sure if it was what I wanted. I never let it go further than kissing. I remember wondering if this was how it was supposed to feel when someone kissed me.

When I went to school on Friday — I was a freshman — I spoke with a teacher and told her what happened. I was uneasy about it but also wanted to talk to an adult that wasn’t my mom. I told her everything from start to finish, what happened, when, and where. I asked her not to tell my French language teacher as she and I had a close bond. I didn’t want her to be mad or the bond to be ruined.

She told me I shouldn’t go back and that I should be careful. I told her he was friends with my sister, and it would be okay. I had plans with him that night. He told me not to tell anyone, but I felt I needed to say something to someone.

That night when I arrive at his house, we went straight to his bedroom. I got into his bed, and we watched a movie. This time he got naked. I was so nervous. This was the first time I had ever seen a man naked. I panicked, took a deep breath, and went with it.

“Touch it.”

The sound of his voice burned into my mind for eternity.

“oh, okay.”

After what felt like 3 hours, but was maybe 10 minutes, he orgasmed. I, for the first time, saw another person have an orgasm. I jumped out of bed and thought — what the fuck was that.

I panicked. I grabbed my things and told him I had to go before my mom found out I was here. He asked if I wanted to stay overnight and couldn’t get out of his house fast enough. I was so afraid and shook as I walked out of his house.

On Monday, when I walked into school, I was called into my French teacher's classroom. There stood the teacher I told and a woman I thought so highly of. I shook as I sat on the top of a desk. Looking at a woman that cares so much about me, I saw her eyes soften.

“What happened this weekend, Adan.”

I lost it. I told her the story; I didn't lie or leave out details. I told her the story from the beginning to the end, hoping that I wouldn’t get into trouble. I was so afraid that I would be in big trouble for this situation and that no one would ever trust my judgment again.

“Adan, tonight, when you get home, you need to tell your mom. I am going to call her tomorrow. If you aren’t the first one to tell her, I will be.”

Guilt rushed over me. She is going to be so mad at me. She’s never going to trust me again. It’s my fault, why did I go there? Why did I do this? I can’t believe I made such a terrible mistake. I was embarrassed, I knew I was wrong, and I shouldn’t have gone, but I did it anyway.

That night, my mom was doing laundry. I met her in the hallway and said: “I need to tell you something.”

I told her the story, the same way I told my French teacher. My mom was angry; she yelled and told me I couldn’t go anywhere after school. I had to be at home or the dance studio. I had to call her once every hour and call from my friends home phone numbers when I got there.

I asked my mom not to tell my sister. I was embarrassed and didn’t want her to know that I was so stupid. I wanted to be an adult, like her. My mom told my sister, and with that knowledge, she showed up at his workplace. Sledgehammer in hand, and told him to stay away from me.

For two years, my mom called me, called my parent's houses, called my friends parents, called my school, and watched me like a hawk. It felt like a prison sentence that I didn’t deserve. I made a mistake. Instead of blaming him, my mother blamed me.

When I turned 15, I was talking with my school counselor. I saw her once a week at school on Friday mornings. It was part of a program for children with alcoholic parents.

I started talking to her and then stopped. And she looked at me quizzically. Almost puzzled that my mouth had stopped moving and that I had spaced out. I was having a flashback to the moment when my rapist had cum.

“Can I tell you something?” — I told Alleta.

“Always.”

I stopped and was afraid. I didn’t want to bring it up and then have to go through the process of telling my mom again. I didn’t know the repercussions of me telling her.

“Adan, you can tell me anything.”

“I don’t want to get into trouble again.”

“Adan, I am going to preface this by saying, if you tell me about anything illegal, thoughts of suicide, or any acts of violence at home, I will have to report it.”

“Okay”

I just stared at the clock in front of me. Fifty-six minutes and 37 seconds until this session is over. I can sit quietly for 56 minutes and then go back to class and pretend like this never happened. I can act like I never brought it up.

“Adan, what’s going on, girlfriend.”

I started to cry, and Aleta got up and hugged me. The biggest hug I had ever gotten. Something was so special about the way Aleta wrapped her arms around me. She reassured me that it’s going to be okay.

I collected myself and then told her everything. From the beginning, what happened eight months earlier, who he was, his name, the teacher that disregarded my trust I had in her, and the way my mom had been treating me.

Aletta looked at me as she shed a tear. She smiled and grabbed my leg, and leaned close to me. She looked me in the eye and told me that I would be okay. I wouldn’t need to carry this guilt anymore. I could let it go.

