My Boyfriend Raped Me

 

Jack seemed like a great guy at first. He'd send me flowers and shower me with affection. But then he began to change.

I first met Jack* at a BBQ dinner during my college's Freshman Orientation. He was cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. He seemed like such a fun guy. He was also a Christian—the perfect package.

Within a month we were dating. I was flattered that Jack wanted to pursue me and excited about the way he showered me with affection. He would send me flowers. He'd also buy me cards and write Scripture mixed with professions of his love for me. I wanted to believe he was really sincere. So I blinded myself to how he was slowly changing.

When we first started dating he loved everything about me—the way I dressed, my laugh, my relationship with God, the way I interacted with my girlfriends. But it wasn't long before he started to pick on small things. One day he decided he didn't like my roommate. So I distanced myself from her. One night he didn't like the outfit I was wearing—so I changed. Another night he claimed I was wearing too much make-up. So I went to the bathroom and washed it off.

We'd go out to eat and Jack would smile at other girls. If I confronted him about it, he blew me off. Not only that, he would tell me what he liked about them, and how I lacked in comparison.

I remember one incident in particular. We were in a restaurant waiting to be seated. A woman was sitting at a table nearby with her legs crossed. Jack commented on how long her legs were, then he looked at mine and didn't say a word. But the point was clear. My legs didn't measure up. How could he say my legs weren't good enough? How could I change them? At that point I realized I couldn't take it anymore. I had tried to change everything about myself to please him, and now with something I couldn't change, insecurity overwhelmed me.

After five long months, I decided to end our relationship. Jack was angry over my decision. He felt God had told him we were to be married. I wanted to go to my girlfriends for support, but I had given them up months ago to please Jack. I suddenly felt very alone.

A few weeks later Jack called and invited me out for dinner—as friends, he said. Our time in the restaurant was awful. He was loud and obnoxious to the waiters and to me. When he asked to drive me back to my dorm after dinner, I didn't object. I was more than ready for the evening to end. Unfortunately he didn't intend to drive me home. He took me to a deserted parking lot and raped me.

I remember very few things about the actual rape—the car windshield covered with fog, the struggle, and the moment I felt too overpowered to resist any longer. In that instant I realized there was nothing I could do to stop what was happening. He was simply too strong.

When it was over, Jack took me back to my dorm, told me he would give me a call, and simply left. I was in shock. All I remember about those following hours is standing in the shower with all my clothes on, sobbing uncontrollably, desperately wanting the water to wash away the evening's events.

Eight months later I found myself standing in a crowded court room. I had been told that going through the legal process would feel like being raped a second time, but actually it was worse. Even after sharing every intimate detail of the rape, Jack was still found not guilty—insufficient evidence. Case closed.

After that I fell into a deep depression. The college I attended said Jack would be allowed to register for classes. Innocent until proven guilty.

In the months that followed, Jack stalked me. He followed me to my classes, to the cafeteria, to my dorm. The helplessness I had felt during the rape was now multiplying, as I felt more and more helpless on campus.

Finally I reached a breaking point and started contemplating suicide. Around that time I attended a chapel service on campus.

A man named Stephen Arterburn was scheduled to speak. I expected him to talk about some recent missions trip or share his published study on a biblical text. Instead, this man—the founder of New Life Clinics, treatment centers for Christians struggling with depression, suicide, and abuse—spoke on the reality of pain.

Stephen's words caught my attention. He said that even though everything might look okay on the outside, he knew some of us were thinking about suicide. Then he said something I'll never forget: "There's no shame in doing everything it takes to choose life."

I realized that a trip to one of his clinics was exactly what I needed. But the clinic was expensive; my parents' insurance wouldn't cover the costs and they didn't know what to do. However, one of my mom's friends—a counselor—told my parents I'd had an "emotional heart attack." She explained that when someone has a heart attack, you don't wonder what to do; you get her to the emergency room in time to save her life. That put the money issue into perspective for my parents; three days later I checked into a New Life Clinic.

During the first week I sat in the hall and stared at the floor. On the outside I looked emotionless, but on the inside I was screaming with rage. Rage that demanded to know why I was the one in a psychiatric ward instead of the man who'd raped me. Rage that wanted to have my life back. But instead of the rage coming out, it all just brewed inside me—until Mark approached me.

I'll never forget his face. It glowed with a certain peace. He was a fellow patient getting ready to go home in a week. Mark walked up to me, introduced himself, and said, "Me Ra, the longer you deny your pain, the longer it will rule your life. Look around you. All the other patients here are twice your age. Why? It's because we did what you're doing now for most our lives. We ignored our pain and stuffed it down. But one day it exploded, and that's why we're here. Do you see how much you have to gain if you invest yourself into your time at this clinic?" His words burned into me.

That night I couldn't go to sleep. As I thought about what Mark had said, I let my pain and anger surface. Tears finally came, followed by sleep.

For the next few weeks, I went through 8 to 12 hours of therapy a day—sometimes in group sessions, sometimes individually. It was really hard—hard to face my fears, hard to let all my emotions out. But through the process God brought a lot of healing.

When I came home from the clinic, memories of the rape haunted me day and night. Feelings of being trapped would grip me when I'd least expect it. It took me a while to realize that if I wanted to move on in the healing process, I would have to forgive Jack. If I didn't let go of my bitterness, it would destroy me. So I chose to forgive, but I soon learned it would be an ongoing process.

One night I needed to use a restroom at a grocery store. It was in a very obscure place at the back of the store. To get to it I had to go through a set of double doors, around boxes of stacked food, through another door, down some stairs, down another hallway, and around the corner. As I walked down the stairs, all I could hear was a radio playing and a man yelling at one end. I couldn't see him; I could just hear him. I began to wonder if he could see me. What if something happened? Would anyone hear me over the blaring radio?

I feared being raped again.

In that moment of fear, I had to choose to forgive—again—the man who had raped me.