F*CK IT. I'M TELLING MY STORY.

It took me thirty years to convince my friend to share her story. Thirty years. I couldn’t be more proud of her for allowing me to help her get this out. She has permitted me to write this to help herself on her journey and to help other survivors… nay… warriors who have overcome childhood trauma. The title of this entry is the actual text that she sent me about a month ago. I hope I do her justice.

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There’s never been a more powerful anthem for assault survivors than, “Janie’s Got a Gun” by Aerosmith. I know that I’ve fantasized about hunting down my perpetrator and delivering some type of medieval vigilante justice. I think about confronting him, forcing him to admit what he did, that it was wrong, and then KA-POW… another blood specimen slide for the box in Dexter’s air-conditioning vent. If you don’t get the reference to Dexter, essentially, his junk would get cut off with a rusty saw and he would die a slow, painful death surrounded by photos of his victims.

I've been hearing that song a lot lately - nearly every time I've gotten in the car over the last few weeks. I guess it's about time. Here’s my story. It was 1983 - the summer going into 7th grade. I was 11 years old. 11. Never kissed a boy. I hadn’t shown any signs of puberty and I was nowhere near getting my first period. Sex was not on my radar at all – I was focused on earning my swimmer’s badge at the public pool (don’t judge – I was petrified of the deep water) and getting just the right 1st-day-of-school Bermuda bag cover. I chose a navy-blue cover with kelly-green whales. It was very preppy.

I lived in a rural part of our town – not many neighbors, lots of fields, and lots of trust. One of the local farmers sold off a parcel of land to developers and pre-fab homes began to sprout up where the corn stalks used to be. We viewed “The Development” as an intrusion – a violation of our sanctuary and we were not quick to warm up to the young families that moved in. Of course, there were perks – young families meant the potential for babysitting and house-sitting gigs, and the slight chance that I might make a new friend.

Riding bikes was the number one social activity of that time. It was riding through the new cul-de-sac where I met two sisters, Erika and Amy, who had recently moved into a split-level nearby. They both seemed nice and were quick to invite me to their house to hang out. Did I mention the open trust we all had back then? I didn’t hesitate – their Mom worked during the day and their Dad worked nights so he was asleep in his room. We pretty much had the house to ourselves.

Over the next few weeks, we baked cakes, we had dance parties, I gave them pointers for the new school and how to navigate around the ‘mean’ teachers. I didn’t see much of their father – but every now and again he would call Erika to his room and she wouldn’t come back out for the rest of the day. I never asked any questions – she never offered me any explanation. Until the day that I say a slice mark on her wrist.

It looked like a deep paper cut – it was red and it seemed painful. That, I asked about. She very matter-of-factly informed me that her father had accidentally cut her wrist when he was untying her from his bed. Wait… what??? I didn’t understand. Without hesitation, she told me that he’d used ropes to tie her up and they had had sex. OK - still not getting it. My mind simply wouldn’t process what she was saying. She wasn’t crying, didn’t seem upset. She was telling me this story like she was telling me about the day’s weather – no emotion, just the facts.

She did, however, tell me that if I told anyone, she would be in serious trouble and her father knew where I lived and would hurt me too. That I understood. My own father had anger issues when I was a kid – so I wasn’t about to tell anyone and get her punished (or me, for that matter). In my childish way, she seemed fine, not afraid (except for the not telling part) and we went on our bike ride like nothing had happened.

I never said a word to anyone. Erika and I never spoke of it again. We continued to play at each other’s houses with no issue until one night, months later, she asked me to sleep over at her house. I need to say again that this was a very different time – so when I tell you that my parents never met her parents, or even spoke to them directly, and yet allowed me to sleep at her house – don’t be too alarmed. What I got was, “Is it OK with Erika’s Mom?” I said yes and off we went.

Both of her parents were there – everything was fine – fun, even. We had planned to sleep in their guest room which was on the bottom floor of their house, just off their rec room. We wanted to be able to stay up really late and thought we wouldn’t be heard giggling if we stayed downstairs. There was a queen-sized bed in the room so we shared it with no problem. We were two 11-year-old girls whispering and giggling until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore.

The one strange thing that I did notice – we had the lights out as we whispered our goodnights, but then Erika turned the light on next to her just as we were falling asleep. I asked her why and she said she was afraid of the dark. She had never shown any signs of fear before, but I left it alone.

The next thing I remember, the light was turned off, my nightgown was pushed up past my chest and someone was hurting me. Badly. He was grabbing at my chest where my breasts would be someday and squeezing so hard that I could barely breathe. I had no idea what was happening – I tried to cry out but a giant hand clamped down on my mouth. I reached over to try to wake Erika up, but she turned away from me. He then let go of my chest, but kept his hand over mouth. I thought it was over. The worst was yet to come.

He forced my legs apart and raped me with his hand. It hurt so badly that I really thought I might die. I was terrified and confused and hurt. After what felt like an hour (looking back it was probably all over in about 3 minutes) he just left. I quickly pulled my nightgown down, and cried out to my friend. She pretended to be in a deep sleep. I was too afraid to scream or to run home so I just curled up into a ball and laid there awake and bleeding until morning.

I had a plan. I would do what I had to do to get out of there after we got dressed. Erika and I didn’t speak a word to each other. Can you believe that I actually sat down to eat breakfast with them? Pancakes and bananas. He smiled at me throughout the entire meal. As I got up to clear my plate he came up behind me at the sink and put his hands just above my hips. I squirmed away, grabbed my bag and jumped on my bike to race home.

