MY RAPE STORY {Continued......PT.2}
By: Abel Igono
Tags: Forced, Injustice, Women, Sexual Assault, Rape

MY RAPE STORY {Continued......PT.2}

..............Then I started to have the dreams—horrible frightening nightmares, vivid replays of the trauma. I couldn’t handle it, I felt like I would explode. I finally called up a close friend who I trusted one night and told her everything. She was so nice and loving about it. She encouraged me to tell my parents, but I was too afraid. I was afraid of how they would react and how they would treat me. I was ashamed by what had happened. I was afraid it was my fault, that I was guilty, and would be blamed.

If that was not traumatic enough to deal with, it also triggered past trauma from my childhood. Being raped at seventeen brought the previous abuse I have tried to bury all back to the surface again. I talked with my friend a lot. There was so much I had bottled up inside all this time, once I opened up, it all started spilling out at once. It was hard to deal with all the emotions that were overtaking me. I got very moody, and spent a lot of time in bed. Everything was so overwhelming. I had no motivation to do anything. I didn’t shower, change my clothes or clean my room. I was thinking about suicide a lot. Thinking about all the years ahead of me made me panic. I had to kill myself, I didn’t care if I went to hell, anything was better than the hell I was going through. I decided I would tell my parents about the rape, so they would understand a little after I was dead.

I stayed up a whole night writing my will, and I wrote a suicide note and goodbye letters. I picked up the bottle of pills I hid in my dresser, but I didn’t take them. Instead, I don’t know why, I called up my friend crying and told her what I was about to do. It was late, past midnight, but she came over right away. She sat up with me and talked and listened. She coaxed me into putting the pills away and going to sleep. She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone, but the next day she told my parents. I was so angry at her. I know now she was doing what was best for me, and how hard it was for her to betray me like that, but then I hated her and cursed myself for ever telling her anything.

My parents drove me to the hospital that night and I was admitted into the psychiatric unit for intensive care. They diagnosed me with post traumatic stress disorder and major depressive syndromes. That night was one of the worst nights of my life. I felt violated, like I had done something horrible wrong and was being punished for it. They took away everything – my jewelry, my I-pod, my phone, even my clothes – I had to wear hospital scrubs. I felt so uncomfortable being there.

There were doctors, nurses, and physiologists everywhere. About fifty times a day someone would ask me, "What are you here for?" and "How do you feel?" I’m not a straightforward person; I’m always beating around the bush. I hated the blunt questions and having to say things, if you didn’t talk about your feelings you had to stay longer.

It was also very hard for me being a good Christian as they call it there. I had to wear pants, there was no special food, the guys and girls were mixed, even though this was not a problem for me since I attend a mixed school. I cried my whole first day there. Eventually I got used to it. I even got used to the real annoying stuff, like not being allowed to use a fork or pencil and having to have a nurse go with you to the bathroom. There were even some parts I liked about it. I really liked the group therapies, it was so cool to talk to other kids who were going through similar things and understood you. I also like how safe I felt at the hospital. At home I had a constant fear that someone was after me.

.......................TO BE CONTINUED 🙏