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It's always spooky season as a woman



WARNING:

This blog is about sexual assault and may be triggering to some, please only read on if you are healed/healing and in a place to read and receive this message. For those in need, the national sexual assault hotline is:

1-800-656-4673


For men they just experience spooky season every October.

For women, it never ends.


We are constantly checking under our cars before we enter them, inspecting the shadows the walk among up, have speed dials ready, and position our keys as weapons in our hands.


Unfortunately, most of our 'attackers' our people we call loved ones.


I wish these were just ghost stories, or urban legends.

But these are real experiences over my last 33 years, that I can recall.

Unfortunately, like you, I'm sure there are more that my subconscious has tucked away in a vault somewhere in hopes to keep me mentally sane and safe.


Growing up I experienced multiple assault situations. However, I didn't know I was being abused until almost a decade later. The generation I grew up in didn't talk about these things, and our parents didn't shed light on scenarios we could find our selves in.


However in middle school everyone talked about sex, and the majority of the crowd I was surrounded by was at least having oral sex. I lost my virginity when I was going into my freshman year of high school.


But I was sexually abused long before that.


It didn't even happen just once.



The First Time:



I was in 8th grade the first time it happened...


It was a chilly fall Friday night as football season was wrapping up.


I was dating this wanna be quarter back for quite some time now. We had fooled around plenty times before. But this night was different. This night I was planning on breaking up with him. Over the year of us being together I ignored one red flag after another. His anger issues. His alcoholic parents and unsafe home environment. His ability to control and manipulate me. My intuition started speaking up, and something inside me decided to listen to her that night.


There was a carnival taking place just down the street from his house. All of my friends were there, even the the cute kicker from the football team which may have been half of what I am referring to as intuition here, but don't get too excited he makes a guest appearance in this blog later.


I wanted to be there. I didn't wanna be shacked up in a dark bedroom with black lights and lava lamps with a smelly narcissist in the making. But he didn't want to go. Which meant I wasn't allowed to go. He wanted to stay in. A.k.a. he wanted his dick sucked.


Any other night I would have conformed. Which looking back, that is still a form of abuse, mental abuse, manipulating me into doing things I didn't want to do all the time. Truly, think about all the times you par took in sexual activity just to keep the waters calm, just to avoid a fight. That's a form of sexual assault. Whenever someone doesn't respect your boundaries, qualifies. Even if you said yes the first time doesn't mean its a yes every time.


And that night, I wasn't consenting.

As the words rolled across my lips I saw the rage ignite in his dark demon eyes.


I felt the room engulf in flames of tension and I knew he wasn't going down without a fight. I started to stand up and walk out of his room... he grabbed me by the wrist and shut the door while quickly shoving a chair under the handle to prevent anyone from coming in..


I was screwed.


This is when it goes dark for me.


This is where it has taken me years to piece it all together.


Because for the longest time all I could recall was a pounding headache,


Gving an unwanted blow job, and making it to that carnival to see that cute kicker after all.

In fact, the Monday after that weekend my life radically changed.


I began dating said kicker, who turned into my first love, whom I actually ended up losing my virginity to and spending multiple years of high school with off and on.


So reality didn't seem so bad. I knew something bad happened to me, but the outcome was amazing (in those moments) so I convinced myself whatever happened I must have deserved, and it must have been worth it.


Well I didn't and it wasn't.


It's taken me almost 2 decades of nightmares, others sharing their stories, lifetime movies, and netflix binging to trigger me about a million times before realizing the truth in its entirety.


That night, as an 8th grader, I was forced into giving a blow job for a boy with anger issues. The headache I recalled was from him sitting on his weight bench he had in his room and holding a bar bell down across my neck so that I couldn't get up until he was finished. I left his place by calling my mom to have her come get me, and I didn't want to go home, because I was to scared to be alone so I had her take me to that carnival where I knew I could walk, fragile, directly into the arms of that cute kicker, and be surrounded by all my friends- and thats exactly what I did.