7 years of Hell
By: Chrystin Roufley
Tags: Rape, Abuse, Abuse Survivors, Domestic Abuse, Marital Rape

7 years of Hell

Part 1

My name is Chrys. I go by Chrys because the general population has a hard time figuring out if I'm "-Tin" "-Teen" "-Ta" or "-Tal". Long running joke to lighten up what is going to be a very heavy story.

I'm going to tell the hard part, as I see it now, somewhere on the path to healing. I'm unsure of how long this journey is. I don't know if I'm just starting or if I'm well under way. I know I'm not as close to the end as I'd like to be. Some days the journey feels like a leisurely stroll. Some days I feel I'm barely alive, trying to climb the cold, dark, shadowy side of a mountain towards a light and warmth I can only trust is on the other side. As I get past the tales of what left me in such a state, I hope to be able to share my story of healing as well. It has already begun.

In a way, this blog is my justice. We all know that the court system works more in favor of abusers than survivors. I’ll never get to see my abuser in cuffs, and even if I did, it would be a slap on the wrist compared to what he did to me. For years, he hindered my greatest passion and talent, the written word. It seems fitting that I should use it to tell the story of his crimes. And, perhaps, it will be somewhat cathartic for me. I’ve said before, I want to stand on the roof and shout to the world about what I’ve endured. To expose him and maybe in part to explain why I am the way I am.

I spent 7 years in my abusive relationship. I sported no black eyes or bruised ribs, though. My face never felt the sting of an open hand that drew blood from my lip. Sometimes, I wish I would have. I know how to fight that. My mom and dad made damn sure of it. The little playground scrapper they brought up would have left that scrawny bastard in a heap on the side of the I-90 if he’d have ever raised a fist. But, I experienced abuses and injustices I didn’t know how to fight. Mental and emotional abuse, which I could not even fathom the manipulative twists and turns of before it had already happened to me for years and worse still, repeated rape. I think, if it hadn’t been for the mental and emotional abuse, he probably wouldn’t have gotten away with the rape. But, it was as if he programmed me to feel and think whatever he needed me to. He started that process well before the rape began, as if he was laying the ground work for the hell I’d endure for the next several years. I was already falling into line the way he needed me to when the rape began. The biggest and most damaging lie he made me believe was that I was alone, isolated. That I could trust no one. To this day, I struggle to believe other wise even though the people around me have provided plenty of evidence to the contrary.

For the sake of this tale, and to keep me out of any legal trouble, we will call my abuser Fox. It was one of the many things about him that should have sent up red flags. He was so obsessed with his fursona, a fox, that it was practically his identity. Someone raised in a rural area should know what foxes are really like. Cowardly, underhanded animals. Generally scavengers, and if they have to hunt and kill, they choose something weak, sickly or young. Vermin. And he came into my life not much unlike one.

I was fresh out of my parents house, living in a scary part of town for a young woman. He came in as a guest of my roommate. And I’ll admit now, my first instincts about him were right. I remember sitting on my floor, cross legged, holding a can of bear spray. He unsettled me. Let this be a lesson in trusting your instincts. I should have thrown him out then and there. He’d have carried on with his journey, telling a tale about a crazy Montana chick who went off on him for no reason and tossed him out in the rain and I’d have lived a very different life. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve, huh?

The longer he stayed, the more charismatic he got. His stories and tales enthralled me. When I spoke, he listened intently and responded with praise and flattery. As days went by, and he didn't leave as was the original plan, he started to talk about the darker side of his history. Abuses and neglect he suffered as a child. Hardships and heartbreaks as an adult. To this day, I don't know how much of it was true or not, but at that time I believed it all, and I felt sorry for him and even admired him for overcoming. I had no idea that he would use those very things to justify hurting me again and again and again.

If you've had a traumatic experience, and I'm very sorry if you have, you are probably familiar with the long lasting after effects. The feelings of isolation, depression, overwhelming fear, confusion, terrible things that make you feel broken to the core, some how hallow and irreparable. My experience was hidden away by my own mind, a betrayal on the part of my psychi that I've yet to forgive. I was traumatized and left with no evidence of it in my memory, just a sense that I was somehow fundamentally broken. I didn't know I'd been raped, that my body had been taken by force and violated in the worst possible way by the person I trusted most and loved with all that was inside me. I'm still angry at this for so many reasons.

Many may find these stories triggering. If you have experienced rape, mental or emotional abuse, please proceed with awareness to your triggers. I will be mentioning rape, sodomy, near death experiences, fears of pregnancy loss, mental, emotional and verbal abuse, mental health issues and panic attacks and self harm. As a consideration to my readers, I will place the relevant trigger warning in bold where fit.