The night of the fair also happened to be the week of my 30th birthday. On a whim, I decided to extend an invite to my party to Anthony. He was a no show. But the very next day he reached out and I invited him over. We talked all night long and maybe even kissed a little. He seemed perfect; everything I imagined he would be. Maybe it was the weight of becoming “middle-aged” or simply a desire to feel less alone, but something about connecting with Anthony after all those years felt like fate.
The very next night, I had him over again. Sixteen years of “history,” created a false sense of intimacy and an exaggerated level of trust. The evening started out very much like the night before. Easy flowing conversation and insatiable sparks. The kissing began to escalate to a point that made me uncomfortable. I was raised in an extremely conservative Christian home and sex was strictly reserved for the marriage bed.
As things continued to progress, I raised my concerns and asked him to stop. Dr. Jekyll became Mr. Hyde. The asking turned to begging. The begging turned to pushing. But try as I might I was too small and he was too big. He took what I wasn’t willing to give, pinning me down with his full weight until it was finished.
I burst into tears and ran to the bathroom. Falling to the floor I just kept repeating to myself, “I think I was just raped. I think I was just raped.” Eventually I felt a strong arm pull me close and then Dr. Jekyll reappeared. He spoke of love and marriage and family and a future. I clung to that fantasy. I could not face what had happened. I began to doubt myself. Surely someone who could speak of such things was incapable of rape. After all, I was admittedly attracted to him. I even kissed him back at first. Maybe I wanted this to happen. Maybe I led him on. As the doubts filled my mind, the fantasy became my lifeline. We were going to be together. We had to be together.
From that moment on, I buried the truth. So deep it wouldn’t surface for two years. True to his word, Anthony stuck around and for the first few months we embodied the fantasy. After all, a real rapist wouldn’t have pursued me after. I must of misinterpreted that night. Besides, he loves me.
What would follow would be two years of complete and total hell. Mr. Hyde made regular appearances, punctuated by visits from Dr. Jekyll. My life became a twisted web of lies and depravity, but worst of all, a giant Anthony-shaped wedge formed between God and I.