Rape and My Dream Job: Part One

 27. RAPE AND MY DREAM JOB: PART ONE 

Hello and welcome to Raped 25 Years. At this time, I share with you my journey to heal from sexual assault and abuse. Don’t forget to stay to the end, in order to enjoy my gem of positivity. 

This is the beginning of a three-part series on my experience of living my “dream job”. In parts of the series, there will be horrifyingly graphic moments. I make no apology. I lived it, and in fact, I’m still living with the effects. That “dream job” has scarred my psyche.

It was my first job and I was 19 years old. I have a love of animals and I wanted to run my own farm one day. So I accepted a job offer as a farm hand in the meat department of a chicken company. I had family that worked in the same company. I was excited, grateful and happy to be starting work. I was told by the head manager, Mr M, I would be able to work as an assistant to the company vet. I had the qualifications. But I had to complete the three month probation period on a farm first. 

I started as a permanent casual on one of the larger farms. I was told by the farm’s manager, Mr Jones, that the farm was a happy place. I was not to do anything to rock the boat. I was assigned four sheds to take care of. The chickens are grown from hatching to six weeks. 

I found the work hard at first. I didn’t have the same amount of muscle as the men so I was no where near as strong. I was the only female on the farm. Within a week a worker (I will name as Derek) started to hurt me. He hit me, spat on me and pushed me off the moving farm vehicles. An older worker (I will call him Sam) made comments about my bra cup size. I made sounds of discomfort. I was told that Sam was “just like that” and “he doesn’t mean anything by it”. I said nothing else. Obviously it was a normal thing that happened in every workplace. Six weeks later the vertebrae in my lower back were fractured. Derek had pushed me off the moving tractor while it was pulling the trailer. 

I worked at losing weight. I hoped it would  make work easier. I found  I was very good at losing weight. I had been walking up to 10 kilometres a day at work. I developed the rule of not eating before four o’clock in the afternoon. Four o’clock was the end of my working day.

Another worker (I will call him Jacob) was moved onto the farm from another chicken farm. Sam had been moved to a smaller farm and I was glad he was moved. Jacob made fun of Derek, calling him a dick. So Derek started to touch me. Especially in front of Jacob. Jacob told me he would protect me against Derek’s attentions. But Jacob started pushing me up against the shed walls. He did more than just touch, but raped me mercilessly. He said it was his payment for protecting me. I still said nothing. As traumatic as I found each and every violent sexual assault, I thought it was just one of those things that normally happens at every workplace. I believed I had to put up with this abuse. 

As you can see, even from the very start of my employment, I was bullied by men who were perpetrators. It is so very easy to look back on this and say how stupid I was for remaining, even though I’d only been working such a short time. Mr Jones the manager was a perpetrator in verbal threats. Sam was a perpetrator by making unwanted sexual comments. Jacob and Derek were perpetrators of both physically traumatic abuse and constant sexual assaults.

It’s not hard to see that when you think you’ve attained your dream, there’s a rotten piece of the whole. Perpetrators come in all shapes and sizes. As is the irreversible trauma damage that they do. But though the perpetrators think that they have won and broken you, it doesn’t have to be the case. Yes, the trauma the perpetrators inflicted on me means I can never be the same as before the crimes committed against me, but I can still heal. And heal into something more beautiful than before. So, if I can heal, you can too.

In looking for the gem this time, I have been looking through the internet for appropriate quotes. This is a sentiment expressed in many quotes, however is not a direct quote from any one person. Feel free to share it with others:

“It takes using all the broken pieces of our lives, to create a beautiful mosaic” 

This is only too true. Those perpetrators broke up my life and sense of self. But I’m choosing to use those pieces for something different, yet something that will be just as beautiful. Or even more beautiful than I might otherwise have been. And you can too.

