On November 2nd I was raped. By my husband. At a swinger’s party.
I didn’t feel like I could say no. This was not his fault. I was raised to not say no, to do as I was told, to not let people down. When he told me to do something, the panic and anxiety I was already feeling took over and I did what was expected because I didn’t want to be bad, to be boring, prudish, disappointing, to him or the other people around.
When I felt like I had been good enough, I tried to talk to him, tell him I was freaking out, and he thought I said to keep going. I cried and went into a full-blown panic attack, at which point he realized I wasn’t okay and we went home.
This is my rape story. I was raped by my husband, my soulmate, my best friend, not because he’s evil or malicious but because I’ve been so thoroughly conditioned to be sweet and compliant that even with the person I trust most I couldn’t be safe.
Some minutes I’m okay and I love him and it’s all going to be fine. Others I want to scream and cry and hit him and demand he tell me how he could do this to me. Because it isn’t my fault. And anyone who says it is will be blocked without warning.
This is no more or less valid than any other rape story, but it’s far more common than the stranger in a dark alley or parking garage. It’s important to acknowledge this just as much as any other.
This is about ME. Any derailing or anything I consider inappropriate will be deleted.
Do NOT harass my husband or demonize him. I will not tolerate that. He fucked up, he knows, he hates himself, it was an accident.
This is all I have the emotional strength for right now.