I took one look at his face and I knew he meant it—just like I had known Steve had meant it when he told me he would kill me if I told anyone what we’d been up to. It was the same crazy, scary look. Harvey grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the front seat and pushed me into the back. I knew it was useless to try to fight him or to try to run away. We were out in the middle of the country—God knows where—and if I did manage to get away, he could easily catch me.
He pushed me down on the backseat, hard. I struggled to get up but he was able to hold me down with one of his huge hands while he pulled my panties aside with the other. At one point, when I was hitting his chest and trying to push him away, he held up the wrench again and snarled, “You can make this hard on yourself if you want to, but it’s going to happen one way or the other.”
At that point I gave in. As Harvey got on top of me and penetrated me the pain was excruciating, even with me cooperating. The pain went on and on and on. It felt like I was being stabbed with a knife—like I was being sliced into two pieces. I thought it would never end.
Even though Steve had molested me, I’m not sure he ever penetrated me with his penis, so I think I still had my hymen intact. I’m not sure why the pain would have been so intense otherwise.
I cried to Harvey in desperation, “Please stop, it really, really hurts.”
Harvey just laughed.
In that dark moment, I realized that he didn’t care if it hurt me. In fact, he liked it. For some reason, this realization was devastating to me. A feeling of helplessness and hopelessness washed over me. I felt like I was sliding down a dark hole. Suddenly, even though he was still on top of me and thrusting hard inside of me, I didn’t feel any pain. In fact, there was a slight feeling of something like pleasure.
And then it was over. Harvey got up and barked at me to straighten myself up and get in the front seat.
I was still shaking with fear as I got myself together. Mostly I felt relieved that it was over. I felt happy to be alive. But I also felt ashamed and used. And I felt like a fool. After all, I’d been warned that this was who Harvey was—that this was what he did. I had no one to blame but myself.
Soon the other couple was back in the car and we were on our way back into town. After we had been driving for a while I moved closer to Harvey and put my head on his shoulder. He immediately pushed me away like he couldn’t stand to be near me. “Don’t start that again,” he said harshly, “not if you know what’s good for you.”
I felt really, really stupid. What was wrong with me? He had just forced himself on me, he had just hurt me very badly, and here I was trying to get close to him. Why would I try to get comfort from the very person who had hurt me so horribly?
I had no way of knowing that this is a typical response of victims who have been traumatized. I just knew I shouldn’t be seeking comfort from my enemy.
I also didn’t have the knowledge or maturity to understand that I was trying to normalize what had happened. Sure, he had hurt me, but that was just because guys want sex. I wanted to pretend we had been on a real date. I wanted to pretend that Harvey really cared about me and we were a couple now.
My mother was asleep when I got home, so I hid my bloody underwear and torn dress where she wouldn’t find them and went to bed. As I lay alone in my dark room, I vowed to myself that I would never tell anyone what happened, not even my mother—or rather, especially not my mother. I felt so alone with my pain, but I didn’t feel like I deserved any comforting. Mostly, I didn’t want anyone to know what a stupid idiot I had been to go out with Harvey in the first place.
For many years I didn’t understand exactly what had happened to me that night. People didn’t talk about “date rape” at the time. I just thought I’d had the bad luck to go out with a guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
It took me even more years to figure out why I had been so reckless with myself. I’d felt safe with Richard, and in some ways even a bit empowered. I knew he would never try anything with me and this gave me some comfort and confidence. Later, though, I realized that Richard was hurting me. He was using me for his sick fantasies of being with a young girl. He was a pedophile and I was his victim—not so empowering after all.
Worse, I now understand that if I hadn’t felt such a false sense of empowerment with Richard, I wouldn’t have gone out with Harvey. With Richard, I had begun to feel invincible; I believed I could be with these older guys—even Harvey—and nothing bad would happen to me. I wouldn’t end up feeling used and full of shame like I had with Steve. And in being the one in control, I thought I could magically turn things around and wipe my shame away.
I desperately wanted to feel how I imagined normal girls felt on their dates.
