Brianna’s Story: It Was An Accident

Brianna’s Story: It Was An Accident

“I’m in charge! I’m in charge! Do you hear me?” Those words were screamed at me while I was being held down. 6’5” on top of 5’2”. 210 pounds on top of 140. Anger screaming at fear. I was scared didn’t know what was going to happen. I couldn’t move my arms. I was scared to even talk. The incessant screaming and demanding of authority broke me. I was able to move my leg enough to push him off. How did I even end up hanging upside down on this couch? He grabbed me by my leg and threw me there. I put my foot on his gut and pushed to get him away. He grabbed my foot, and smacked the hell out of it. I immediately started crying. He left, a few minutes later he came back and so calmly said “it was just a slap.” Someone who had the audacity to hit me, had more audacity to make me feel weak for crying about it. I was scared. Someone I loved actually hurt me. Physically. Out of anger. Sadly, this wasn’t the first time. It most definitely wasn’t the last. I have to change his name for the purpose of this story. Let’s call him “Max”? He loved to act super sweet in front of everyone; except me. He abused me during the last year of our four-year relationship.
Two Decembers ago is when it started. It was more so of a “tug of war” incident. I tried taking a canvas home that I made for him. He told me while we were arguing that he didn’t want to talk to, see, or think about me for the next few days. I wanted to take the canvas I decorated for him because why does someone who could act like he didn’t care, deserve my art. We tugged and pulled like two children would over the last cookie. I won, but I lost. He was so mad, infuriated really. He got so “hurt” that he grabbed me from behind and there I was mid-air, then there I was on the barely-carpeted basement floor. Only able to save black. To this day I am not sure what saved me. God. My skull? He said “grab your things and I’ll walk you out.” Before he could even get off of the porch, he dropped to his knees and cried. Weirdly, my pain was like a four-course meal and he seemed to always be starving. “I want to see you everyday for the rest of my life.” His vernacular changed. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t want me. He abused me, scared me. He scared himself, then begged for my comfort. I believed his tears and his remorse attached to me. I fell for it. I felt bad that he was crying so I hugged him and told him it was okay. I was manipulated and that was just the start.
He pushed me several time throughout the months after that night. Two Decembers ago is, I think, when he actually thought he could be in control. He wanted to try to prove that he was physically superior; and he did just that. Whenever we argued, I went for them. I wanted to take them away when he acted like he didn’t care. I remember running to take one. He ran with me; begging me not to. I said “okay” because he said “Bri please!” I gave in. He said “everything’s okay! We can talk about this!” I walked out of the laundry room peacefully and there came the beanstalk running out; looking down on Jack. “Don’t ever do that again!” Did he own me? Why was he talking to me like that? He wanted to be in control. He always pushed me and shoved me like I was a crowd of people he was trying to get through. There were so many moments where Max would be in the mood and I was not. He had no problem forcing things. We never had sex. I was a virgin. I am a virgin. We did other things though. He never hesitated to do what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. His hobby? Holding me down and doing whatever he wanted. Yes, I know some people like things “aggressive”, but instead of a safe word like in “Fifty Shades of Grey”, we had a three second conversation where I’d say “no” or stop” and he would cover my mouth. That was not hot. That was not cute. It was intimidating. I was intimidated. He didn’t care about what I said. He for, four month, pushed me, screamed at me, threw me. He made sure I was scared. I remember one day I had the urge to go through “Max’s” phone, (not good on my part, I know) and I found out he had been looking up a couple friends of mine to look at their revealing photos. I brought it up to him and who would’ve thought! He got defensive. He broke up with me? He said I was being controlling. A couple days later, he reached out to me; missing me. He wanted to talk. I stayed away. He ended up messaging one of my friends at the time. He said he was confused. “I don’t get it. I did nothing wrong. I don’t know why she won’t talk to me.” She needs to apologize for going through my phone.” It was all turned on me. It was always turned on me.
Abusive; it was his name. I couldn’t call him that to his face or he’d laugh and give me a reason. One day we argued and he told me to “Go ahead. Make the food”. Standing there, holding raw chicken in my hands, I was dumbfounded that he would demand me to make him food. “Screw you, Max! Make it yourself!” I yelled. I dropped the container of chicken on the floor. He jumped up, got in my face and threw up the words “Even if your parents could afford food, I wouldn’t drop it on the floor.” I showed him the cuts on my wrist. This time, I threw up “you’re the reason I do this.” Without one blink of reluctance, he walked away. But not without handing me his pocket knife and so-kindly suggesting, “next time use this.” Let’s get past the tears and pointless fights. Let’s get to another day where I admitted my personal moment of self-harm. We were fighting so I left his house and went to a park alone. I came back and told him I had been hurting myself. He was sympathetic. Out of nowhere a flip switched. He was mean. After I showed him my pain, he caused more. I yelled at him “you’re an idiot!” He pushed me. This time, the first time, I pushed back. He pushed me again. I started throwing my arms around to get him away. I was scared. I knew what happened when he got angry. We pushed. I cried. He yelled. “Stop touching me like that!” I yelled; so tired of the abuse. I kept pushing him away as he kept getting bigger.
