Creative Writing · Depression · Disordered Eating · Healing · Personal · Poetry · Survivor · Thriver · TW:Rape Sexual Assault · Writing

On The Day I Was Raped

TW: Rape, Sexual Assualt, ED


The day I was raped I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a baggy gray hoodie. It was after school and I was at a friend’s house up the street from where I lived.

The day I was raped was a normal day. I went to school. I rode the bus home with friends. I wasn’t dressed up and I wasn’t alone.


Except there was a new guy. A friend of a friend from out of town. He was 19 and I was 16 and he seemed so much older. So cool.


In the basement of that house I sat on a bed with my friends and the stranger. I had been to that house many times before.


It was a normal day.


My friend liked that boy but the boy liked me so the three of us started kissing. Until it was just two.

My jacket got unzipped and his hands were up my shirt. I liked it but knew I needed to stop. I needed to go home.


On the day I was raped I had boundaries. I felt safe. I was with friends. I liked kissing boys but I was a virgin. I wanted to stay a virgin. I playfully took his hands off me.


I said, “I need to go.”

He slammed me down and I thought he was playing. I laughed but he wouldn’t let me up.


He was 19 and I was 16. He was over 6 feet tall and strong. I lay there in my sick and malnutritioned 100 lb body. I tried. I tried so hard but he held me down with little effort.


I started to cry. I begged him to stop. “Please stop. I need to go home. I need to go home. Please don’t do this.”


I was so polite in pleading with my rapist.


In one quick movement his hand reached at the top of my pants and he pulled my pants and panties to me feet.


It was so fast I remember thinking. I remember thinking “he’s not going to stop.”


I felt heat rise in my body. I covered my face, full of shame and embarrassment.  I lay there legs forced open and pants around my ankles.

I pleaded again, even though I knew he was not going to stop.


I let my body go weak. My hands still covered my face and I openly sobbed while he penetrated me. 


I waited.


After some time I felt his weight lift slightly off me and I took the opportunity. I readily rolled off that bed.

Pants only half on, I ran up the stairs and out the door to my laughing friends smoking in the driveway.


I kept running.

My girlfriend ran after.


I don’t remember what I said.

I don’t remember the next couple of days.


I do know that when I got home I took a shower that seemed to last for eternity but could not truly cleanse me.


Inside the walls of the shower I wept great despair until I was numb and the pain in my chest turned hollow, until the shower ran cold and the only thing left was exhaustion and confusion.


On the day I was raped I learned that I was not safe, even among friends. That the world was a dangerous place and would do whatever it could to me. I spent the next decade blaming and hating myself.


I allowed men to take from me. I endured abuse and accepted that the lies and betrayal were my life. I deserved this and I deserved to be raped.


I never told anyone this story, but after a few years I did admit to some that it happened, but that I was lucky. It was not that bad. I lived and that other people had it so much worse…


It was the story I desperately wanted to believe and be true.


I did not want to be a victim, but I saw my already wavering trust in others broken. I lived in continuing suspicion and on this untold story.


I write these words with fear and trepidation. At age 28, finally being able to speak it out loud.


I was raped. 

I was raped.


There is power in the admittance and I know that it is my story and I have the right to tell it. To own it. To understand and be free of it, but I had to face it. I had to look at the ugliness and feel all the shame and guilt that I put off expressing all these years. It was easier to pretend it never happened.


But it did happen and I accept it. I accept it now in order to heal and move on.


On the day I was raped many things were stolen from me, my trust in others and my innocence. My childhood ended on this day; but this boy, this day could not take everything from me. Not my spirit, my integrity, my compassion, my love for living beings and nature and now I will no longer allow it to take my joy and happiness.

Chronic Illness · Depression · Disordered Eating · Personal · Prose · Writing

Health and Wellness?

It has been said that tough times will make or break you, but if you suffer from a debilitating or chronic illness, the tough times will do both.  We can liken the experience to military training, the breakdown of the individual and then building of the person into a soldier. Or similarly, the difficult moments in relationships; a marriage that experiences the death of a child or infidelity. These extreme circumstances tend to be those all or nothing moments in life. Where life as we know it can never be the same. But what happens if the life altering situation is with your health?


It is true, our bodies and mind can betray us. How am I to feel when the flesh that houses me, the mind that keeps my hopes, my dreams and my memories, become the enemy? This entity that afflicts and destroy everything I thought I knew about myself. Suddenly there is no refuge anywhere I go, because the place I am trying to escape inside of myself.


I remember the days when I looked in the mirror and only saw an empty shell of the person I once was. Now I see myself too full for comfort. I grab at the rolls of skin on my body. The flesh that encapsulates this soul I can not seem to control but can not get away from. It does not matter what I was before because now I am a different form. That sick girl is a confused woman just trying to do what is right and forget anything terrible ever happened.


I don’t know if I can forget the years of starvation or the blades I put into my skin. I still have nights where the pain brings me to my knees and I struggle to breathe. This sickness broke me and then made me into the person I am today. My name is Jayla and some days I want to hide away from this world. I feel like everyone around me can see the broken pieces I’ve haphazardly try to glue back together to appear “normal.”    

I would like to say I carry on despite everything I’ve been through, but really I do it full of spite. This is not directed towards another, but that defeated girl I remember myself as. I hate that part of me. This weak and defeated person. I am also naturally rebellious and refuse to be taken down. When I fall, I always get back up again. I refuse to be anything less than resilient.  


Still, there is always that small voice in my head telling me, “You will never be well. You are broken.” Those messages ring through my mind on a daily basis. Everyday that I get up anyway I yell back “Just watch me.”