I started to write and it just all flowed. TW: sexual assault. Also very very long.

I was 19 and he was nice to me. I had gone to a party at his apartment, and ended up crashing on the couch that night. We saw each other again for the next few days. I had friends of friends who were friends with his roommates. Dating him would certainly be easy, he was nice and said all the right thkngs, and I would move from aquaintance to a solid part of the group. Having never fit in, this was appealing. A strategic move for social standing and heavily endorsed by my friends. We started dating. With dating started the trauma. I had had my first gynecologist exam right before my 19th birthday, and the experience left me traumatized. The nurse told me to be a big girl and relax as she used a cold metal instrument to pry me open. The exam took 45 minutes and I was given a paper bag to hyperventilate into. She kept telling me that I was over reacting and it was my fault for not relaxing. There wasn't another nurse in the room. This exam was necessary for me to get birth control. Birth control was necessary not as a pregnancy preventative, but because my periods would disappear for months before returning with a vengeance. It wasn't until 5 years later I would be formally diagnosed with vaginismus and 8 years later that I would be diagnosed with PCOS. Back to the relationship. He wanted to have sex, I thought it was what came next in the fast moving relationship. Vaginismus, for those who are unfamiliar, is when the vaginal muscles tighten and essentially close off making penetration painful if not impossible. When he couldn't enter he was frustrated. Again it was my fault for not having a body that cooperated. In his "benevolence" he decided I needed to be loosened up. He would hold me down and digitally penetrate me, in an attempt to make me open. He suggested I see a doctor. I went to the university nurse who told me that at 19, I was lucky boyfriend was still with me after not having sex. We had been dating for less than a month. She prescribed me a high dosage of anti anxiety/depression and told me I just needed to calm down. After a week of the meds not helping, she doubled the dosage. Meanwhile he insisted that I shave, and even had me stand in the bathroom as he shaved me, telling me that maybe my discomfort was due to not seeing my full self. He had my orally please him because he had "needs", and expected me to spend most nights in his apartment and not in my dorm. I started developing panic attacks, and thought it was the medications. I stopped the meds, but the panic continued. We dated for several months. I remember going away for spring break with him and some friends. I was feeling sick with allergies and was given a benadryl. Despite having taken benadryl before, this knocked me out. I woke up sore, I will never know what happened that night. I went home for the summer, and spent three months away from him. It was during that time I realized I was happier without him constantly around. I went back for my junior year of college and tried to break up with him. He refused and said I was not thinking clearly. I knew he wouldn't let me out of the relationship until he was done with me so I came up with a plan. For the next two weeks I would mimic mental illness, one day I was paranoid, another I was compulsively cleaning, displaying mania, and so forth. I made sure he witnessed this as well as his roommates. After two weeks, he sat me down and told me he was "worried" and that I needed to get help. I said I agreed and that I should not date anyone at this time while I work on myself. I was also taking a class called "violence and destruction in society". The first chapter was on stalking and dating violence. While I didn't recognize the nightly torture as rape (and didn't realize it for years), I did notice that his repeated calling while we were separated, his comments regarding stopping by my apartment to see if i was there, and that he put a hole in his wall when he was frustrated that I was working and wouldn't pick up the phone were giant red flashing signs. I lived in fear that I would leave my apartment and see him. I would be hyper vigilant around campus and cut off communication from the entire group he was involved with. I stopped posting on Facebook, but didn't block him as I was worried about how he would react. Six months later I met someone who was also nice, funny, and kind. I thought this would be a chance to prove that it wasn't my fault, a chance to redeem myself. When the ex found out I was dating he threatened us both. That relationship quickly ended because the new guy "couldn't live" without having sex, and while he didn't force me as the first one did... The guilt was there all the same. I stopped dating, I took on more courses and a second job so that I couldn't possibly have time to date anyone. I resigned myself to celibacy and internalized the belief that it was all my fault. After all, I couldn't have sex properly. And since sex was important in a relationship, I was not cut out for relationships. I tried dating again in grad school, one date ended with the guy walking me to my door and then forcing himself in. I "owed" him for dinner. He pushed me against the wall and only backed off when I told him I had my period and it was a messy affair. He left telling me he would ask me on another date. He was in my classes, I took on another job and eventually switched degree programs (not entirely due to him, but it was a factor). A year later I tried again. The relationship was brief and uneventful. It was two more years before I decided to try again. By now I had full blown vaginismus, had been to several gynecologists who didn't believe me, and were not trauma informed (they tried to hold me down as I flailed and I did kick one or two during my panic). I didn't realize that my previous experiences had been rape. I thought it was normal and I was just damaged beyond repair. That it was my fault. I met my now husband in 2013. He, like the others, was nice, kind, handsome, smart, and funny. We had similar interests and felt a connection within the first few dates. The connection piece was new to me. This wasn't a relationship out of social convenience, nor was it an attempt to prove myself loveable. It was a real relationship. He worked with me as I tried to correct my vaginismus, and took care of me when my ovaries decided to develop cysts, cementing my diagnosis of PCOS. A year after dating we moved in together. That year the flashbacks started. I was alternating daily between crying and panicking, with no obvious (to me) trigger. He stayed with me, but grew increasingly concerned and understandably frustrated that he couldn't help me. I explained my past and he encouraged me to go to a therapist. I remember telling the therapist about my emotional upheaval and she asked about past trauma. I told her I hadn't had any, because in my mind, I was the abnormal one. She asked me to tell her about past relationships and then gently explained that there was tramua, I had been raped, repeatedly, by the boyfriend in the beginning of this now very long story. Even though he only used his fingers (that's all he could fit in), it was not consentual. The fact that he has to hold me down spoke to that. Was it possible that I wasn't the one who was wrong? I saw a few more therapists after her, my university had a limit on how many visits you could attend for free. By now I was working on my PhD, and school and work crowded out the time for therapy. I eventually stopped going. I thought I was better. A year or two later I started having weekly panic attacks, these turned to daily, and then hourly. Once again my now husband but at the time fiance, urged me to get help. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety and began medications. They helped immensely, I felt happier than I could ever remember feeling. This was fleeting as my cycle rolled around. It turns out that even when medicated, hormones can do wonky things. I went back to the doctor explaining that the meds were only working three weeks out of the month. I was diagnosed with PMDD (pre menstrual dysphoric disorder...severe pms that is in the DSM V). Medications were changed and things got better. We got married in 2020, before the pandemic hit. I was the healthiest I had ever been, and I was happy. A few months ago, the flashbacks returned, leaving me scared and panicked and my husband concerned and confused. I can feel my body closing up as I transform from a capable and strong woman into a weeping, crying, shaking, curled up in a ball mess. The latest episode was this week, the night before I joined seven cups. This is my first time writing the whole story out, and while I have opened up to my husband, best friend, parents and sister about my past (and obivously my doctor and past therapists), this is the first time I am saying it to an unknown crowd, and putting my story out there for others to read. I don't know if anyone will read this. I've hit 12 pages in samsung notes, and certainly never intended to type out this much. It is cathartic though, a form of harsh self care forcing me to reckon with my truth and allowing what has always been solely in my head to come out on the screen. I am reading a book on the changes tramua does to the body, and can't help but wonder what damage has been done and what else I need to do to heal. Its a long road ahead, and sadly, not one that is terribly unique. Thank you for reading and I hope better days are ahead.