Introduction

Hi. Nice to meet you… sorry it had to be like this.

I’m starting this blog, this journal, to help and document my healing process.

Statistically speaking 1 out of every 4 female Marines is raped within her first term (4 years) of service.

I’m one female Marine and I was raped more than most people can believe.

I was diagnosed and am currently under going treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) due to Military Sexual Trauma (MST). I see a therpist for one on one counseling every other week and have group therapy every Thursday. I guess I should give you a sort of glossary of words and terms I might use to help explain my story. Firstly you should know that I am a member of the United States Marine Corps (USMC). I am a Corporal (Cpl/E4). I’ll mention other ranks and try my best to give you names(changed) to remember people by.  I’ll try my best to refrain from USMC jargon and acronyms but if I confuse you let me know and I’ll try to clarify.

I’m sure some of you want to know why I want to write this, why I think you should read this. I want people to know what happened to me. Not because it’ll save other girls, not because I am looking for justice or reparations. I want to tell my story to help me heal. I want to take the power out of the assaults, out of the memories and maybe out of the nightmares. One of the fun parts of PTSD is the nightmares… it’s the adernaline rush and it feels so real you wake up and your muscles still hurt from fighting your demons. Your heart is pounding, blood rushing through your ears so loudly you can barely hear, sometimes you’re crying… sometimes you’re screaming… most of the time you’re doing both. Sometimes you fight the pillows, the blankets, twist yourself up until you swear that it’s hands around your throat not your 600 thread count sheets. You’re pouring sweat but it feels like ice water escaping from your skin and your whole body is trembling, tremoring, shaking so hard you think you’re siezing. Sometimes you’re deaf to the world aside from your heart hammering against your ribs and the last sounds of that too vivid memory blasting on repeat. Sometimes you’re blind, eyes still seeing the world as if life has been paused on the last moment, the last image you saw before you tore yourself awake. I see eyes… blue eyes. Reflecting the yellow light of the streetlights outside…

An easy tell for people like me, those of us who cannot sleep for fear of being trapped in the never ending cycle of a terribly traumatic moment, is to look at the walls in our bedrooms… I have pictures, a collage, a quote, plastered all over my bedroom walls so when I wake up in the middle of the night I have something peaceful, calming or beautiful to stare at and try to calm my mind… I can tell you what each object on my walls look like in every shade of natural light. I guess it’s sort of an accomplishment but the truth is I’m always tired. Always exhausted. I sleep the best during the day, I can wake up from a “night”mare and instantly recognize every surrounding, know where I am, that I’m ok and that no one is near me that I don’t want near me. Sometimes I wish I could work nights that way I can sleep during the day but it’s hard to find a Montessori School open at night. In case you didn’t know I have a three year old. He’s awesome. He is the only good thing that came out of my failed marriage to his father… we will call him Will (the ex husband not my son) my son we will call Bug or Shmookums (Shmook for short). Will doesn’t believe I was raped. In high school I had a semi-slutty phase… meaning I slept around a bit (every girl has some sort of slut phase, it’s a part of the self discovery process). Will went to high school with me and I’m sure a part of him believes that no one would ever rape me since in his mind I give it away but I’m a very different person than the 16 year old who used to think sex meant love… I guess a bigger part of him wouldn’t even consider date rape as “real” rape because if he did he’d have to admit to being a rapist too…that’s a topic for a different day.

Part of me wants to keep writing, keep tell you things and explaining things but it took me weeks to open up to Lizzie (my therapist) and I think part of this is going to take some time.

For those of you who aren’t sure if you want to keep reading… you have questions… you just wanted to read a juicy rape story… stick with me ok? I promise this is worth the read I just have to gather some courage.