**This title is meant to question people’s attitude toward rape (ie my mother – see below). I am not in any way implying that rape is something to take lightly. In fact, I am saying quite the contrary. It is something that should be taken very, very seriously.**
****Also, if you are particularly sensitive to the topic of rape, please proceed cautiously. There are no details of rape included in this post, however there is frequent discussion of the possibility of it occurring.****
Let me start off by saying that rape has been a theme that has presented itself numerous times in my life, although I’m not exactly sure why. What I mean by that is, it has come up in different, mysterious ways, and yet I have no memory or recollection of ever having been raped. It could be coincidence. Or it could be that I was raped and I have no conscious memory of it. My mind perhaps put it away in a place where I didn’t have access. At this time, either one seems just as likely a possibility.
There are a couple different strange and unexplained events that occurred when I was twelve and thirteen years of age that point to the possibility of me being raped. Both of these events I was unaware of until the past year, when my mom shared about each of them (at different times). Her sharing was prompted by me trying to dig deeper into my past by asking questions. My life is filled with so many holes and unexplained things, and since I was diagnosed with DID last year, I have been on a quest to figure out what exactly has happened in my life to get me to be as split as I am.
One event that (apparently) happened, that my mom told me about, was related to M (see previous blog post). My mom told me that I had begged her to let me to see him, even though he was someone who she had never met, and that she had finally given in. She said that I went to see him, and when I came back, it was obvious that something had happened. She said I had left a happy, cheerful girl, and had come back looking like a different person. She said I climbed into bed, got under my covers, and moaned for three days.
Keep in mind, she did not mention this to me until about a year ago, when I began asking her questions about that time period. I have no memory of this. I don’t remember going to see M. I don’t remember what happened. I don’t remember spending days in bed.
When I asked my mom why she didn’t do anything, or why she had continued letting me see M after that, she simply replied, “Because, Brandic, after those three days you got up and seemed fine, and were acting like your old self again. You seemed fine.”
I seemed fine. Yeah Mom, I spent three days in bed, moaning, under my covers. I was fine. Just fine.
Another strange thing that happened was something I literally heard for the first time about a month ago, and then promptly forgot until a week ago. Again, I was asking my mom questions relating to that time period, and she shared with me this story:
She said that when I was in either seventh or eighth grade, the vice principle of the school called her on the phone. He told her that I had been at a party with other students, outside the school premises (at another student’s house), and that there had been drinking involved. According to my mom, toward the end of the conversation he said, “AND, she was RAPED.”
My mom’s response to him at this point in the conversation turned quite bizarre. She said she got very angry, and began yelling at him, saying, “How dare you call our home and make such crazy, absurd statements! You have no right! I am going to report you!” And promptly hung up on him.
As she was telling me this story, she was laughing. Apparently she thought the whole thing was so ridiculous that it was funny. Yeah Mom, so funny you should use it in a stand-up comedy routine.
Her reaction to very serious events – specifically the possibility of me getting raped – is mind boggling. Even now, she doesn’t take any of this seriously.
One other piece of the puzzle that I should include here is that during high school, I told several close friends that I had been raped. This I do remember. However, even at the time, I believe I was making it up. I think I was trying to create an explanation for all the crazy symptoms I was displaying that my friends were questioning me about: my extreme depression, my severe and abrupt changes in moods, the fact that I would suddenly and inexplicably be unable to speak for hours at a time… I think I was looking for a reason that I was the way I was. Because it didn’t make sense to me. I wanted to have a concrete thing I could point my finger at and say, “This happened. And that is why I am the way I am.”
Still, the pieces don’t seem to add up. If I was raped, they by who? I don’t believe it could have been M, because I have fragmented memories that indicate the contrary. Also, if this had happened at a junior high party, then it couldn’t have been M…
I suppose I will just have to wait until the memories come, if the memories ever come. To some of you it might seem strange that I would want to remember traumatic events such as this, but I just want to make sense of my life. I want to know why I am as fragmented as I am. I want to know why I have PTSD, why any single little unexpected sound or movement makes me jump and scream. I want my life to make sense. Because right now, it doesn’t. There are too many gaps, too many things unexplained, too many questions unanswered.