I will always love my rapist… It’s a hard sentence to say. It’s taken me years to admit. It’s something I’ve only ever told a handful of people because no one understands, and I sound insane. He’s an ass and a terrible person. I don’t wish him death; maybe an incurable venereal disease which causes his dick to fall off and paralysis, so he can’t hurt anyone ever again.
(From now on we’re going to refer to this guy as Duck… Look up the procreation habits of male ducks, and you will understand the symbolism.)
I suffered from depression for years. I was actively trying to end my life throughout my teenage years. I started dating Duck in the lowest of low points of my depression. I was 17 going into my junior year of high school with an active desire to never see another Christmas. I had one goal in mind: not to fuck up my next suicide attempt. I was so incredibly done with living, I had nothing left to hold onto.
Then Duck walked into my life. There were warning signs straight off, but I was young, naive, and completely out of my depth. I hadn’t really dated, and, let’s be honest, I was used to abuse from my parents. I also didn’t really give a shit what happened corporally because it was all going to be over soon anyways.
Here was this charming, charismatic, smart, funny, talented, handsome guy, who was interested in me, the nerd who had no place in the world. I was raised pretty religiously, and I knew I wanted to wait for marriage. I made no secret of that. Sex was a big deal for me, and I wasn’t ready. He said he’d wait. He said he would never pressure me. He said we’d be together forever. We dated for four months. There were comments here and there, but I told him I wasn’t ready and I was waiting. Then one day, he’d waited long enough. He raped me and said “I love you.” It was the first time I’d heard those words from someone who didn’t have to love me. He was making the choice to be with me. Realistically, my parents didn’t love me because they didn’t know me; they loved hypothetical me. I’d spent 17 years being everything everyone wanted and never being enough. In the second it took for him to say three words, I loved him. As he was raping me and whispering “I love you” in my ear, he saved my life. Duck loved me. I was enough for him. He thought I was so amazing he couldn’t contain himself. He had to have me. I was so important in his life he couldn’t wait until I was ready to have sex. He wanted me to be his first, and he loved me so much he would do anything to make sure I was. He possessed me in the most intimate way possible. He loved me and made sure I would never be the same again. He said “I love you” and took the words from my mouth. He loved me so much, he refused to listen to me. He loved me so much he stifled me screams so we wouldn’t get caught. He loved me so much he had to call his friends while he was still inside me because he couldn’t wait for everyone to know of our love. He loved me so much he barely let me breath that first time. He loved me and didn’t have to.
I love Duck because he saved my life raping me. I have spent the last seven years trying to reconcile this, and I can’t. I am at this amazing place in my life. I am surrounded by loyal, supportive people. I am starting my life. I am working on being happy. I have finally found a semblance of self-worth. I am doing some good in the world. I love my life. If Duck hadn’t raped me and said “I love you,” I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be doing anything. I would be ashes. It is such a fucked situation. My rationale at the time was so clouded by neglect, control, manipulation, and depression rape seemed like a good thing. In my mind, having to fight to not be raped just showed how much more he cared. It’s like every time he held me down and hit me was just him showing me how worth it I was. He made me not want to die anymore. I didn’t necessarily want to live, but I didn’t want to die.
It didn’t take me long to realize what he was doing and my self-worth to plummet further than it had, but I had a glimmer of hope for a future.
I will always love my rapist because I love my life. I hate it took that to make me want to live. I doubt I explained this in a way that makes sense. It’s fucked logic. I can’t explain it into sanity. I can’t even necessarily rationalize it to myself. As I’m reading over this, I can’t believe I’m actually writing this down. For those who think I’m lying and making shit up, this is just fuel to add to the fire – have fun. For those that support me, well I just sound like I should be in a padded room. The thing is, this post isn’t hard to write. I am more at peace with this sentiment than I am with a lot of other less complicated ones. I love my life, and if my past was different I wouldn’t be where I’m at now. To me that is simple. But articulating these feelings and reading them…. I’m just shaking my head because I remember how logical it was at the time. How much sense it all made and still does to me. Now, I know it’s fucked saying I love my rapist. I want to shake 17 year old me, but looking back, I don’t know what else would have given me enough hope to keep living.