I’m turning fifty in a week and a half, and battling the anniversary of the rape, which has always brought on my dread, anxiety and depression at the beginning of summer. For no reason, other than driving the route from the stoplight to Holiday Market, it popped into my mind. Imagining Matt walking in the middle of the night back and forth. There was a considerable distance from Matt's house to where he knew I laid, passed out and intoxicated. I believed Matt and Billy walked to Becky's from LWW. I was so intoxicated by the time they arrived the first time, at the party, how would I have known? That was a long walk. Almost 4 miles. At night. We were kids. We weren't old enough to drive. They also had to cross the highway. There was no gas station there back then. I don't remember it being there, at least. And he would have had to throw Billy off on the way back. Billy was most likely not cool with his best friend being a rapist. I hope. Billy also lived in Lake Wildwood, further in than Matt did. So Matt must have pretended to go into his house, waited until Billy walked down the road out of ear shot, then poof. He jumped on his bike and returned to Becky's house somewhere between 12 and 2 AM to assault me. Now that I have done a more thorough investigation, I believe this to be the only logical explanation. It makes so much more sense. For 34 years, I always thought how dedicated he was to raping! Walking back and forth. That is a too much walking, then raping then walking. Just like that, my mind is blown. I wasn't a bike rider, I was too clumsy and I lived on steep dirt and gravel roads. I didn't think like someone who lived on pavement. Thank Google and the internet. There is some relief in understanding more. It was a crime of opportunity. It's funny how our brains try to piece together things we don't remember. I was just a random, passed-out, helpless, wasted person. Jenny placed me in Tyler’s bed to protect me. Matt returned to Becky’s home where he was kicked out by Jenny earlier because Jenny found him pulling my pants off, in Becky's room. He had carried me into the room. I don't remember any of it. Dawit and Tony or Ben apologized to me later, for not stopping him. That's how I know he carried me. Jenny kicked him out of the house. I believe she told me that he walked home with Billy. And she moved me into Tyler’s room, and locked the door from the inside. She went upstairs and passed out on Becky's parent's bed. Jenny made sure I was safe. Matt came in through Tyler’s window. It was probably open because it was springtime, the beginning of summer, perfect weather. I can not remember any signs of forced entry. I told Matt, “No,” just a week or two before. He tried to physically push himself on me at my house when Jenny and BIlly were having sex in my parent’s bed. My parents were gone. They were always gone. I had to fight him off me for an hour at my house when Billy brought him over the first time. I couldn’t stand him, It was a game to him. The entire scenario was insane. He just walked up to me without a word and put his hands on me, and he tried to hold me down. Jenny and Billy were out of earshot, enjoying one another and I was fighting off a high school wrestler and footfall player. Even though I was small and thin, I didn't have a problem keeping him off of me. I was mean and unafraid. My mother was physically abusive my whole childhood, fighting back was not a problem and if I had to I would have died before giving in. I hated Matt. I was practically a virgin, I had only had sex 1 or 2 times with a friend, someone I grew up with and loved and was dating, and we left it as friends. Matt was a stranger to me, we never spoke. We had nothing to say to one another. He was the best friend of my best friend's boyfriend. He had creepy, ugly, dead eyes. I can recognize that look in anyone now. Rapist eyes. Serial killer eyes. Sociopath eyes. that time. Matt was also dating a friend of mine named Paulene. A week or two later when he had the opportunity to rape me he took it. I was passed out, inebriated beyond any measure. No fight. Jenny found him pulling my pants off in Becky’s room earlier that evening. She had probably just had sex on Becky's parent's bed with Billy, they dated for almost a year, and when she came downstairs she found me in Becky's bed with Matt attempting to pull my pants off. She moved me, and locked me in Tyler’s room knowing that he was inappropriate and being a psychotic rapist. Jenny kicked him out of the house because she didn't trust him. Dawit, Tony or Ben, I know at least two of my three besties from Ready Springs were in the downstairs living room. They were afraid to stop Matt from carrying me into Becky's bedroom. He was older and