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Topic: Breaking the Rules (08/16/04)
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TITLE: Overcoming Statistics By Lynda Munfrada 08/23/04 |
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"The Rule" in my sociology class stated that a repeat rape victim was ten times more likely to commit suicide than non-repeat rape victims. I had been raped on three different occasions by at least three different men before I finished my first year of college.
The first assault occurred when I was barely seventeen. I had been dating a guy who was much older that I was and our relationship had escalated to engagement and pre-intercourse activity. One night on the ride home from an all day picnic where he had been drinking, he decided that he wanted our relationship to advance sexually. He pulled off the road into a deserted spot by the river where we had "necked" before but when I insisted on limits, he punched me in the side of the head and took what he wanted. I withdrew inwardly, but because I desperately desired to be married, I ignored the warning signs and forgave him when he sobbed how sorry he was that he “loved me so much” that he just couldn't wait until we were married. In a few short weeks, our relationship ended because he didn’t want to be engaged to someone so depressed.
I was used to withdrawing inwardly. For years I had an invisible sign somewhere on my forehead that stated, “Easy Victim, please abuse.” My brother began abusing me before I entered kindergarten and by the time I was in fifth grade, he was selling me to his friends for cigarettes. Some just wanted to talk, others wanted to get their money’s worth but none rounded for home base. After throwing up an entire bottle of asprin that I had ingested one afternoon, I realized that I couldn’t even die right so I began sneaking alcohol to deaden away any shame. When I was twelve, we moved across the country and away from his friends. He found a new toy . . . cocaine . . .and I was off the hook.
I continued drinking and after the first rape added marijuana. Somehow, I still taught Sunday School and managed to be Valedictorian of my graduating class. No one took notice of my self-destructive extra-curricular activities.
I failed at my second attempt to take my life after a stranger accosted me in back of the campus theater one night after the cast party of “Media” in which I ironically played a slave girl. My college roommate found me lying on the bathroom floor of her boyfriend’s apartment, my wrist in a gathering pool of blood. The tearing of the skin by the dull razor had caused me to gag and pass out. Ruth was a nursing student and he was from a rich family who couldn’t afford a scandal so I was discreetly patched up and watched by them for the rest of the week. Four months later, I was raped for the third and last time.
Vowing to get my life together, I quit drinking and became the designated driver for many campus parties. The Residential Advisor and I would split the money the students would pay to have us tote them back to their homes. It was a profitable service. One night, I turned my back, and something was slipped into my diet cola. Two days later I stumbled down the alley to my basement apartment and collapsed into a warm bath promising to never be a victim again. I promised myself. I promised God. I even promised the bewildered upstairs neighbor lady who cuddled my black and blue body as I blathered on about choices and standing up to be counted as human.
Not only did I promise to keep all life safe . . . including mine . . . but I broke “The Rule” regarding suicide expectancy among repeat rape victims. After extensive counseling and becoming a Rape Crisis and Prevention Educator, I have successfully survived a statistic. I am a healthy mother of two and a wife of over twenty-five years to a wonderful, Christian man.
Some rules where just made to be broken, praise God. :-)