shaniasstory

Shania's Story

When I was 13, I was sexually assaulted at my middle school. My assailants were my friends -- if I'd been asked before the r*pe, I'd have sworn that not one of them would ever want to hurt me.

I returned to school that fall with a more mature body -- larger breasts, nipped in waist, rounded bottom. The boys who used to tease me and call me ugly names were suddenly silent -- instead of using names to hurt me, they used their hands. They started groping or pinching every time I passed.

This harrassment continued, even though I told our teacher about it. He was also the school principal. He may or may not have spoken to them about it -- he never promised to. He just told me to "whale the hell out of them," his words, not mine.

Well, I had been fighting it. And I continued to fight it. But it didn't help. My fighting just made them start attacking in numbers. I can't recall the exact time of year when they started ganging up on me and mol*sting me. I think it must have been after the new year, though, because I had my first period that January, and I lived in terror of them deciding to go down my pants while I was on my period.

I finally told my mother what they were doing. She told me that "this is something women have to deal with. You have to learn to handle this yourself." I told her I'd tell my dad, that he'd make it stop, but she
forbade that. She told me that it would humiliate him to hear what they were doing, and that this was my problem -- they couldn't fight my battles for me. I was on my own.

On the day of my eighth grade graduation, those six boys caught me alone in the gym. I had been working on the stage for the ceremony that night, and was coming out to the janitor's closet for some supplies when they found me. Two of them held my arms, held me still, while the other four lined up to touch me.

The first three just mauled my breasts -- bad enough -- but the last one jerked at my jeans until they came unfastened. He slid his hand down between my legs and put his finger inside me. It hurt so much --
one of them had his hand over my mouth and I was screaming behind it. I kicked at the one who was touching me, and he yelled when my sneaker contacted his shin. Our school cook came out of the cafeteria -- she said, "Hey, you boys let her go!" I've never seen so palpable an expression of disgust as
the one on her face. I ran.

Later that day, I was hiding out behind the heavy, velour curtains of the stage, trying to finish cleaning it for that night. It was lunchtime, but I had skipped the meal because I didn't want to face those boys -- I was hiding. It was such a stupid thing to do -- I'd have been safer out in the open, in a crowd.

They found me again. I could hear them moving around behind the curtains -- like rats inside a wall. I was so scared -- I swung the mop I was holding and hit one of them. I heard him grunt. He pushed
through a split in the curtains, and when he came out, he was scarlet-faced and bent over, gripping his crotch. "Let's get her," he said.

For a long time, I couldn't remember what happened after this. Now I can carry on with the story, I think. Because of the memory repression, I always say at this point that I'm not sure if this is the truth. That's why I never use any of the real names.

They came toward me. I swung the mop again, but someone caught it and ripped it away. They grabbed my arms and forced me down on a table. Someone pushed my shirt and bra up -- they groped my breasts, pinching them and hurting me. I fought -- kicked, twisted, bit the hand over my mouth. It didn't
help.

They forced my arms back until my elbows were hyperextended. It hurt so much that I just lay there. I could barely breathe -- I felt so smothered and I was so angry and so ashamed and so SCARED -- my heart is drumming right now, remembering it.

One of them pulled at my jeans until they came open. He jerked them down off my hips, then tore my underwear down, too. He was touching me, his fingers inside me. One of them said, "F*ck her -- I
dare you to f*ck her." I started fighting again, but they held me down. He fumbled around down there for a minute, then he was thrusting into me.

I went limp and just laid there. I can feel the unreality of it now -- on my back on that table, books pressing into me from beneath, staring up at the ceiling and all the cobwebs up there -- wondering how on earth I was going to sweep them down. It went on forever. They were telling him to hurry up, and
trying to decide who got to go next. Then the bell rang. He pulled out of me. I think he may have
ejaculated just about then, I remember my stomach feeling wet. He jammed his organ back in his pants and they let me get up.

They were suddenly nervous -- I jerked my jeans up and sank to the floor, hugging my knees. God, how could they do this? They were my friends. One of them asked if I was going to tell, and I just shook my head. I wanted them to go, I wanted them to leave me alone. The one who had raped me told me not to tell, he said they'd all get me if I did. Then they left. I ended up in the bathroom, scrubbing my hands and staring at myself in the mirror, repeating "Nothing happened" over and over.

I repressed everything after "Let's get her" for more than twelve years. I'm still repressing details. I think there was a second attack that day, but I'll never be sure. I think I hate that more than the actual rape -- that feeling of not knowing -- of not knowing myself.

Shania