Pati Thomas

I was 13 and going to the youth center on Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii.  They were offering some art lessons.  The teacher helped me and mostly did a beautiful painting for me to give my mother, I think it was for mother’s day. So I offered to help clean up after the class was over and the other kids had gone home.  He was a truly gift artist and as I started cleaning the brushing in the sink I told him how beautiful the painting was and that I didn’t know how to thank him.

He replied that he thought I knew how to thank him.  I started to feel uncomfortable, and I didn’t even know why.  I laughed because even then, at that tender young age, that’s what I did when I was nervous.  He came up close behind me to put some more brushes in the sink.  I said “cool, thanks”.  He said something like “oh come on now. That’s not how I want you to thank me.”  And he stepped closer.  I kept cleaning brushes and he pressed himself up behind me so that I could feel his very obvious erection pressing into my backside.  He put his hands on my hips and pulled me close to him as he said “Now do you know how I’d like you to thank me?” and his hands tried to pull my skirt upwards.

My parents had always taught me to defend myself.  And while I was scared to death of what this guy could possibly do to me, I knew that wasn’t going to let it happen without a fight.  I picked the biggest brush in the sink, made sure it was really soaked and flung it back into his face as I said “Yeah I get it, No thanks!”  I may have actually hit him with that brush.  (The goal was to give him a face full of watery paint and maybe get him in the eyes)  In any case it surprised him into letting me go and I ran, out of that kitchen and out of the youth center.  I made it home, tore up that painting and threw it in the trash.  I never told my parents because I was ashamed.  Somehow, I felt it was my fault.  Somehow, I felt that I had provoked him.  Although I got away from him, I felt dirty and ashamed, until far into adulthood.

Heidi F.

This is the first of several stories from survivors that I’m hoping to be able to share.

Please refer to me as Heidi or Heidi F but not my full name.

I was molested as a very young child, but I won’t go into that.

When I was eleven I went with my friend to some guys house that were supposed to drink with us. They were in their 20s. In the end my 12-year-old friend gave a few guys blow jobs and I was coerced into a handjob and a blow job. They they told me how great I was at it.

When I was 13, I met a man in his mid 20s, we fell in love I guess you could say, though it was wrong.

Shortly (maybe a month) after that my friend Tonya had me go with her to meet some guy who we were going to smoke a blunt with. When the guy pulled up I saw that he was a 30-year-old very large man. He went by D. He took us to a wooded area on a local beach and fed us an insane amount of alcohol. He asked if I was a virgin (I was) and processed to tell me how he wanted it. I refused, I was with the before mentioned man and loved him. D took my top off and stood behind me holding my breasts while Tonya took pictures of us with his Polaroid (we were both crying). He didn’t rape me, but he was angry that I refused him, wouldn’t return my top, and dropped us off (me topless) in the heart of the south side (very bad part of town). Tanya who was nearly hallucinating from the amount of jack we drank, called the cops at a payphone and told them I had been raped. I told them I wasn’t but told the actual story and D was prosecuted for his crime.  I think he got a couple years, but I can’t remember. They found a photo album of similar pictures with other girls in his trunk. I do not know if my picture was in it, or what happened to said picture or the other girls. I still wonder about that sometimes.

The incident with D allowed my grown man boyfriend-guy to convince me of how irresponsible and incapable of caring for myself I was. As time went on I was not allowed to have friends, wear makeup/perfume/scented deodorant/dresses/skirts/shorts (in the Florida heat), etc. I was always accused of being a whore though he was my only. He gained complete control over me. I suppose I became a sex-slave or a sex toy, or whatever. He would have me suck his dick 6 and 7 times a day. I had braces and my mouth occasionally bled from the blow-jobs. When I did he would apologize and not make me give another that day, but he would have me finish that blowjob. I did whatever I was told. I didn’t know any better and didn’t want him upset. I didn’t know that this was weird until high school when I had a discussion about blow jobs with a friend. I thought everyone gave 30+ a week. I never did prom or had sleepovers because he didn’t allow it. He was my strict father and life partner, it was pretty f*cked up.

Right before I turned 18, my very close friend came into town. We had similar rough upbringings. He convinced me that my old man was a pedo and our relationship was wrong. That I should leave him and get with my him, my friend. He was as the child I knew, a good kid, and I cared deeply for him. Somehow I found the strength to leave him and get with my friend. Within 2 weeks I was pregnant with my first child (on my 18th birthday). As it turned out my new life partner was insanely fucked up. He was an alcoholic and drug addict and mentally ill. He beat me and regularly raped me. He raped me 4 weeks after I gave birth to our son. I became pregnant and decided to have an abortion. 5 days after the abortion he raped me again in doggy style. A sudden gush of blood made him pull back. I was bleeding profusely and was in an inch high puddle of blood. He seemed to feel really bad and apologized and helped me into the tub, washed me, and flipped the mattress. We left the bed there when we moved. Over the next several years he viciously beat me and raped me and fathered two more kids. Sometimes he would smoke crack and make me fuck him with objects in our house. A few times he made me reenact the times I was molested as a child (I had told him the stories when we were kids). He also made me reinact the time his uncle molested him. He once made me suck a crack dealers dick so he could buy crack (mind you, I didn’t do anything like that, I didn’t even drink). They high-fived over how good I was at it while I cried. I know I’m good at it though, been doing it long enough… He forced me into stripping to pay for his habits. Funnily enough, it was the men there who were forever complimenting me and being kind to me that grew my confidence and made me realize that I could stop my life as it was. One day after work I came home to him crying. He said he had a dream that he molested our oldest daughter (not yet 3). It dawned on me what could happen. I Grabbed the kids and ran while he was in the bathroom.