The boy who had been abusing me for a year, the guy who caused me more pain than anyone or anything, the person who spent a year mocking my anxiety, pushing me, pinning me down, screaming at me and throwing me, looked me in my face and rhetorically asked “Do you want to go there again!?” I knew what that meant. I pushed with everything in me. I cried. I spit at him to make him get away, but it didn’t work. He wanted his victory. He grabbed my wrists and slammed them above my head. In that moment, the back of my head met the arm rest and his hand met my cheek; twice. After that, he went in his laundry room and cried like he usually did after hurting me.
We were broken up during that incident but I went to a wedding for his family. He didn’t want anyone to know that we weren’t together. The date was September 22nd, 2018. It was the worst night of my life and the scariest. We flirted a bit at the wedding. We danced. It was fun. We got home and I changed into my pajamas. I knew my ride was coming soon so I wanted to relax before I left. I lay down in Max’s bed and he pulled the blanket off of me and laughed. “Don’t pull the covers off.” I told him a few times we couldn’t do anything. I told him that it was probably the last night I was ever going to see him. I let him know we weren’t getting back together and intimacy would make it hard for him to let go. Of course, “Max” didn’t care at all about what I had to say. He, for maybe the 24th time in that year, pinned my arms above my head. I started begging him not to do anything. After a few minutes of “stop” after “no” after “stop”, I couldn’t talk. It wasn’t because he covered my mouth. He didn’t. He put his hand on my throat. It was tight. If he were telling you this, he’d tell you that we were being “dirty” or “sexual” and he got carried away. He heard me gasp for air. I couldn’t breathe. I was covered in kisses I didn’t want and tears I couldn’t control. He squeezed my throat like it was a stress ball. “Max” looked at me, he smiled and said “I want to put my dick in you.” I panicked, still gasping for air, I started begging him to get off. He pulled his pants down; mine already taken off by him. His hand was still on my throat. He held his penis; moving it around where it should not have been, where I told him “No” multiple times before, completely taking away my right as female to protect my virginity that I planned on keeping for the right person, I was so scared he was going to just take that from me. The only thing I could do, was pray. I thought I was about to lose my virginity. I thought that was it. I couldn’t breathe, but since he let go of my wrists to pull his pants down a little further, I could use them. So yes, with all of my strength, I started hitting his arm; hard. He let go and right there I saw my opportunity to get away, I threw myself up and pushed into him to force him off with all hopes that this would be the end of it. He got off. I grabbed my bag and ran upstairs to wait for my ride. That was the last time Max ever touched me. I was so relieved that I got away. I didn’t know what his exact intentions were. That was the first time in my life that I ever thought I was going to be raped. Unfortunately, while writing this story, I realized that, although that night was the end of my abuse story, December of 2017 was not when it started. Believe me, I didn’t realize this until a few days before publishing my story, but it needs to be said. I don’t know the date. I don’t know the time, but I do know what happened a year or two before he started abusing me. He and I were messing around on his couch. He kept suggesting “come on babe! Just the tip!” He kept demanding “Brianna, let me put it in!” Of course, me saying no meant absolutely nothing. Without warning, without a hint, without question, and 100% most definitely without my consent, he slammed his penis in my anus. He slammed it in fast and roughly. Right there I felt nothing but emptiness and self-sorrow. So much pain and fear running through my body I didn’t know what to do. I sat there holding myself crying hoping it would all go away. It hurt so badly. It was painful. It was fast. It was rape. The man with whom I was in love with, raped me. Afterwards, he claimed “It was an accident. You were so wet, it just slipped in.” Back then I believed him. But now I have to face reality. Number one, you cannot accidentally force anything into the anus. Number two, you control where your body parts go. Lastly, if you choose to do something so heinous, do not blame it on the bodily functions of the victim. It sucks. I never thought I’d say I’m a victim of domestic violence or rape, but here I am. I am not writing this to get back at anyone. I am writing this to share my story and let you know you can share yours too. A few bad chapters does not mean your story is over! You always gain by giving love! Stay positive and your story will become your fairytale. Make yourself happy and do not ever let someone control the story in which you’re starring.
I want to put this in here so you all know your opinion, your voice and your choices matter. I want you to know the definition of the word “rape” according to Justice.gov and it is “The penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim.” A few years ago, I didn’t pay attention to the obvious. I was blinded; by fear, and love. I didn’t figure out that I was raped until a few days ago. That turned my plans around. It stopped me from writing for several moments. I fell asleep in tears and woke up still wearing them. Have I cried while typing this? Multiples times! I have had panic attacks throughout almost the whole thing. Regardless, I never stopped putting my all in. I never gave up. Did I need to pause and take deep breaths? Of course. I wanted to share my story because I wanted to share to you, whoever is reading this, that you can write, yell, cry, fight, sing, do whatever the hell it takes to share your truth! To share what you’ve been through. You are strong. You can share your story. You don’t have to be scared. You have the power and you know who you are. You know who your abuser is. Tell someone. You can get away if you have not already. I am here for you. I will listen. The world will listen.

Author

WYR

WYR

When You're Ready.org is a community for survivors of sexual violence to share their stories.

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