scary to them. They were still in 8th grade. I was a freshman in high school, I had just turned 15 years old. It was 1989. Becky left a key at her house so Jenny and I could hang out there when she and her family went on vacation. I didn't think getting wasted was a big deal, because I was there with friends that I loved and trusted. Jenny, Tony, Ben, and Dawit. I didn't know Jenny invited Billy and he brought Matt. I was falling down before they even arrived. I was full-board, smash-shit wasted. I drank a six pack of whatever I brought. I might have weighed 90-100 lbs. I talked my neighbor into to giving me a ride there, and I gave him money to buy me alcohol. I lied and told him Becky's parents were home. “Of course we’re being safe, thanks for the ride.” I drank all of my alcohol and then found Becky’s dad’s liquor cabinet. I drank whatever I could find. I have no idea why drinking this way is acceptable in American society. But I did it, as often as I could. I started falling down. and accidentally broke Becky's dad's butterfly collection. It fell, or I may have possibly dropped it. That's one of the last things I remember until I woke up being raped by Matt. I probably had alcohol poisoning. Matt repulsed me on a regular day. He just saw an opportunity and took it. I had trouble processing the mutilation. Even though my body was gutted, with irredeemable scarring and other damage, it was my mind that took the brunt of the violation. I shamed myself for letting my guard down. And I told no one. Even though I washed the bloody sheets in the morning and left them in the dryer, I wasn't me anymore. I was a broken, shattered soul, one that you read about in the Native American stories. One who has to spend the rest of their lives finding the puzzle pieces and putting them back together. Then I walked home in what I label robot mode. Every year at the same time, for 34 years it comes on again. Auto pilot, doing what the world expects of me, zero feelings. It is the anniversary of a memory that implanted into my physical body. The weather, this beautiful, perfect sunshine and springtime, in California, triggers the memory in my cells of when my power was stolen from me. The following weeks after the rape are a blur, I equate it to a black out that lasted years. It is PTSD. I read a book that explains it well, called the “Body keeps the Score.” It always comes back. Every year, about this time, at the end of May, I feel cold and distant and reminisce about the injustice. And I try to piece everything together, because I can't remember, only the worst of it. It eats at me. I'm trying to heal. I had a dream that I did this, opened myself up to sharing everything. It's time. I need no justification. There is no statute of limitations on the truth. #memotherfuckingtoo I apologized ten years ago, to Becky, for losing our friendship, and for any damage we may have done to her home. We met for dinner right before our 20 year high school reunion. She lives out of town. After the (assault) gathering at her house, she got into trouble for letting Jenny and me into the house when her family was gone. I heard this from John B, Jenny's older brother, who was best friends with Tyler, Becky's brother. The house was was probably still messed up when everyone left. I'm sure the boys on the couch and abandoned Jenny didn't clean as well as Becky's family did. And the last thing I remembered before blacking out was breaking glass. Her parents knew we were there and called our parents. Becky and I just stopped hanging out. Our tight group of friends from our small junior high had expanded to the enormous high school. It was 10 times the size of our tiny school, we had other opportunities. Beck and I still said hello in passing, during school. I became self destructive and shut out most of my old friends. I already had a difficult time processing the abusive childhood neglect, and after the assault, I became worse. Friends were wise to go their own way. I told Becky about the rape, and why I abused so many drugs for the rest of my high school years. Becky revealed that Matt tried to attack her too, at a camping trip at the Deer Creek Falls. A group of us used to camp and party there. Becky shared that she was passed out in a tent when Matt found her and dragged her by her hair away from the other campers, over rocks. He might have been attempting to take her out of earshot. Kristen, our mutual friend, caught him, and chased him away. She helped get Becky to safety. Thank God for Kristen. I took the blame for my assault from the beginning. It was my fault because I chose to be wasted. I handicapped myself and allowed myself to be in a vulnerable position. But I was fifteen, just turned fifteen, like