I never went back to their house. I never told anyone. I stopped being Erika’s friend.

The shame and humiliation are real. I felt sick and just so stupid and foolish for sleeping at her house - for not fighting him off. I felt like I couldn’t tell my parents – certainly not my father. I was petrified that he would kill Erika’s father for what he had done and end up going to jail. Or perhaps worse, that he wouldn’t believe me, or he would blame me for putting myself in that position knowing what Erika has confessed to me earlier. I WAS A CHILD. I didn’t have the logic or maturity to react responsibly to any of it. So I kept it to myself.

I would see Erika in the hallways of 7th grade – at band practice… but there was no friendship – not even eye contact. While I couldn’t really understand the depth of what had happened to me, I did know that she set me up. She knew exactly what was going to happen. She told her sister who later told me that her father forced her to invite me for the sleepover, to make sure that we slept in the bedroom away from her mother, and to turn the light on when we were nearly asleep. That was the ‘signal’ for him to come in and assault me.

Knowing what I know now, that she was brutalized by her father for years – raped over and over again – she was completely helpless and I imagine was, in some small way, relieved to have a break from him that night. Sacrificing me saved her from one more assault, though I don’t imagine her laying there hearing me cry in pain and sobbing behind his muffling hand was much of a respite.

I kept all of this to myself for many, many years. It wasn’t until after college that I told my mother. It was like a thunderbolt confessional. We were pulling into our driveway – she was driving. No idea what we were talking about, or what made me spill it, but I did. I told her that I had something to say and that she wasn’t going to like it.

I told her my dirty secret - (whoa – hold on, did you hear that in your head? My DIRTY secret. Even as a grown woman, I felt ashamed for what happened to me) I told her all of it, just like I’m sharing it here. She just cried for a long time and said she wished she could have protected me. I still regret telling her. There was nothing to be done about it. I had held onto it for so long – 11 long years - protected her from the ugly, painful truth - and then it came out like projectile vomit in a flood of tears. I begged her not to tell my father. I was embarrassed and ashamed – not only had this happened to me, but that I wasn’t brave enough to tell someone what he did and bring him to justice.

Speaking of my own father, looking back, I clearly punished him for the sins of Erika’s. To be fair, parenting was not his greatest strength – he hit first and asked questions later. But after the assault, I shut him down completely. I put up a 5-mile wall of impenetrable ice between us. I locked my bedroom door every night and put things in front of it to wake me in case he had a key (he didn’t). I kept a knife under my pillow.

The unofficial restraining order that I’d unjustly placed against my dad remained in my head and in my heart even when I was grown. I stayed at my parents’ house the night before my wedding – in their guest room that had an open exit down a set of private stairs. There I was the night before I was meant to be married and I was moving large pieces of furniture – a recliner and a huge dresser - in front of the opening to the steps. No one ever asked me why. Somewhere in my mind, my 11-year-old self wasn’t about to let herself be victimized again… if one dad could hurt me, couldn’t mine?

I did get married – to a man whom I’d known since childhood. He knew Erika and her family, too – but certainly not in the same that I did. Rumors of Erika’s eventual nervous breakdown were rampant throughout high school – she’d run away a few times and generally unraveled. My husband knew those stories but never knew about my chapter until we were just about to be engaged. I don’t want to waste time writing much about him – we are now divorced. I will say that he used to throw “Mr. Waters” in my face every now and again. If I wasn’t in the mood to have sex with him, or if he crept up behind me at the sink to give me a squeeze (that was a huge trigger, as you can imagine), he would bring him up and taunt me with it.

Stolen innocence. Check. Years of silence. Check. Betrayed by someone you thought you could trust. Check and Check.

After settling into being a grown-up – job, kids, mortgage, etc., I was helping to organize my high school reunion (yes, I’m one of THOSE). I was in charge of gathering the contact information for all of our classmates. There was Erika’s email. I hadn’t talked to her – really talked to her in over 20 years. I decided to write her to apologize. Yes – what happened to me was horrible, unforgivable, and unforgettable, but she was living that nightmare every single day for years. I told her that I knew that she was complicit in my assault but that I forgave her with my whole heart. I asked her to forgive me for not speaking up about what she was going through - for not trying to get her help and get her out of that situation. She never wrote back, but we did share an awkward hug at the reunion before settling back into the comfort of little eye contact and no communication.

Can you believe that I actually Googled my assailant the other day? Honestly, I was hoping to find an obituary, but found nothing. I did find his now ex-wife on Facebook – using her maiden name. I guess she came to her senses. The younger daughter, Amy, moved away – probably as far and as fast as she could. Erika, I believe, is on her 3rd husband – no idea if she has contact with her father, if she ever received professional help, or if she’s honest about her life’s journey.

Who am I now? I am now a mandatory reporter in every sense. My kids have known from the time they could speak that the parts of their bodies that are covered by their bathing suits are private. If anyone tries to touch them there, or asks them to touch their privates, they should speak up and tell. They don’t have to hug people if they don’t want to – a high-five is fine (fully embraced by my youngest). Boundaries are important. If something doesn’t feel right – let’s say, at a sleepover, they know they can call me and I will come to them immediately. My daughter is a little bit older than I was when I was assaulted. Nothing makes me happier than knowing that her innocence is intact and she can come to me anytime, anywhere and tell me anything and I will always love her no matter what.

What happened to me was not my fault. He is a predator. I was a child. I will never have closure (at least in the form of revenge) but I have let it go. No shame. No blame. Just me.

I may not have a gun like Janie, but I do have a voice.