a #metoo story about marital rape (by anonymous)
/Remember, survivors, owning your story is part of healing. Sharing your story isn't. Well, it might be for some of us, but it's definitely not for all. Speaking out isn't what makes you courageous. Living in the after is brave. Period. You are believed, you are enough, you did not deserve what happened to you, and look at you now, still here. You might have lived through hell, but hell didn't win. You can do this, and you are doing it already. Keep on keeping on, and if you haven't already, find a friend or a therapist who can help you own the story and write your own ending.
Also, drinking too much doesn't make rape okay. If a woman has too much to drink, what does she expect? A hangover, that's what. Having a natural pleasure response doesn't mean it wasn't rape. That happens to the author in this story, and it happened to me in some of my rapes. All it means is that our bodies are wired to respond to sex, not that the act of rape is ever the way that was supposed to be stimulated. Promise.
One last note: only supportive comments will be allowed on this post. I will delete others. I let critical and even cruel comments at times on my own posts, but I won't let that happen here. Now, without any more introduction, here's a brave and, in the words of my friend Glennon, brutiful - brutal yet beautiful - post...
I would like to start by saying that I am only able to write this with my marriage in the rearview mirror. It has taken me 2 years to get the point that I can even acknowledge this account, much less verbalize it to a few people I trust. I am not writing this for sympathy or out of shame, but rather to share the story that I believe many women can relate to. As the accounts of #metoo begun flashing across my social media feeds this week, they ate away at me… not just because of the sheer numbers of my dear friends who have identified themselves as part of #metoo, but rather because I was unable to type them myself.
For the most part, I have been blessed to rarely be on the receiving end of unwanted sexual advances or harassment in the 30 plus years of my life. I was never the girl guys whistled at walking down the street or whispered lewd remarks at unwanted times. Maybe I have an icy exterior, maybe I am too aloof to notice. However, as the #metoo began circulating through my days, one thing came to mind over and over, and that is this: I was raped by my husband.
Honestly, my story is not that different from legions of other women. I was on a “date” with my husband. The kids were in bed. We had curled up to watch a favorite TV show, ate some cheese and crackers, and shared a bottle of wine. I probably had more wine than him as he would often just pour “a little more” to get me relaxed. And relax I did… I curled up on his lap as he rubbed my back. I looked forward to maybe some nice, comfortable sex once our show was over. But, as is common with a working mom, the combination of wine and fatigue overtook me and we went to bed... no hanky-panky involved. Sounds like a typical date night for two busy parents to children… and it was.
Sometime in the middle of the night… I woke up to my husband pressing himself to me… my underwear were no longer on. I was still really sleepy… probably 2 or 3 am during my typical REM sleep time (at least according to my Fitbit)… when suddenly I felt him press into me… anally. For some of you, anal penetration may not seem odd, and I am not judging anyone else, but for me this was a clear boundary that I had set on numerous occasions. I had gone so far as to tell him that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES would I ever participate in that willingly, and if he found himself in a place where I seemed willing, he should stop, until he clarified in the clear light of day. Well, that is not what happened on this night… he continued the full process, and part of me did enjoy it because he seemed to enjoy it so much, but really it is such a blur. It was over quickly. By the time it was, I was fully awake, in pain, literally and figuratively, and really, really upset. It was either at that point or the next night that I pulled down an empty mattress and moved into another room for a period of a month or so, sleeping on that mattress on the floor. I actually asked him to move out of our bed instead, but he refused, saying, “I did nothing wrong, you seemed to enjoy it.” If he did apologize, it was only half-assed. I do remember him saying, “well, it was something I always wanted, but now know it isn’t really that good." Eventually I moved back into the bedroom and tried to pretend it never happened. He didn’t think he was in the wrong, and he said I was just being a “prude”.
Now, as I sit year years later, I am finally able to come to terms with what he did. I wish I could say that when this happened, I had the courage to leave him, but I was scared and felt that in leaving him, I would lose everything – my kids, my home, my pets, and even my own family. Ultimately, it was he who left me for another woman. Turns out she is just one of many in the line of women that I shared him with, unknowingly.
I am writing this now to tell women that yes, rape happens in marriage, and it is never okay. I still feel the typical guilt… maybe if I hadn’t had that extra glass of wine, or if I had been firmer when I first woke up to realize what was really happening, or if I had insisted he leave the house, or even called the police… then maybe… I don’t know… maybe something would be different. But, I cannot change the past, but maybe someone out there reading this will have the courage to find her voice like I have now.