a week or less fifteen. I was a child. He was maybe a year older than me, but the same grade, and an athlete. He was strong enough to carry my dead drunk body from the couch into a bedroom. Matt’s girlfriend was the first person I told, right after it happened, Paulene questioned me in disbelief, “Why would he rape you when he and I have sex all the time?” Maybe that’s something you should ask your boyfriend, the rapist. I spray painted "RAPIST" on his locker in red. I don't remember doing it, but I remember it being there, and that I did it. He saw me watching him when he was quietly scrubbing it off. Matt's cousin, Troy, found me at school after it happened. He told me that Matt told him everything. Troy cried real tears, and he apologized to me for his cousin. I remember Troy saying the words, but I was already gone, my body was in robot mode, and my spirit was wandering. PTSD trauma was already in full effect. I got drunk at another party and kicked and dented the door of his car, when he got one. The next person I told was Mike, my first boyfriend. He acted empathetic, but he didn't really care. We only dated for about six months. I needed therapy, not a love affair. After high school, he ended up moving in with Matt, for college in Chico. Ouch. What a betrayal that was. I assumed he was either fine with rape, rapists, or that he thought I was lying or just forgot. Either way, our friendship is void. Knowing and condoning is unacceptable. I finally told my first love, Bob, when we were on acid, I was nineteen. I couldn't stand being sexual, or certain types of physical touch, especially being in the dark. I would freeze and become violent, if he surprised me by a caress without verbal warning first. "I'm going to touch you, now," kept him from an elbow to the face. How romantic. Bob was kind and persistent. I trusted him. I told him everything. Bob betrayed my trust and told my best friends about Matt's assault. He told Roy, Jerry, Jeff and to my horror, Jenny. He said he couldn't handle that kind of information on his own. Understandable. It was like a ricochet of trauma quietly bouncing through my psyche for years. After I scream cried and freaked out on Bob, I was interrogated by Jenny. Jenny didn't believe it. She didn't hear it from me, she heard it from Bob. And she remembered locking the door. I saw it in her eyes, it was too unbelievable. And I was so wasted. My memory must have been wrong. I would have told her. It broke her heart to think that I would tell Bob before her. But she didn't try to touch me in the dark. I was ashamed. And it actually felt a little bit better to tell someone, whether they wanted to believe or not. I wasn't alone anymore. A year later Bob and I ran into Matt at a party. Bob beat Matt’s ass in the driveway. That was a pivotal moment, something cracked inside. I was afraid, I was embarrassed, I wanted Bob to stop. But then an acquaintance ran up during the fight, to stop Bob’s blows to Matt’s face. Roy, one of my best friends, was with us and he held Jerry, Matt's friend, back. He explained that the beating was necessary. Jerry ran up to me and screamed in my face, “Get over it! It was five years ago!” I’m still not “over it,” and it's been 34 years now, so Jerry can eat shit. I guess you can't really understand something like this until it happens to you. That was the first time I stopped hiding from what Matt did. I allowed the rage to course through me. I’m not a rapist. What happened is not my fault. Why have I been protecting my rapist for 34 years? I feel terrible that it happened. I felt responsible, because I was careless. I was just a kid that thought alcohol was a clever way to numb our existence. Rape is a criminal offense that is rarely prosecuted. Because the spotlight shines on the victim. We don't want a spotlight, we want to hide, we want to die, we want them to die. But instead, we have to prove that we're not "deserving" of a sexual attack. That's how our society rolls. "But was she wearing a short skirt?" "Did she have make up on?" That doesn't justify anything. Even if you're dressed to the nines, with tons of make up you don't deserve to be assaulted. I was wearing jeans without make up for the record. I'm not worried about hurting anyone's feelings. Just relating facts, not my feelings. This is going to piss off, and/or trigger some. Matt is popular. People like his pretending to be human façade. He's charming, a bit like Ted Bundy. When Facebook pop ups, “People You May Know," he always is the top of the list. We have too many mutual friends. Yes, I know him. He's the person that broke my heart and I never even liked him. Seeing his face makes me physically ill. My stomach, my solar plexus chakra becomes misaligned