Falling

by Katherine Cobb

  He poured me a glass of orange juice and asked me to wait for him—in his bedroom, where he sat me on the bed—for a minute. I was nervous times a million. I tried to relax but couldn’t. In hindsight, I had good reason to be anxious. Not long after, he walked into the room, buck naked, and raped me.

  Today, it would be called “date rape,” a term that didn’t exist at the time, because I knew my attacker. But rape is rape, and even more confusing when it is someone you know, and someone for which you have genuine feelings.

  I was only fifteen years old and a virgin. It was the single most frightening thing I remember experiencing outside of my household, and I mistakenly thought I’d brought it on myself—because of the romantic feelings I perceived we shared.

  Moreover, he acted like nothing had changed, as if he hadn’t done anything wrong, unthinkable or unforgivable. As if blood weren’t all over his sheets, proof something reckless and unwanted had occurred. I recall him talking to me the entire way home while I stared out the window trying to put my life back together, shaken to the core. I even remember him saying he loved me as I fled the car.

  Then I walked into my house and did the next worst thing: nothing. I hid from my mother instead of screaming the truth about being raped. I took a scalding hot shower, removing evidence, not that I even thought about calling the police or pressing charges. I just wanted to feel clean and whole again. I reacted instead of thinking anything through. I wanted to just get through it. And yet I had no idea how.

  Like Anna, I lied to my friends, claiming I’d “finally” lost my virginity. In lying to everyone else, I greatly harmed myself, insult to injury after one of the worst betrayals of my life.

  The damage was immediate and lasting, yet I wouldn’t know how for years to come. It would take willingness and therapy to heal, but after fifteen years, I summoned the courage to have the critical conversation with my mother where I told her about the rape. Although I knew it would hurt her, I could only continue healing by telling her the truth about that day. Thankfully, my mother responded by holding me in her arms, something she might have done that bleak afternoon so long ago before whisking me off to the police.

  I learned a couple of things. The first is that regardless of my actions, my clothes, or my feelings for a man, there is never—and I mean never—a “reason” to be raped. I am not responsible in any way if someone rapes me. I didn’t bring it on. I didn’t “deserve” it. And this goes for everyone. Rape is not our fault. Ever.

  Love, Sex and Abortion

  In high school, I experienced my first true love. We dated a short time in our sophomore year, and became close friends after we broked up. By the time we began our junior year, we were back to being an official couple. We fell in love with each other naturally and with ease. Back then, I thought he might even be “the one” and that we might someday marry, much the way Anna daydreams about becoming the next Mrs. O’Reilly. It felt wonderful to love and be loved.

  After falling in love, my boyfriend and I made the decision to have sex. I did not make it lightly and not because I had been raped. I didn’t want to “sleep around,” (and many other girls were doing that, including some of my close friends) but I intuitively understood making love with someone was special. My only regret? Like Anna, I could not give this boy I loved my virginity, which was meant for him and him alone.

  I was terrified of getting pregnant, and birth control was readily available at no cost to teens back then, so it was a no-brainer. My boyfriend and I discussed options, decided how we would protect ourselves, and put it in place before we started down that road.

  I know birth control is still easily accessible for those who choose to have intercourse but perhaps have no way of getting it—especially now that protection is about so much more than birth control. There is nothing wrong with abstaining, either. To have, or not have, sex is a personal preference and requires thoughtful consideration by those involved.

  I never regretted our decision. We were two consenting, loving partners, and we learned so much together. It was very special.

  I personally don’t recommend engaging in it without the love component. There are boys who will use girls purely for sexual reasons, and this has been going on for centuries. I had friends who continually engaged in sexual encounters hoping it would make boys like them more. It didn’t, and they felt doubly bad for not only being unwanted, but getting used in the process. In the teen years, rampant hormones can muddy the waters, especially for guys who are fueled by theirs. Women are typically fueled by emotions—our hormones complicate our feelings and behavior, but they don’t rule them! About these young years, I often say women are looking for mates while men are looking to mate. And that combination can end in heartache time and time again.

  A number of my friends engaged in unprotected sex and were faced with the terrible dilemma of an unwanted pregnancy. I know some people talk about abortion as a choice (and call themselves “pro-choice”), but believe me, my friends never felt they had a choice. They believed abortion was their only option. Having a child at that age seemed like a doomsday prophecy, a life-wrecker, not to mention how would they finish school, go to college or even tell their parents? How could they possibly care for a baby?

  Remember when I said engaging in sex required thoughtful consideration? This is another reason why. It dismayed me that anyone engaged in unprotected intercourse, although I could list a lot of their reasons here, and they would all be somewhat understandable. Despite the consequences, my friends got pregnant over and over, which just proves how tenuous those teen years are in terms of maturity and emotion.

  I avoided pregnancy, but I accompanied close friends to clinics and hospitals who felt forced to abort their babies. It was always a gut-wrenching, horrible experience. I didn’t fully comprehend nor understand the seriousness at that age, and I’m certain they didn’t either. As we matured, some of these women confided in me they never felt the full impact of their youthful angst-filled decisions to abort until they married and had kids. They mourn the loss of those young souls now.