Thank you for joining with me as I showed you the start of my “dream job” experience. Feel free to leave a comment on what beauty you see in your broken pieces. Don’t forget to join me next time, to learn more in part two of this three-part series. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby

Rape and Artistic Healing

 26. RAPE AND ARTISTIC HEALING

Hello and welcome back to Raped 25 Years. At this time, I invite you the reader to take a short walk through my journey of healing as a sexual abuse and assault survivor. Don’t forget to stay to the end to enjoy my gem of positivity.

There are many dark days for me in this process of healing. This post, I have decided to share with you my thoughts on creative imagery as a tool to assist in healing. Yes, I have used poetry to creatively express what depression feels like for me.

Deep and dark 

Twisting on the

Inside 

As I drown in

Overwhelming fear

Of the unknown;

Never-ending tortuous 

Pain continues 

Rising.

Slowly sinking 

I curl up

Foetal position;

Why does nobody 

Hear my shrieks

For help as I flounder

To keep my head 

Out of the surf,

Waving my hand

In desperation.

Never ceasing,

The torment just 

Goes on;

Forever until 

I end.

As you can see, depression really does put me into a bad place. I curl in on myself, to shut the world out. This is in an effort to remain “safe” from perpetrators’ sadistic torments of ugly abuse, so that I can heal. 

But it doesn’t work that way. Notice in the poem that the spiral of depression and anxiety just get worse. Once you start on that dangerous downward spiral, it is so easy to forget about healing. To give in to the pain and misery and despair. To let the darkness take you in it’s nasty, grasping claw.

You the reader and I, are survivors. We have made it this far. Just think how far you and I can go, so long as we don’t give in and give up. So below, I have added another poem, written when I wasn’t feeling so down.

Damp and dank,

But oh, so very peaceful;

With majestic timbers,

Thick, ferny under storey,

And soft cushiony mosses.

Native animals make

Their homes,

While birdlife chatter

And screech in the

Dense canopy above.

A creek is heard

Gurgling and dancing its merry

Way to an almighty 

Powerful and crashing

Waterfall;

The distinct chimes

Of the bellbirds’ call

Resound eerily in the

Otherwise tranquil 

Stillness.

The trees start to 

Whisper and sway,

Moving to the organic 

Melody of the breeze,

As it rustles ever so

Softly through the foliage - 

Allowing faint rays of sun

To dapple the decomposing

Forest floor.

With a great burst of flurry,

A lyrebird breaks its cover,

To run elsewhere within 

The hidden depths.

A sleepy possum curls 

Deeper and tighter into

Its hollow home - 

Leaving the rainforest 

Damp and dank,

But, oh, so very

Very peaceful.

This poem was written as an imagery exercise. It invites me to use my senses — all of them, not just one or two. When I read it, I can actually smell the earthy floor of the rainforest, hear the distinctive chiming of the bellbirds and feel the peace all around me. I can even taste the moisture in the air. It is simply an image that for me says peace, tranquility.

That’s what imagery is about. Having a safe place you can retreat to, when the dark and painful and tormentingly scary situations arise. They will and do. Having that a break into something positive is a powerful survival skill for people like you the reader, and myself.

Do you have the image of a safe place in your mind? Feel free to share by leaving a comment below. You may just help another reader.

And now for the gem of positivity. This time it is an affirmation, but I think it fits the theme of this particular post:

I honor to rest and recharge

That is the definition of imagery in the healing process. Imagery is simply a tool to add to your skill sets. It really can help. Why not give it a go?

Thank you for taking a short stroll with me in my journey of healing. I look forward to meeting with you again soon. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby

Rape and My Breasts

 25. RAPE AND MY BREASTS

Hello and welcome back to Raped 25 Years. At this time, I invite you to take a walk through my journey of healing as a sexual assault survivor. Don’t forget to stay to the end so that you may enjoy my gem of positivity.

I have a love hate relationship with my breasts, and I always have. Since the first time these “things” sprouted forth on my chest, I have loved to hate them. The only time since they came into existence that I actually liked them, was when I was actively anorexic. It was during a highly traumatic time when I was being viciously gang raped at my place of work, and used as a sex slave in my own home by the man I refer to as Alex. During that time in my life, my breasts were nonexistent.