and I want to vomit. He also plays the drums in a close friend’s band. Maybe now Emile will know why I never attend their shows. Sunshine said Matt saved a show a few years ago, when Jason, another drummer, fell off his stool while playing (he had a stroke). Yep, a real hero. "I fucking hate Matt." I shocked Sunshine and Jake, they both looked at me like I was insane. May the venom that spewed from my lips be released now, because I don't want to hold it in myself anymore. I forgive Matt. He'll always be sociopathic rapist, but I want it off of me, out of me, released. Any violation that he put on me, I give back to him. Oops, that sounds like a curse, not forgiveness. Whelp, baby steps. We'll see in time. If I keep saying that I forgive out loud, maybe I'll mean it. Or not. I tried. If you don’t want your name dragged in the mud, stop raping people. To my friends that came clean after being raped, thank you, for teaching me to be brave. Better late than never. We need to support one another and stop defending the guilty. Our US Supreme Court Judge is a rapist. I guess that’s one of the triggers for my “outing” mine. I’m tired of hiding. I did nothing wrong. Unfriend me if you must. I’m done protecting people who don’t deserve my shield. MORAL OF THIS STORY: There are people out there that prey upon your inebriation. Always have people you love and trust, and that are sober or able bodied enough watch out for you, when you imbibe. Be a Kristen, not a Mike. And NEVER a Matt. The year my soul was stolen 1988/1989 ![]() My deduction: Matt walked home from Becky's with Billy, (when Jenny kicked him out). They might have gotten a ride there, but I believe they walked. He must have pretended to go home, waited for Billy to leave and go toward his own home. Billy lived about a 1/4 mile away. Billy wasn't an idiot. Then Matt rode his bike back to Becky's, to assault me, and then rode his bike back home afterwards. He traveled 3.7 miles by foot, found his victim, and then during the 3.7 mile trek home, he planned his attack. He then took the same route by bike, logically, alone. He traveled 14.8 miles, total, half by foot and half by bicycle.
I hope Billy wasn't with him, or didn't know about Matt's return, because that would make him an accomplice. He seemed like a decent person. He has been charmed by a sociopathic rapist, but so have so many of our mutual friends. This was a year before any of us had vehicles or driver's licenses. Matt's dedication to raping passed out girls. is terrifying, especially if you have young ones. True crime solved.
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Expose your teeth
Spread your lips thin Live it up Bask in your sin. Black and white image They know and don’t care, Plenty of false friends Witnesses that were there. We shared the time of our lives But I’d take it back if I could Your friendship is nothing Your words are no good. Now you’re the one assaulted by my thoughts in the night. Time passes, doesn’t matter Wish that’ll be “All right.” You’re not real friends Obviously never were. Loser-liars, just a photo Another Facebook blurb. I think I hate you More than the one that did the crime You were the ones I trusted Goodbye, one last time. Your friendship’s not a ha'pence In a million dollar world Looking at your fake-ass faces Isn’t worth the breakfast I hurled. Real friends would never pose They would stand up for what’s right, The ones I choose now Are not afraid to fight. I choose the best to love and with whom I share my soul, Body will someday waste away We’ll grow tired and we’ll grow old. But never would we lay down Our decency and morals Smile for the camera, dicks Bight before you give one another oral. You will rot and die alone Begging for a bone I’ll flip you shitbags off Laughing from a throne Surrounded by angels and people Who know the difference between wrong and right And they’d never condone What happened in the middle of that long dark night. Written in 2016 after seeing a photo of my ex boyfriend, Mike, who was the first person besides Matt's girlfriend, that I told about the rape, and my old friend, Dawit, who was there that night, and watched Matt carry me into Becky's bedroom, for the first rape attempt. They were posing with Matt, smiling on a cruise ship or something. I unfriended Mike that day on my feed, we were high school friends and dated for a bout 6 months, but I just felt done. I couldn't and still wont unfriend Dawit. Dawit and I have been friends since 3rd grade. It fucking hurts to know people I love, love the rapist too. This is something I'm working on. The thing that hurts the most about being raped is watching other people snuggle up, praise, hug, speak about or play music with my rapist.