A while later a man I had consensual sex with previously, that worked at the club, forced me into the bathroom and sodamized me. I didn’t tell anyone.

Shortly after that I met my now husband in the same club, and we’ve been together nearly 13 years. I am ok, my kids are ok (he raised them as his own) and we are treated with love and respect. I am happy and healthy so this does have a happy ending. ❤️

#MeToo

#MeToo has been making the rounds on social media. I have seen it praised as it allowed those who have experienced sexual violence to highlight just how big of an issue it really is; while some have used it as a way to share their experiences. I have a friend in Mexico who is a practicing attorney. She estimates that more than 90% of her pro bono work is helping victims of sexual violence get justice. She told us that a client referred a woman to her for help. This woman’s 14-year-old daughter was sexually assaulted by a cab driver on her way home from school. The girl said she was too afraid to speak up and report it until she saw all her friends posting #MeToo and realized that she wouldn’t be alone.

#MeToo has also been condemned as some have claimed that not all people who are posting have experienced sexual violence or harassment. I would point out that those who have experienced may not talk about it. They may be embarrassed, or they may think that it’s so common that talking about it won’t do any good. I used to work as a delivery driver for a popular pizza chain. What would have happened if I had told my manager about every guy who followed me to my truck wanting a date or my phone number? Or if the other female drivers did the same? Would he have decided not to hire any more female drivers out of concern for our safety? Would he have dismissed it as us being dramatic? Would any female delivery driver admit to not feeling safe doing her job, seeing as how she could then lose her job?

#MeToo allows people share their stories and concerns. Some are speaking up for the first time after possibly years of silence. Some may have spoken up before, but are now sharing something they may not have felt comfortable sharing before. I was raped in 2008. I reported it, and I found that experience to be so degrading and humiliating that when I experienced another rape in 2010, I kept it a secret. I didn’t tell even friends or family. My silence lasted until earlier this year, when I could no longer keep the secret. Thankfully, the first people I told were supportive and willing to make sure I got the help I needed. But I never talked to anyone about what happened after that first rape that made me decide not to report the second. Given what I have seen with #MeToo, I think I should, if only help show why some people might not report, and what I was afraid would happen if I sought help with a guy acting like a creep.

When I was raped in 2008, I was attending a local community college with a dual major in business administration and music. I was 22 years old, and I was naive and idealistic enough to think that I would be singing at the Grand Ole Opry by my early 30’s. He was 44 years old and also a student at that community college majoring in a healthcare related field. The rape occurred off campus, but the guy kept calling me wanting to do it again, even approaching me while I was on campus. I met with the Vice President of Student Affairs and told him what happened, and he seemed supportive. At first. A couple of weeks later, he wanted to meet with me again. At this meeting, he told me that he met with the guy, and he did not think that he meant to rape me. He just lacked the emotional intelligence to understand that I didn’t want to have sex with him. I was shocked and confused. Surely a 44-year-old man can understand the meaning of the word “no”, and he was even paraphrasing back the reasons why. It seemed to me like he understood; he just didn’t care.

Then there was a judiciary committee hearing. I sat in a conference room with professors, some I knew and some I didn’t, the guy, and an 18-year-old girl I didn’t know. I told them what happened. The professor in charge of the hearing asked me to play all voice mail messages he left on my phone. In one of those messages, he described in graphic detail what he wanted to do if we got together again, so professors I knew and professors I didn’t know found out details about my body only an intimate partner should know. I was humiliated. Then the 18 year old girl got a chance to speak. She was his Spanish tutor, and he had hit on her, too, even making comments about her breasts during a tutoring session. I thought surely they would do something to ensure the young women on campus would be safe from this guy. I mean, it wasn’t just me he was harassing. I thought wrong. He was placed on academic suspension. He could no longer participate in any on campus clubs or events. He could only go to class and go home.

At least I had reported what happened to the police. Some time after the judiciary committee hearing, he was arrested, and that December, a judge signed a restraining order against him effective for one year. He was not to come within 500 yards of where I lived, worked, or went to school. Even though the grand jury decided that there wasn’t enough evidence for an indictment, I thought I was safe for a while at least. That fall, I went to my English class, and I heard the professor call out his name. Again, I was shocked and confused. I had a restraining order against him, and the school had a copy of it. How was he allowed back on campus, or even to register for the same class I was in? I went to the judge and asked to meet with the president of the college. The judge amended the restraining order, allowing him on campus, and the president told me that if I didn’t like it, he’d help me transfer somewhere else. By this point, I had been kicked out of the music program because, naturally, my grades had dropped, and my voice professor had told me that he could no longer hear me over the piano. My voice, and any dreams I had of singing at the Grand Ole Opry, were gone. I wasn’t going to lose the business degree, too; although, I had no idea what to do with it.

Today, if things go well, I will be graduating in December 2017 with a bachelor’s in Interdisciplinary Studies. I want to do anything I can to make sure that no one else has to be humiliated or watch their dreams go up in smoke for a rapist or abuser to only get a slap on the wrist, and I want to help make sure that they get help. I’m sharing this in the hopes that not just my university’s president and vice president of student affairs, or my professors, see it and learn from it. I hope that presidents and vice presidents of colleges and universities all over see it and learn from it. I hope elected officials see it and learn from it. This happened before Obama era Title IX changes. I recently experienced having to deal with a creep. Those chages to Title IX made a difference. I got help, protection, and support, and I didn’t feel humiliated.