Well, I know in the hypothetical sense that what happened was enough. Enough that the police should have taken me seriously, enough that I should have realized how bad it was and reported sooner, enough that a rape kit definitely would’ve found some evidence. But still.
At this point, I don’t know if my wish that things had gone differently is more a product of wanting a legal case, or just wanting to convince myself that it really is black and white, that I couldn’t have resisted harder without putting myself in serious danger. And possibly part of it is also my almost masochistic penchant for punishment; as poor a way to think about it as this may be, a part of me follows the well, you were careless/naive/stupid/slutty enough to let yourself get raped, so you don’t deserve to get away with that in one piece sort of logic.
Beyond that, it’d also be a nice way to keep myself from slipping into the Oh God What If I Imagined It All phase. Especially since, after coming to certain realizations about my relationship with my best friend, I no longer really talk to anyone who knew me much during the time when The Whole Thing Was Happening.
It wasn’t like the first time, years ago. I wasn’t bleeding. Nothing tore.
Probably the belt must have left some marks, but I don’t remember them. I don’t think I ever looked. I had welts where he slapped me, but they faded in a day or two and I only know because I could feel that they hurt.
I never looked; I still can’t.
The Vagina Monologues open with a sort of humorous anecdote about how women sometimes go weeks or months without looking at their vaginas. I’m going on a year and a half now. It’s hard enough to touch. I don’t know how anyone can look. It doesn’t seem like something that’s really a part of me anymore.
He hit me in the mouth, once, and split my lip. He didn’t mean to, that time. But he never even acknowledged it.
So, yes, I think he would have hurt me more. But I’ll never know. I lost my chance. I lost my chance to be taken seriously, to have a case. To have my rape be Society’s Rape, rather than something disgusting that I brought upon myself and didn’t fight enough.
I can’t tell if His raping me was more traumatic than the first time despite the fact that the only scars, so to speak, are internal, or because of it.