Sexual Abuse Survivors Support Community

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Posted: Apr 27, 2009

I became more and more depressed and upset. I even considered going to the counseling center at the school. The classic abusive signs were showing up, but I was too naive to know what was going on. It was always something like, well, wasn't I stupid to like the movie I liked, or only idiots would be friends with my stupid best friend, and wasn't I dumb to like the music I liked, or why don't I do the things he does because they're inherently superior to my contemptuous life. We continued to fight. We fought all the time, almost every time we had contact. I mentioned that maybe it was time for us to split. Then he'd play the "well, then, I guess I have nothing left to live for" card and then promptly disappear off the instant messenger or hang up the phone. I'd call him in a panic, convinced that if he killed himself, the blood would be on my hands. I remember telling myself that I had to hang on until he found someone else to live for.


Somewhere along that spring, he had a severe accident (out of pure recklessness) and totalled his car. He said to me "well, now that I don't have the car anymore I can't come up and visit you. I also have to get a job so I can get a new car." He started working the night shift at a data-entry place. And he met this girl -- Melva. He said to me, "Isn't that a stupid name? And doesn't it remind you of something?" and I said, "What, Melba Toast?" and he said "Yeah, and something else!!" (It turned out to remind him of the word "vulva.") Typical.

Over that Easter break, I caught the bus and came home a day early. And while our parents were all at work, he wanted to do more of the kinky stuff. I resisted and resisted and resisted, but he was insistent. He had it all planned out -- he wanted to try the "golden showers." He was going to do it in the bathtub at his parents' house so there wouldn't be a mess to clean up. He said to me, "Okay, do you want me to do it to you or you to do it to me?" I wanted neither, but I sure as hell didn't want him to do it to me. So I consented. I climbed on top of him, both of us naked in the bathtub, bowed my head, crying inside, and urinated on him. I could feel it running down my legs. He pulled me down on top of him and pushed himself inside me, the urine still between us. "I really liked it," he said to me. I just shook my head. He wouldn't even let me clean up afterwards. I went downstairs to the living room, sat in the sunlight filtering through the blinds, and curled in a ball as he had the luxury of a shower.

As I sit here writing this, I feel so incredibly filthy. There just is no other word to describe it. Is it any wonder that I cut myself in there? Is it any wonder that I want to skin myself alive? Is it any wonder that I want to scream and scream to the point where I could well see myself in restraints or in a padded room -- though the padded room would probably be clawed at with my nails and I'd draw blood from scraping them across my body and face.