I was fifteen. I had just turned 15. There is a disconnect that happened to me, like my soul shattered and it's still missing so many pieces that I have been trying to put back together since then. That is 30 years of missing my own self. Sometimes it's gone, the pain, the hurt, the betrayal, but it always reappears, especially when I'm looking at cute animal pictures and chatting with friends or family on FB and suddenly there he is, so many mutual friends, 90+ me and my rapist. I try to forgive. I've had dreams of shaking his hand, of allowing him to walk me to my car on a dark scary night, but something inside still freezes when I open myself up to actually feeling the truth of that night. Here I am again, crying, all alone, hiding from my family so they don't see I am not who I pretend to be. This strong, mother, wife and warrior is weak, scared, hurt and fifteen forever thanks to my rapist. Becky and her family were out of town. Becky told me where the key would be. I asked my neighbor to buy me alcohol. He did with the cash I gave him. Neighbor was kind enough to even give me a ride to Becky's house. “Her parents are coming home? You guys are being safe?” Sure. I drank the 6-pack before anyone else arrived. Ben, Tony and Dawit made it, and I found Becky's dad's vodka and drank that too. What did I weigh, 100 lbs? I wasn't worried because I was with my best friends. When Billy and Matt arrived, I was already falling down, breaking things. I hated Matt. He tried to grab me and kiss me and begged me to have sex with him a couple weeks prior to the assault, at my parents house, when Jenny and Billy were doing "it" in my parent's bedroom. I fought him off, for an entire hour, he was relentless, trying to pin my arms, and hold me down but I was strong and sober then. This time I wasn't. I don't remember much thanks to my inebriated state, but Dawit and Tony cried and apologized to me later. It wasn't their fault. They weren't rapists. They knew what happened. They were younger than me, not in HS yet, it was the summer before they were going to be freshmen. Matt was a football player at Nevada Union, he was about to be a sophomore. He was strong. He told them, “It's okay,” and then he picked me up and carried me into Becky's bedroom and placed me on the bed. I was barely coherent, everything was fuzzy, I probably had alcohol poisoning, I was unable to manipulate my arms, my mouth, nothing came out. The boys were scared. They didn't do anything. They told me they were sorry the next time I saw them at Western Gateway Park. They said they were scared, and they should have fought him to protect me. They had tears in their eyes. I was still in shock, probably some rape victim PTSD. I pretended I was alright. I was ashamed, I felt responsible for being raped. Jenny came barging in, the first time Matt had me in the room, passed out, wasted. I remember feeling relieved. I was still barely semi conscious. Matt had only managed to unbutton my jeans and barely had them half-way pulled down at that point. She kicked Matt out, and moved me into Tyler's room, Becky's older brother's room. She locked the door from the inside, behind her. Matt and Billy left, they had a long walk home, to Lake Wildwood. Jenny thought she had averted an imminent disaster, went upstairs and passed out in Becky’s parent’s bed. Matt came back sometime in the night. He broke in through Tyler's window. He took my pants off, ripped me open, and I bled everywhere. My vagina was a bloody mess for weeks. I woke up in screaming pain, but I was still too drunk to fight him, like I did when he was trying to physically over power me at my house a few weeks earlier. I gave up, I had no fight, I was so wasted, I drank myself helpless. I just wanted it to be over, for him to finish. He hurt me so much, from the lack of lubrication. It was absolutely degrading, disgusting beyond anything I had ever experienced in my life. Just the though of him repulsed me, even before he raped me. He finally got off on the dead girl lay, and he left. I passed out again. I passed out from the pain, or the shame. When I woke up he was gone. I had only had sex 2 times before being raped. Both times were with a great friend and we used a condom. I told, Pauline, Matt’s girlfriend the next time I saw her. “Why would he rape you? We have sex all the time.” She didn't believe me. I told my next boyfriend, Mike, and he ended up moving in with Matt, the rapist, for junior college in Chico, right out of high school. That's how much Mike cared. How many girls did he rape there, at your house, Mike? Turning a blind eye makes you guilty. Bob, my ex, told Jenny the truth, against my wishes. We cried together and I came clean to her 6 years later. Bob punched Matt when we saw him at a party. Jerry, Matt's friend, ran up and tried to interfere. Roy explained the circumstances, and held Jerry back, he said the beating needed to happen. Roy always had my back. I love that man like a brother. "It was over 5 years ago, get over it!" Jerry yelled at me. I'm sure Jerry would feel the same way if it was his twin sister, who was raped. We'd all just "get over it" together. More and more people know. I am slowing opening up about it because my Godchildren are the age I was, when I was raped. I'm terrified they'll be ignorant, like