1999

I was taking photography classes at a local community college. Photo was my favorite class -- black and white photography with an honest-to-goodness darkroom. (Remember those? It's before we all got those newfangled cameras with chips and LCD screens.) I was living at home with my dad, but spent most of my time in Norfolk at my then-boyfriend's house with my best girlfriend. We partied a lot, mostly at a bar right down the street from Boyfriend's apartment. Boyfriend had a cool roommate, a musician, who let me take nekkid pictures of him and also spent a lot of time staying up late and talking about life while we listened to Steely Dan.

As often happens, Boyfriend and I broke up. Shortly afterwards, Roommate introduced me to a guy friend of his, who in turn invited me to a party at his house. I went alone (stupid). When I walked in, it didn't seem like much of a party. Just Guy and his housemates, two big military types. I felt very awkward, and something didn't seem quite right. But I stayed (stupid, again).

I sat down on the couch and one of the guys left the room; he came back with a drink and handed it to me. "What's this?" I asked.

"Just drink it, you'll like it!" (Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

By the time I finished the drink, I was drunk. Now, I was by no means a pro boozer at that time, but it usually took more than a single cocktail to get me buzzed. But I figured they'd just fixed me something extra strong (say it with me...stupid).

I don't remember a whole lot after that. I remember getting pushed up a flight of stairs, and then my clothes were gone, and then a lot of really bad stuff happened very fast. Three guys in the house, and one of me. They took turns. And there was a video camera in the room.

Afterwards, they put me into the bathtub and turned the shower on. I'm pretty sure I passed out at that point. When I came to, I was curled up on the bathroom floor. I'd managed to find a blanket and covered myself up with it. It was barely dawn. Everyone in the house was asleep. I stumbled around and found my clothes and my keys, and I got in my car and left.

When I got home, my dad was furious. I'd been out all night without calling -- a big no-no. I didn't tell him what happened; I just said I'd fallen asleep at a friend's house and forgotten to call. He told me to never let it happen again.

I went to school that day feeling very hollow and confused. Did I really do that? Did I just have sex with three guys at once? What the hell? So I called Guy's house, thinking it might have been a bad dream. One of the housemates answered. When I asked what'd happened, he laughed and said, "We drugged you. What'd you think happened?"

I remember laughing. He has to be joking, right? He hung up. After that, I wasn't so sure.

I told my therapist that I had "hooked up" with three guys, and when she got the story out of me, she told me that it didn't sound like a hookup to her. She didn't pressure me to do anything about it, and it just sort of fell out of our conversation after that.

I never heard from or saw them again. I never told my friends that it had been against my will. I never called the police, never told my parents. I buried it, and it's lurked there for ten years.

I don't want this rotting inside me anymore. So, there it is, the first and last time I'm telling the story. It's done.

Silent All These Years

It's been a long time since I listened to Tori Amos. In high school, it was a daily thing. It fit perfectly with my emo/goth/friend o' the lesbians thing. I even got to see her perform at the Harrison Opera House - it was one of the first concerts I ever saw.

I remember singing these songs at the top of my lungs, shut up in my room with giant Koss headphones hooked up to my enormous (yet very cool at the time) bookshelf stereo system. Listening to them now is a bit different. My son sleeps upstairs and has no idea that Mommy is riding a piano down Amnesia Lane.

They're still amazing and intense, full of sadness and angst and quirkiness and sometimes rage. I still have the urge to sing at the top of my lungs, rocking back and forth, hammering my fingers on my desk like a piano keyboard. But that heart-wrenching teenage passion I felt is faded; it's given way to a sort of scarred sadness that hides underneath my daily self. The music's a stinging salve; memories burn, the scars pull taut, and sometimes I think what's hidden underneath will spill out and stain all the beauty that's in my life now.