My first bra was when I was in Third Grade. Even then, I started out as a size 34B.  Mum went out the next day to get me some 34C. The only good thing I could say about that, it made the Fourth Grade girls absolutely green with envy. But my breasts also caught the fancy of one of the male teachers. That same male teacher, Mr M, was a perpetrator who in three years time, raped me.

My breasts have been a source of abuse by many of my perpetrators. Alex would control me by biting my breasts and nipples until they bled. My breasts developed permanent sores, and the pain every moment was excruciating. Even now, I remember the agony.

What do my breasts currently mean to me? Nothing good. Shame. Failure. Pain. Fear.

Not the sort of words to describe a normal and natural part of a woman’s permanent body. These words don't foster a positive body image at all. Not in myself and certainly not you, the reader.

Shame, because my breasts then cause attention to be directed at my chest rather than me and my personality. How can men in particular, learn something as basic as what the colour of my eyes are, when their vision is solely concentrated about 12 inches (30cm) below? 

Failure, because a woman’s breasts are meant to nurture a baby. But my breasts are a constant reminder of my failure to be a mother to living children. Even worse, the side effect of my trauma medication cause my breasts to lactate. It is a constant traumatic reminder.

Pain, because my 56DDD (34E) breasts physically and psychologically hurt. If I wear a support bra, there is still physical back pain. If I try to exercise, my breasts physically jiggle so much that they embarrass me, as well as being painful. Psychologically, my breasts hurt simply because I know they are there, and they are a constant reminder of the abuse.

Fear. This one may surprise you a little. Yes, there’s the fear of sexual attention and possible abuse, which in my mind is pretty much a foregone conclusion. But there is fear for another reason. There are high rates of breast cancer in both sides of my family. In fact, breast cancer killed my paternal grandmother before my father was 9 years old.

So, what would I like my breasts to mean to me in the future? I would like to reclaim my breasts to be just another normal part of my healthy body. To not see my breasts as so grotesquely large. I would like them to no longer be a source of remembered pain and embarrassment in public. No longer a constant reminder of fear and shame.

I hope that as I heal I will be able to look fully at my naked body and actually think, “yeah, I’m not too bad after all. I can live with this.” Not exactly fulsome praise, but better than trying to cut my breasts off (and yes, I have tried). So there is definitely some improvement in my thinking. The biggest and probably hardest thing to break, will be the fear aspect. To not fear being in a sexual relationship, in which my breasts have previously become a real source of abuse.

What do your breasts mean to you? Do you see them as a natural and lovely part of your beautiful whole? Don’t forget to leave a comment to share what your breasts mean to you.

The gem of positivity I have chosen this time, is sometimes called a quote but is more of a statement:

When a woman stands tall, her breasts are a part of her statement 

How wonderful if I could feel that way about my breasts. To be able to embrace a part of myself which has been such a source of abuse. It is possible to learn to love the body that you the reader, and I, have. Breasts and all.

Thank you for sharing in this short walk with me. My hope is that it has been of some use to you in your journey. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby

My Graphic Rape and Child Molestation

 24. MY GRAPHIC RAPE AND CHILD MOLESTATION

Hello and welcome back to my blog, Raped 25 Years. At this time, I invite you to join me in a short walk through my journey of healing from sexual assault and abuse. Don’t forget to stay to the end to enjoy my gem of positivity.

The following is an experience of sexual molestation. Yes, it is graphic. For that I offer no apologies. In this post, I am giving you a very real and frank look at child molestation — from the child’s point of view.

He comes to my room. I am partly asleep. He tells me to “hush, this is our secret, okay?” I say “okay” in a small voice, a little whisper but I know he heard me. He gets into bed with me. And starts to play “round and round the garden” on my tummy. He knows I love this game.

When he “tickle me under there”, his fingers move down to my privates. He asks me if I feel happy, because I squirm a little. I tell him that my privates feel very happy. He asks me if I want more. I whisper “yes please”. So he takes my undies off. My singlet is pushed up so that my tummy is bare too.