  It bears repeating that unwanted pregnancy is one hundred percent avoidable and abortion benefits no one. Don’t put yourself in the position to have to make that “choice.” And despite any pressures you feel, don’t take sex lightly! A woman’s body is a sacred vessel, and when we’re young, we don’t understand the gravity of that fact. Especially in today’s world, I see many young women disrespect themselves through “sexting,” using crass language, showing too much of their bodies with the clothes they wear and sleeping around. Respect yourself now and always—you are in the driver’s seat for having it, or giving it away. Just understand you and your body are some of your most valuable resources.

  Abuse

  I experienced different kinds of abuse in my youth, most notably the physical and verbal varieties. The worst—psychically—was inflicted by my father. His behavior frequently frightened me, although he was also loving, generous and entertaining. Like an active volcano, his anger always bubbled just under the surface, waiting to erupt. I never knew when it would happen, just that it would, and the chips would fall where they may.

  In my early years, he would remove the leather belt around his waist and inflict its biting strap against my skin as punishment for wrongdoings. I learned to run whenever he began to unbuckle, forcing him to chase me down. Perhaps that made things worse in the process, but I was deathly afraid of the pain. He always caught me. His temper was unpredictable, and he always seemed so full of rage that I never knew how each punishment would play out. I wasn’t sure if he was in control of himself or not, and I still feel stressed around someone who exhibits volatile anger for this reason.

  As I grew up, my father presented as perpetually unhappy, depressed and often mad at the world. He slowly receded from society, becoming increasingly intolerant as the years went by, and we grew further apart than ever by my high school years when he was perplexed by my good nature and ultra-social lif
estyle. It was a challenge, probably for both of us.

  Although his physical abuse took a hiatus in my middle school years, (but not the verbal, and not the threat of more lurking under the surface), he beat me severely ten days before my eighteenth birthday, reminding me unequivocally of who was boss. I recall irritating him—those were my eye-rolling-is-your-lecture-over-yet days—but there is never any excuse for beating a child. Like rape, the victim has absolutely no part in it, but that’s hard to figure out while it’s happening to you.

  It was a vicious attack in which I firmly believed he’d gone out of his right mind. He’d also been drinking alcohol, a precursor my volcanic father might blow. In the end, after twenty minutes or more of physical abuse, I was prone on the floor, and he was holding my head in his hands, pounding my skull, over and over. In that moment, I realized I should do anything to make it stop as no one else was going to. Somehow, I figured that out, and he released me.

  Like Anna, I scrambled to my feet, ran to my room, hyperventilated then fled the scene the instant I could gather my thoughts and escape. A friend picked me up and took me to the only place I would find solace: in the arms of my then ex-boyfriend. He held me through the night—waking me now and again to check on me in case I had a concussion—and I felt as safe as I could for having been through something so devastating.

  The following day, in my true-life drama, a friend took me to the hospital to see a private doctor by whom she was employed. I begged the physician not to report the child abuse after she correctly analyzed the black eyes and bruised body. I feared for my life, and ironically, for that of my father’s. There is just no way to explain how confusing, conflicting and scary that combination is, to know and love your abuser, not to mention count on him for your personal safety and security. The abuse did not get reported and to this day, I question whether that was a good thing.

  I stayed with a friend for another couple of days, but I felt lost, and didn’t know how to proceed. I was not in any shape to begin living life on my own. I was in my first year of college but commuting from home. I had no real savings. I didn’t even have my own car. My best idea was to move in with my ex-boyfriend, but anyone could see that was a dumb notion destined to fail. I finally phoned home and my parents convinced me to meet and discuss the matter with them in person. When that occurred, I was given an ultimatum: they would support me if I stayed at home, but I was on my own if I left. Not much of a choice. I felt forced to return, despite my fear and downright skittishness around my father.

  In the end, my father got off scot-free, never acknowledging or apologizing for his actions. Likely never even realizing he should have or could have gone to jail. Like my rapist, he acted as if nothing had happened, and it was another beginning of the end for me. All trust was lost.

  It took a herculean amount of work around this topic to heal, and it has been many years since I engaged in a relationship with my father. I stopped communication shortly after I married because he wouldn’t change his abusive behavior, and I was no longer willing to continue being his victim or put any of my children in harm’s way.

  I am at peace with my decision, and feel no remorse nor harbor any anger. I have often sent my father well wishes via the universe. At times, I feel a tinge of regret that I don’t have the kind of father-daughter relationship others experience, but I simply accept my situation as it is. There is nothing more I can do to change it.

  I have done tremendous work to recover from my family’s dysfunctional dynamics, but in doing so, I learned firsthand what creates esteem for kids as they grow up. My childhood lacked some of those critical elements, including feeling safe and secure, and also loved and cherished. Thankfully, this experience enabled me to do better in this area with my own children. I have never beaten a child (just as I promised my five-year-old self I never would), and my anger is rare. If I do have a moment of bad behavior, I promptly take responsibility for it and apologize. I intentionally focus on not repeating it so my apologies aren’t empty. I use those moments as opportunities for growth. Loving my children is not difficult, and I’ve done my best to demonstrate it and express my love for them often. Love helps people flourish at any age, but is especially important as we’re growing and becoming.