“I am going to have to report this, Adan.”

I knew that she would have to tell someone; I knew it because she told me earlier. I needed to give her all of the information because I couldn’t carry this anymore, and I was having flashbacks. I was shaking when I would see him in public. I panicked every time I thought of him ejaculating. It wasn’t going away.

Aletta picked up the phone, dialed the local police phone number, and told me that everything would be fine. As she clicked each number, I shuttered, knowing what was going to happen next.

“Hello, may I speak with an officer?”

I started to cry, and she grabbed my arm. She smiled and nodded, indicating that I was doing the right thing. At the time, it didn’t feel right. I was petrified my dad would know that I would be all over the newspaper as the stupid girl that let a man ten years her senior rape her.

Then an officer picked up the phone.

“Hello, My name is Aletta; I would like to report a rape.”

I would love to tell you that this was the end of the story. That he was convicted, sent to prison, I continued therapy with Aleta, and thankfully I have closure from my rape. But none of that is true.

He never went to jail. He never was even spoken to by a police officer. I chose not to press charges when she told me what would happen to him. At 15, I had to make a choice. She told me that if I pressed charges, he would go to jail, be put on the sex offenders list, and then never get a job again. I looked at my mom, and she told me it was my choice.

“I don’t want to carry that guilt. That’s worse than what I carry now.”

The case was closed.

Aleta had to stop being my therapist, and I had to transition to a sexual assault therapist, which at the time was terrible. I flowed through seven different sexual assault support workers. It was a revolving door of women giving up on me or me them.

I stopped getting therapy and just tried to let time pass. I tried not to let it get to me, and if I saw him in public, I would leave. I tried not to think about the situation and block the memory. I had everything was taken from me: my freedom, my mom’s trust, and my favorite therapist.

Sometimes, I wonder if he did what he did to me to other girls. I try not to think about it because if I could do it over, I would have gone through with putting him in jail and pressing charges. Maybe then I would have saved other girls that he may have attacked.

I’ve seen him a few times since the incident. And many times at the local dive bars where he’s tried to come onto me, not remembering who I am. I always wondered if he even realized what he was doing was wrong. Then I remember I was a child. He was an adult.

I could never call it a rape. When women would talk about situations of their rapes, all of them were different from mine. They all sounded different acted differently, and many of them didn’t want it to happen. I, on the other hand, in my 14-year-old mind, wanted it.

I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve to call it a rape. He didn’t have penetrated sex with me, I willingly went to his home, and I first got into his bed. I willingly touched his naked body. It was never forced.

Do I deserve to call it rape?

What do you keep from your rape? What still replays in your mind? Is there a moment that doesn’t go away? What do you do with that thought and memories? How do we make them go away?

I will live forever with that rape as a part of my history and story. I will carry it in my suitcase of events. Not because I want to, but because I have no choice. Would I change it if I could — no. Why? Well, without that experience, I would have never had my guard up in college and life. I have a guard that has protected me from dangerous situations.

Some may say that I chose to be raped, that I let it happen, and that I deserve to live with the consequences of my actions. I deserved it because I was dumb enough to arrive at his doorstep. Maybe they say the same about your rape. Why am I to blame? I don’t deserve to hold the memory of watching an adult man ejaculate at 14 years old, even if I put myself in the situation.

If you had a man or woman touch you even if you originally asked for it and later changed your mind and didn’t know how to get out of the situation, you have the right to call it what you want.

If your mind is tormented by a sexual encounter invited or not, you have the right to call it anything you damn well, please. Those who believe it’s our fault could never hold the burden victims of sexual assault carry. And for that, we should keep our heads high with the courage to overcome anything.

No one deserves to experience a sexual assault. Still, if I could change one thing, I wouldn’t because I would never have become the strong, confident, independent woman I am today without that experience.

And for that, I’ll forgive him, thank him, and wish him well.

I am not a doctor, therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist. If you are in a predatory relationship, have an unreported rape, or are currently in a dangerous situation comparable to this, please seek help. There are many places you can go to, including a woman’s shelter.

If you need someone to talk to you can always call the National Victim of Sexual Assault hotline.

1800.656.HOPE (4673)

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental illness, suicide, or suicidal thoughts, never hesitate to contact your local crisis line, the national crisis line, or dial 9–11

Canada: 1–833–456–4566 USA: 1–800–784–2433