He tells me to open my legs so that he can make me very happy, so I do. He sometimes rubs my tummy, and often my privates. I start to feel very warm and happy. I’m not scared because I feel too happy. Then my privates feel funny, and I think I have wet myself. But he is very pleased, and tells me that I must be very happy indeed. I tell him I am.

He keeps rubbing and tickling my privates, and they start to feel very hot as well as happy. He asks me if I’m a big girl yet. I don’t understand and say no, because I’m still called a little girl. So he asks me if I would like to be a big girl and have my privates feel so happy, I’ll love it. I say yes please. He also asks if I’d like to make his privates feel happy too. I say okay, yes, and he is very pleased with me 

He starts to rub further between my legs, and I’m not sure I like it, but then he rubs the front again, that we both know makes me happy. Then he pulls me onto my side, so that I am against his body. I can feel a very hot and hard pressure between my legs where his fingers had been. But his fingers are still rubbing me happy.

Then the hard thing goes in between my legs. It hurts so much I whimper. He tells me to hush, and that I’m being a very good girl. He asks me if I feel happy still. I say quietly “no, it hurts”. He tells me I am being a very good big girl, and he will make me very happy again.

He moves his hand back down to my privates and starts to rub gently and softly. I start to feel happy again, but the thing between my legs moves up and down from time to time, making me hurt all over again. 

Then the thing starts to move a little faster. It hurts and still feels funny, but my privates are feeling very hot and happy, so hot and happy I think I must be sweating. He keeps rubbing me as the thing goes up and down faster. I can tell I’m being a very good girl, because he is making little happy noises and saying, “yes. Oh yes. Oh that’s good. You’re such a good girl. Oh yeah”.

My privates are hurting a lot between my legs, but I feel very hot and happy too. He rubs me a little harder and asks me if I’m liking being a big girl. I say yes, because although I hurt, I do feel very happy. The he rubs me very quickly, and the thing between my legs starts to jerk. 

My privates feel warmer and warmer, until they feel so hot and happy that it feels like they are sweating. There is another really painful jerk or two, then it feels like a hot explosion up between my legs inside me, and he gives a loud groan and just hugs me to himself. I hurt lots, but I feel very tingly and happy in my privates too.

He continues to hold me to himself until the hard thing becomes sort of floppy, and slides out of me.  He then lies me back on the bed and asks me how I like being a big girl now. I tell him I hurt and feel wet. He looks at my privates, and then starts to say some very bad words. It is red between my legs, and it feels like the red is still dribbling out of me.

He gets angry. I have done something wrong. He says I shouldn’t be bleeding. I don’t understand what he means. He picks me up in his arms and carries me into the bathroom. There is a little cold water in the bottom of the bath. He puts me into the water so that I am sitting up. The water starts to turn red, and he says more bad words.

I am scared. He is angry with me, and tells me I shouldn’t be doing this. He can’t understand why I’m bleeding so much. Finally, after a lot of gentle washing and trickling water over my privates, he seems a lot happier. But the water is very red, and he has to get rid of it. I know it’s because I did something bad that he seems different. 

Slowly, he lets the red water out of the bath. I have to sit at the end of the bathtub, away from the drain. He has to keep putting the plug back into hole, so that it doesn’t make any noise. He then leaves the bathroom with me still sitting in the bathtub. He has told me not to move or touch anything, so I don’t.

My privates still hurt and there is a throbbing pain between my legs. I put my hand there, and it comes away a little red. I don’t know whether I should say so, because he might get mad again. Then I’ll get smacked, and I won’t be a good girl anymore.

He comes back into the bathroom. He sees my hand and says another bad word. But he has a handful of cloth pieces. He tells me to stand up, and helps me out of the bath. It is red where I was sitting, and he seems upset. He gives me the cloth pieces, and tells me to hold them between my legs until he can help me. My legs feel wobbly, and I say in a small quiet voice that I want to sit down please. He makes sure I know how to hold the cloths, and then says yes, I can sit down.