  Drugs

  By the time I met my first love in high school, he was already a regular drug and alcohol user. In fairly short order, his world became mine and like Anna, I shifted my focus from my core set of friends to his, although I never entirely abandoned my gal pals.

  Inevitably, I began smoking pot and drinking with regularity—and later, added cocaine. I say inevitably because I had nowhere else to go but down. Anyone going toe-to-toe with drugs (and this includes alcohol, which is a drug) is subject to falling prey to addiction. I’m not saying you will, but you could. Many believe addiction is an emotional, physical and spiritual disease. Because I was pretty damaged between the issues at home and the rape, I could be the poster child for substance abuse from just the emotional perspective. Drugs and alcohol numbed my feelings, albeit unconsciously, but my body responded to it favorably. Moreover, a history of alcoholism is prevalent on my father’s side of the family dating back for generations. This further fosters my belief that addiction is partly hereditary, and only increased my odds of having the genetic or physical disposition. The final nail in the coffin was that in my world, my friends were king. I could not resist their pressures, and I was the last man standing (every friend I had used drugs except me). Of course, I’d join them. I also had no spiritual connection to speak of, making me bankrupt in all three categories that make up an addict.

  At this stage of the game, I still believed, ironically, that I was a girl with real potential. I felt smart, confident and strong. And yeah, a little invincible too.

  In terms of addiction to cigarettes, drugs and booze, here’s what happened to me: it took years. One of the most cunning and insidious aspects of the disease is just how long it takes. And during those patient years, it only made me feel I had outsmarted all those substances and retained full control. I was having the time of my life. My friends and I were close, had crazy fun times and were on top of the world. Sure, we had plenty of drama and signs all wasn’t perfect in paradise, but we ignored them and got more cigarettes, drugs and booze. By the time I grasped my predicament, it was too late and I, a full-fledged addict.

  The cocaine, in particular, took many of us to the depths of hell—to places like jail, attempted suicide and hospitals, not to mention alienation from our families and friends, and most importantly, ourselves. I distinctly remember sitting in a drug dealer’s apartment in the years just after high school, looking around at the faces of everyone strung out on coke (this was after the freebasing craze became the crack phase, one of the worst things I’ve ever witnessed) and I wondered what the hell I was doing there. It would have been some ridiculous time such as five in the morning, perhaps on day two of a “roll” in which we had never slept. I suddenly realized that girl with potential had somehow lost her way. It was infinitely depressing.

  I came away from my experience understanding no drug (including alcohol) is “recreational.” Every time you put a mood-altering substance into your body, all bets are off. There are no sure outcomes.

  As for my exit from this world, it took an intervention by my best friend to begin the process of quitting cocaine. And I did so, but for the first year, I drank myself into oblivion instead, dabbling in recovery as I tried to sort it all out.

  I was still the girl with potential. I had somehow—but barely—made it through college intact. Yet so much damage was inflicted in my first twenty-five years, beginning with my dysfunctional home life and moving on to the rape, drugs and relationship problems, that it all tallied up to damaging and life altering. Some part of me liked the obliteration of feelings, although they were never totally inescapable.

  As I neared the bottom of the barrel (again), I met the man I would eventually marry. I don’t know if I somehow unders
tood this, but it was a catalyst to crawling into twelve-step meetings one final time. I admitted my powerlessness over drugs and alcohol, and started to climb out of the pain. Recovery became my number one priority and led me to places I had only dreamed about, or in some cases, never knew existed. Although not easy, it was pretty simple—and do-able one day at a time.

  Today

  Thirty-plus years later, I’m happy to report I have remained clean, sober and nicotine-free. I have enjoyed a loving marriage and family, been a good mom, become enmeshed in my writing career, grew into a productive member of society and have actively continued to evolve.

  It took working through and acknowledging the inner pain and turmoil which can keep anyone a prisoner in their own bodies, whether by taking drugs, sleeping around, starving oneself, emotional eating, shopping compulsively, self-harming or any number of things designed to take you away from your feelings. Is it possible to become wholly healed? After many years of various addictions and healing, I believe one can live an enriched, beautiful life better than anything they might have imagined. But I have long referred to people as the “walking wounded” because we are. I try to have compassion, avoid judgment and accept the things I cannot change. No one knows what I have been through by looking at my exterior any more than I understand anyone else’s journey by looking at theirs.

  I seek evolution, enlightenment, spiritual principles and connection. These guide me and bring solace and understanding in a complicated world.

  In the end, although Anna experienced the ultimate repercussion, I’m grateful I didn’t have to (and believe me, I could have between the dangerous situations I found myself in and suicidal thoughts). I hope you know there are solutions, help available and choices. Start the conversation with me, your friends, your parents, anyone. Love yourself. Respect yourself. Honor yourself. Choose yourself. And to thine own self be true.