3 years ago I was raped. By my husband. It was one of those fuzzy grey area things. We were on vacation with a group of friends, partying hard. I was sober. He was drunk. very drunk (which is usually about the only time he ever wants to have s**) and at this point, I wonder how many other drugs he was on that I don’t know about. I had been drinking but was relatively sober. We were together in the back bedroom when his friends barged in on us (they were too f*cked up I think to notice we were there at first), and he wouldn’t stop. I shrieked at first, still didn’t stop, asked him to stop, still nothing, yelled at him, he just acted like he couldn’t hear me… maybe he couldn’t. But eventually I had to kick hard and strain my body weight to buck him off of me and smack him when he tried to climb back on. I pulled the blankets around myself and chased everyone else out of the room and slammed the door. He was mad at me that I was mad. And then he passed out.

Honestly, I’m sure some would say that that wasn’t r***. And frankly, I’ve tried to dismiss it for years… making excuses that it was just the embarrassment of the situation that I’m reacting to; that it was just a drunken mishap; that I love him and he’d never do anything like that sober. Because of that, I’ve never brought it up (and also to spare his ego), and frankly, I don’t think anyone remembers but me. But to this day I feel sick when I think about it. I want to wretch when I remember how violated and humiliated I felt, how powerless I was to stop him. And now, all these years later, it’s starting to creep into our already weak s** life. He touches me now and I feel contempt and repulsed by what he did, by what I let him do, by the fact that I haven’t been able to speak my voice. I don’t know how to be with him again.