He leaves the room again, and comes back with a pure white ice cream container. I don’t want ice cream now, but then I realise that it is empty. Despite the pain between my legs I am curious about what he is doing. I ask him. As he tells me, his voice and body start to look softer, so I know he’s not so angry with me now.

Holding the container right under the tap, he turns the water on a little. He has to do it quietly, or the pipes will start to make sounds. When he has enough water in the container, he turns off the tap, so there’s no noise of the water hitting the bathtub. Everything has to be done quietly, because this is our little secret. He tells me he has to wash the blood away. That’s when I know the red is blood.

I hear a gentle sound and know he is quietly swilling the water around the tub, concentrating on where I had been sitting. The blood must have washed away, because suddenly he seems happy again. But he has to rinse the bathtub a little at a time so the drain doesn’t gurgle. Then he slowly fills the container again and again, emptying it into the tub quietly, so there is no sound. He must have put the plug back in the drain hole, because after a few times of filling the container, I can make out the sound of water trickling into water. Then he stands up and is pleased.

I am getting very sleepy, but my privates still hurt too. The pain is still quite sharp, like I cut myself between my legs. The red stops coming out of me by the time he carries me back to bed. He lies me on my back, but then sits me up to put my singlet back on. I feel so tired I can’t help being floppy. He looks between my legs, clicks his tongue, and tells me he will put my undies back on once I’m asleep.

I do feel like I’m going to go to sleep, even though I still hurt. He asks me if I hurt, and I say yes, remembering that I have to whisper. So he puts his hand on my tummy again. Slowly he starts to rub my tummy in circles, the way Mummy does when I have a tummy ache. But it isn’t my tummy that hurts. He tells me to close my eyes and go to sleep. I whisper that I can’t sleep because of the pain. He asks me if I would like him to sing me to sleep. I whisper yes please. He says he will so long as I shut my eyes and am quiet.

I close my eyes, and try to concentrate on the songs and not the pain. He sings to me all the Sunday school songs I know. I want to join in, but I know he will get angry with me if I do. Slowly and quietly, the voice seems to fade out. I must have fallen asleep, because I am suddenly waking up. I still hurt between my legs, but I don’t feel wet anymore, so I know what he called blood has stopped coming out of me. I am wearing undies again.

I hear a soft noise and turn my head. He is coming back over to my bed, walking softly. But I can hear him. He comes and strokes the curls off my forehead. He asks me if I still hurt. I whisper yes and nod my head a lot, because there is light coming through the window so I know he can see me now. I can hear the birds tweeting outside, so I know it’s early morning.

He tells me the pain will go away, so long as I don’t touch my privates. I must not rub myself happy the way he taught me to, until the pain stops. He then gives me a big hug and tells me that I am a very good, big girl now. But I mustn’t tell anyone. Mummy wouldn’t love me anymore if she knew I was a big girl now. Then he goes away and leaves me feeling confused.

This is only one such incident between this perpetrator and me. The saddest part is that this rape of my childhood continued. Now, as an adult, the situation is not the same. However, the feelings of guilt remain. 

It is hard working through the trauma of this night. It is not, however, impossible. The earlier the emotions of such grief and suffering are dealt with, the better for the traumatised person. It won’t be easy, and it won’t take away the profound sense of responsibility and loss of peace. I know. I’m there. But it can be done. For you the reader, and I, there is hope.

The gem of positivity is actually a affirmation that I made up for my own use about 3 years ago. I am glad to be able to share it with you now:

I am worthy of goodness and kindness because I am me

This may seem like a silly sort of thing to say to myself, day after day. However, it is helping me to regain my mental and emotional state of wellbeing, in the light of such tragedy that is childhood molestation. But I can heal. And you can too.

Thank you for taking this short walk with me. Don’t forget to leave a comment on what affirmation is helpful for you. And until next time, just breathe and believe. 

With love and care, Ruby