Was I raped?

I met a boy once at a party. I was having a tough week. My mother was in the hospital, my father was away for work, and my brother was a camp counsellor for the summer. I spent my days studying, working or with my mom—usually all three in one day.

I don’t know how I heard about the party. It was at a girl's house who I went to high school—only a few years had gone by since I saw her last. I knew her house was within walking distance of my own, and I was so incredibly lonely. My own big house was empty and quiet. Aspects I dream of now, but at the time, we’re disconcerting.

I remember paying a friend's older brother to buy me drinks. Pear coolers, I think. I wasn’t yet 19, but I would be in a few short months. I walked to the party with my coolers in a reusable bag strung over my shoulder. My makeup was perfect, and I had a little black dress on under my flannel shirt with my sneakers.

I was going because a boy I had known once ‘s mother had told me at work that her son, who was training to be a pilot, had been injured. She told me he needed to meet a girl like me, and I thought I needed to find someone to take care of me.

Incredibly, I could work all day, had graduated high school and was caring for my mother, but I could not purchase my alcohol. What I could buy was condoms, and I did because I was lonely.

I strolled through the dark path, insecure but beautiful, walking to a home I knew from childhood to see people who had not seen me for years.

I arrived, and there were so many people. I couldn’t find the boy I’d come for. I don’t think he ever made it. I put my coolers in the fridge and stood awkwardly in a corner. I noticed the yard, which I couldn’t see from the street. It was layers of rock, moss and flowers, with no grass anywhere. Large trees loomed overhead. There was a patio lined with stones creating a space for their barbecue and a fire pit. I noticed someone had started a fire. I was always the one to escape outside from a party, to accept the joint or cigarette passed around the circle of those equally awkward folk who preferred the outside. I slipped out the sliding door and found my seat near the fire.

That’s where I met him for the first time. Although I’d seen him before and he seemed to know of me. Boys always knew of me, and I could never figure out why. I sat next to him. I sang the words to the song blasting from inside, and I smiled. He told me his name, and I laughed because I already knew. He asked me what I’d done after high school. He inquired about the boy I’d been dating then. I told him we were over and how happy I was to escape him. I told him about my job, and he was attracted to my passion.

When it became cold, he offered me his jacket. I politely declined but then found myself wrapped inside it with him. When my coolers ran out, they offered other options. Beer? Wine? Please stay, we haven’t seen you in so long.

So I stayed. I drank wine, and as the party became smaller, I felt my confidence grow. Eventually, I realized I needed to walk the 3 Km home, and if I didn’t leave, I wouldn’t be able to make it. I excused myself, hugged my host and found my purse. He followed me. He said, “Can I walk you home? I live just passed your house, in the ravines. We’ll make it together. “ I let him take my hand, and I don’t remember much about the walk home except that it took a long time. We crossed the walking bridge and put our feet in the lake. We talked, and we walked.

When we approached my door, he said, “I want to know you more.” I said “Come in.” So he did. He kissed me in the hallway of our big house. He kissed me, and I felt loved. I said, “My bedroom is upstairs.” He hesitated, looking up and said, “Are you sure?”. “Yes,” was my reply. So we kissed on the stairs. I was drunk and fumbling. His dark skin and big lips were new, and I wanted to know more. “Do you have a condom?” I asked, wanting to go fruther. He hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of guy to expect this, so he wasn’t prepared. I went to my closet and pulled out the box. I helped him put it on, and then he was inside me.

I kissed him. So thankful for anyone’s presence in the quiet, empty house. Tomorrow was Saturday, and I didn’t need to go to work. He was so warm. His sizeable muscular body covered mine so quickly. I felt better and safe. He was engaging, kind, and sexy, and he strived to be the best at everything he participated in. He was taking chemistry; he didn’t know how to drive a car. He would be a doctor; his parents were catholic immigrants. He wouldn’t disappoint them. But these were things about him that I would learn later.

I woke up the following day to his goodbye kisses. “Can I see you again?” He asked me hesitantly, like I would fly away if pushed too hard. “Yes,” I agreed, giving him my number. Then he left, and I was alone again.

I took a shower and got in my car. I went through the McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered coffee with cream, tea with milk and two egg McMuffin. My mom doesn’t drink coffee. When I pulled into the hospital parkade and began the long walk to her room, I felt sick. When I got there, I climbed into bed with her, and she stroked my hair. “Mom,” I said, snuggling my hung-over head into the hospital bed beside her. She drank her tea, and I told her I had met a boy. My aunt showed up, and she brought me vitamin water, “the best thing for a hangover,” she proclaimed.

I lay in bed and told them about the boy. I didn’t tell them he had slept over. I wouldn’t want them to think badly of me, but I needed him that evening. They were excited for me to have found someone new. They wanted to meet him, but I said, “Be cool.” I kissed them goodbye and drove home to the vacant house. I threw up. I went back to bed. When I awoke, he had texted.

That’s how we met. This is how I discovered I was too embarrassing for him to introduce to his family. That is how I spent my birthday with him feeling both loved and rejected. I was with him, or was I? While we were “together.” I was raped.

I felt the pain of knowing one friend had hurt me and that my boyfriend had left me for betraying him. Because even though I was too drunk to stand, even though he’d poured my drinks all night long, and even though the only recollection I had of the night before was waking up without my clothes. I remember the following day because when I told him what had happened, he left me. He blocked me. He called me a cheater, and he untagged himself from any photos he was in with me. He erased me so quickly. His anger at me seemed so appropriate that I didn’t think to blame him; it was me who had wronged. The one I had trusted, he texted me the next day. I’m so sorry he broke up with you; I need to see you.

I didn’t answer. Because back then, it was the girls' fault. The girl was the one who had made them want her. The girl wore a little black dress and drank too much. It was she who was lonely and who bought the box of condoms. One friend had her, and the boy she cared about said she had cheated. Both left her alone again.

It was just one night; both boys were just one night. They were connected moments that left me hurt. They left me alone. They left me hating myself for losing control and trusting those who should not have been trusted.

Years later, the world has changed. I realize if it were my daughters, I would never blame them. No one deserves to take the blame being hurt.