I was seventeen years old, and I just wanted to have fun. Snoop Dogg called it being “young and wild and free,” and when I decided to meet up with some guys with two of my best friends, I thought I was doing just that.
The beginning of the night was fine— I thought perhaps I had made three new friends with these teens who so kindly invited us over to “party.” As the night progressed, it became evident that I was holding the attention of one of the guys in particular, John, and I have to admit, I liked it. He didn’t seem like boyfriend material, but I didn’t mind the boost of confidence he was providing.
My biggest mistake was leaving the kickback to be alone with him. I was getting tired, and he said he wanted to watch a movie. He only lived minutes away. I trusted him— a stranger, and being the 5’4, 130-pound girl that I am, all I could do was trust that he wouldn’t try to hurt me.
When I realized that I was in danger, it was too late. He was tall, strong, and something I would have considered handsome had he not transformed into a monster right before my eyes. I had always been confident about my body, but when he ripped my clothes from me, the confidence seemed to melt away. When I left his apartment, I could still feel him inside of me.
Now, when I think of this event, I am tempted to believe that the devil was with me during the assault— that John became the manifestation of the devil when he took advantage of me. However, I know in my heart that it was not until I was home that I came face-to-face with the devil.
After I’d desperately tried to scrub the shame and humiliation from my body, I looked into the mirror, and I swear the devil was staring right back at me. I walked from the bathroom, but he would follow me for the next year and a half of my life.
The devil was the little voice in my ear telling me I am worthless every time I looked into the mirror.
The devil was the paranoia in my head making me believe that I was in danger every time I was alone with anyone of the opposite sex.
The devil was the pain in my heart each time a relationship of mine failed because of the growing depression inside of me, caused by my inability to talk about or even think about what happened to me.
One and a half years later, it took a suicide attempt before I realized that I needed help escaping from this demon on my back. The first time I talked about it— the first time I said the word “rape,” aloud to my therapist, the devil released me. I freed myself from him, and I have not seen him since.
Author: Taylor Palmer
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Self-proclaimed book nerd with an obsession for fashion and beauty. Creative thinker and writer with a love for coffee, long naps, breakfast at noon, and four-legged friends.
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