Mistaken for love
A few nights ago, my sister told me a story that had been bothering her. It was about our common friend from childhood.
This friend had been partying with her boyfriend and some relatives one fateful evening. The celebration left her drunk that she eventually found herself in a motel room with her boyfriend. She was raped, by a man she loved, that night.
Another close friend of mine divulged that she had been sexually abused as a child by her own father. She is the eldest and the only daughter in the household. I dropped by her place recently, and she was gracious enough to introduce me to her dog, her brothers, her mother, and, when the doorbell rang, her father. I hated the fact that basic decency required me to be respectful to this 70-year-old man. I wanted to pluck my friend out of her home and bring her somewhere safe, somewhere far from this perpetrator.
But I was a guest.
These are difficult stories to tell. The disclosure comes with shame, guilt, self-blame, regrets, and embarrassment, among others. However, I found it more difficult to listen.
I am no stranger to tales of abuse. I have read actual accounts of rape, and I have written and produced stories on human trafficking, but never have I expected to know someone — really know someone — who had to go through such a horrible experience.
The saddest part is that they will have to live with these painful memories that can be healed, eventually, but never forgotten.
No one deserves abuse, in any form. No one. •
This friend had been partying with her boyfriend and some relatives one fateful evening. The celebration left her drunk that she eventually found herself in a motel room with her boyfriend. She was raped, by a man she loved, that night.
Another close friend of mine divulged that she had been sexually abused as a child by her own father. She is the eldest and the only daughter in the household. I dropped by her place recently, and she was gracious enough to introduce me to her dog, her brothers, her mother, and, when the doorbell rang, her father. I hated the fact that basic decency required me to be respectful to this 70-year-old man. I wanted to pluck my friend out of her home and bring her somewhere safe, somewhere far from this perpetrator.
But I was a guest.
These are difficult stories to tell. The disclosure comes with shame, guilt, self-blame, regrets, and embarrassment, among others. However, I found it more difficult to listen.
I am no stranger to tales of abuse. I have read actual accounts of rape, and I have written and produced stories on human trafficking, but never have I expected to know someone — really know someone — who had to go through such a horrible experience.
The saddest part is that they will have to live with these painful memories that can be healed, eventually, but never forgotten.
No one deserves abuse, in any form. No one. •
Now that I’m wakin’ up(Mood song: There’s so much to say about Lady Gaga’s new single “Perfect Illusion”, from which I sing the phrase that ended up as the title of this post.)
I still feel the blow
But at least now I know
It wasn’t love, it wasn’t love
It was a perfect illusion