I was. Alcohol should be taken more seriously. I'm trying so desperately to heal. I still hurt. I'm still a sorry sack of shit from something that happened so long ago, but every day I'm stronger. I'm smarter and I no longer feel that it's something I should be ashamed of. He's the rapist. But I'm no victim. I was for a long time, but the more I speak out, the less likely he can do it to someone else. 2019. Written after shocking Sunshine outside a bar. I said "I fucking hate Matt," without explanation. I hurt her, I could see it in her eyes, by the violence of my words. This was an attempt to remedy our last in person conversation. Jake was there too, outside at the bar formerly Wileys, then Coopers, no idea what it is now. He was also surprised by my verbal bile. I wrote him a FB apology which received no reply. He doesn't seem like he'd be on team rapist. He probably never read it. Jake told me the story about why the Lonely Kings had a new drummer;
it was horrible. Jason fell off his chair during a show, he had a mini stroke. Everyone thought he was just wasted, but it was so much worse. Jay is a sweetheart. I'm glad he is playing again. He seems to be rehabilitating well. Sunshine collaborated that someone jumped up that night and finished the set for the band, at Cooper's. A hero. “I hate him.” Surprised faces. It popped out of the depths of my broken soul, accidentally. Slippery, dark secret story, the slithering bile which compels my deepest art. Write another poem about the drummer hero, who breaks into the homes of innocent, yet wasted young girls. On that brutal bloody night he changed me forever. I beg God, the Great Spirit, to teach me how to forgive. Thirty years should numb a blow, but that name, unexpected, from beautiful Sunshine, breaks my heart. No longer able to use acid, meth, weed, crack cocaine, cigarettes and alcohol as a mask. Eventually we have to learn to love our demons. Every year at this time, my birthday, I fall into a comatose state. It's cell memory, trying to assist with numbing my soul, my mind and body. I'm okay. If we're just using words, I'll survive. I'm a victim of sexual assault. My best friends admire his work. It can't be helped. But I can't easily be swayed by an empty package of flesh that broke the spirit from my body and shattered my trust in humanity. My innocence was taken, but eventually when I say “I forgive,” I'll mean it. It tears me up inside, holding this darkness. For now I'll just mouth the words. Written after a very awkward conversation with Sunshine and Jake outside Wileys/Coopers/Whatever the fuck they called it afterwards. 2019 Your friend is a Rapist Don’t touch my skin You can’t get in Serial Killer. Third time is a charm Dead Eyes. Tex Mex makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Buddha and Jesus had a talk with me They said, “ Forgive.” I did. A dream. I saw myself shaking your hand. But in real life I still die inside You broke more than my heart And I never even liked you. Because I can see right through your empty soul. Take what you want But remember it was never given. A dead, drunk rape Is not even good porn. Beer, vodka and broken glass Becky and her parents are out of town On the night before Jackie’s graduation. I washed all the blood off the sheets but I left without cleaning the house. And I didn’t know where to go. But I wasn’t lost. Just empty. That was the first time I experienced “robot mode.” Just turned fifteen. I hid the secret Except I did kick your car And trashed your locker And told your girlfriend who didn’t believe me And pushed you down that hill when I was drunk at another party But you still won. Every time you smiled at me I planned your murder. The outfit I would wear. The wig I would wear and the country where I’d hide. Your roommates were my friends. They’d let me in. Even if I went to prison It would be worth it I finally told a knight Because I had issues, especially when we took LSD. To my horror he told all my best friends. And when Lancelot punched your face in At that party My friends were there and they understood They shared my pain And it felt good To see your face beat in By someone that was bigger than you. No more nightmares. Now I don’t have to kill you anymore. So, have a wonderful life and be happy. And thank Jesus and Buddha too. (Written in 2008 in the midst of a nervous post partem 2 year depression. Every year, at the anniversary of the rape, I had some sort of break down) I created this art piece after writing the poem "Your Friend is a Rapist." I pulled most of it out of the trash can and used my old yearbook. Chad, on the bottom right, was a rapist too. He raped a friend of mine, but it's her story to tell, not mine. ![]() This is the glass over the other piece, shown above. It is a visual art therapy piece of my heart ripped into a million pieces. "Rip out my Heart and Hope to Die." People who rape, who use others and mentally and physically scar victims for their personal sexual or perverted gratification, have no understanding of the damage they inflict. It's lifelong. Sex is never the same. Intimacy is never the same. Trust is gone, forever. You live the rest of your days in "Fight or Flight." I do believe in karma, and it comes back tenfold. |
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