After the Rape, I left the Compound and finished my time in Africa living in a nearby town with some American missionaries that I knew there. I never went back to the compound and I don't know what happened to Isaac or if any of the Church Administration listened to my amended version of events. I was ashamed of what happened, still am, and left out the part about the actual rape.
In the town, being able to speak English all the time, working at a real orphanage, and having the freedom to go where I choose and use public transport; life was vastly different. I had friends, I had kids surrounding me all the time, I even had access to a library (up to this point I had been reading the same two Bridget Jones books over and over again). I went white water rafting on the Nile river, tasted African Beer, and met some amazing people from all different parts of the world.
This town was sort of a missionary town. There were churches and orphanages and lots of ministries in town and so many people coming to Africa to do humanitarian type work ended up there.
For the rest of my time there, I forgot what had happened. Just sort of blanked it out. Even when I got back to the states and I told my pastor and my community service supervisor about it, I told them the amended version. I began to believe in it, myself. And then, with school and work and everything, I just forgot about it again.
I know, it doesn't seem right that you can just forget about something like that. But you can. Its called a normal reaction to an abnormal situation. Your brain knows that you can't deal with it emotionally, so it shuts that memory down. It hides it until you are ready to deal with it. I probably would have repressed the memory for most of my life if I hadn't had so many stress factors to deal with when I got back.
My college was so proud of me. They had me giving talks about Africa right and left. I had to write reflection papers and give interviews, all the time trying to hide the darker side of the experience.
See, when I first got back and tried to tell my pastor about all the corruption and devastation in the country and the church, he didn't want to hear it. He wanted to hear about all the good I'd done and what the church's money accomplished. I tried to caution him about our involvement as a church; to be more careful of who exactly we gave our money to and what specifically it was for. He went himself a month or so later and came back feeling so assured about the Leader and the projects of the Church, it felt to me as if he was calling me a liar; not believing anything I had said. I knew no one would listen to me if I started talking about the bad stuff anymore. I stopped going to Church after that.
Then, there was my community service organization. My supervisor had decided to leave and find a job elsewhere. It wasn't a parting on the best of circumstances and I had this wild idea that by not telling her anything I was protecting her. I didn't want her to feel guilty about leaving.
Our acting supervisor was a senior student and a friend of mine. It seemed like things would work out even with all the changes going on. Then, I began to have trouble managing all the stress I was under. 18 hours of classes, plus a huge workload for my Community Service projects. I had this big event that I was supposed to be planning for a "drug free" Halloween thing and then the senior wanted me to be wing man on this big new project of his. The problem was he wanted me to do all the legwork and my partner in the Halloween thing wasn't helping me out like she should have been. I got really frustrated with it all and wrote a blog on myspace and facebook to vent.
The shit hit the fan after that. Even though my blogs were set so that only my friends who I trusted could read them, some one told the senior about it. In the blog I called him an asshole, which was apparently unacceptable. The girls who read the blog and decided to spill it to him, also decided then that I was a bitch and deserved to be punished for what I had written. They spread rumors and lies and even printed off all of my blogs for the Senior to use. In the end, my job was threatened and my reputation in the organization was ruined. It took me until the Senior actually pulled out the printed off blogs in front of our Dean to realize that I had trusted the wrong people. Up 'till then I still considered the ones that did it to be my close friends. My projects fell apart and so did my faith in people. I got really paranoid about what I said and who I told what to. I quit the program out of anger and embarrassment over the fiasco.
While all that was going on, I was dating like crazy and sleeping around. I had gotten on birth control and gotten tested to make sure I didn't have any STDs. But, something inside me just had to be touched and to be loved, I guess, although that didn't happen. The touching did, but not the love or the caring. I let people set me up, would get drunk and sleep with whoever was convenient. I had two "serious" boyfriends too. Neither one was very nice to me, but I felt like I didn't deserve anything better. As much as I wanted to feel connection to something again, I still felt like I didn't deserve it.
My life got so messed up after the blog thing. I felt worthless and useless and betrayed yet again. I started having nightmares and not sleeping unless I was drunk or just too tired to do anything else. I stopped going to class. Eventually, my roommate and the people I drank with were the only people that saw me on a daily basis. Even failing class didn't bring me out of it all, and class was something that I had once had great pride in. Straight A student, brilliant mind, great writer. That was gone.
I thought it was the place. The people. Those things that had betrayed me. So I decided to move closer to home and transfer schools. It was November now. Nearing the end of the semester. It would be easy to switch everything between semesters. However, I made what I considered at the time one horrible mistake.
I got drunk one night and slept with a close friend of mine. Instead of doing the one-night-stand thing I had been doing, we starting hanging out. While I didn't like the gossip going around about me, I still really wanted that connection. I wanted to feel alive instead of like I was dead all the time. He was such a nice guy and I took advantage of that. But more than anything, he made me feel safe again. So I told him.
I cried and cried the second time we had sex. I was sober and it scared me, having sex with this person without the dulling of alcohol. When he asked me what was wrong, I finally told someone the truth. I told him about Isaac, about being raped. And he held me. That's all he did, was hold me and tell me it was going to be all right.
But I was leaving. I had already made plans and was going back home in two weeks. So I tried to cut myself off from him. I gave up being held and packed my stuff and that December, I left. I thought going back, being around my family and friends and familiar places, would help me deal. I could somehow just put what had happened behind me.
Most of the time, I've learned, things don't ever work out how we plan them to.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
down the rabbit hole
If you haven't figured it out, the Cherished Cat is my way of saying the Cheshire Cat. Since I feel like Alice, that's the name I'll use and I fell down a rabbit hole, so-to-speak, a little over a year ago. I'm trying to make my way out of Wonderland and I thought writing about it all would help.
I suppose, since this is the whole point of this exercise, I should just put it out there first thing. In June of 2007 I was raped while on a "mission" trip to Africa.
I had been a typical college student in the states before that. I was part of a community service organization on campus and I had scholarship that required me to spend two summers of my academic career serving others in a non-profit organization. I was also a devout Christian and around the time that I was to begin planning for this trip, One of the leaders of the African church came and preached to us.
He preached to us about serving others, about being like Jesus, about the blessing it is to serve God. He said that Africa needed people to come more than money to be sent. It was exactly what I needed to hear. I felt as if God was speaking directly to me and I knew without a doubt that this was what God wanted me to do. I feel very young and foolish about that now.
I spoke to the Leader after the ceremony and I spoke to my pastor about it. Everyone was excited. The Leader told me he already had a place in mind for me. " . . an orphanage, " he said. The Bishop told me later that I would be living in a house with teachers near the orphanage and that all I needed to do was come and work and he would take care of everything. That was it, everything I wanted. To be really helping people, not just paperwork or sending money or something. Really working.
My pastor and my church got behind me and they helped me raise all the money I would need for the trip. On May 8th, 2007, I left for Uganda, East Africa. I was so excited and scared and happy. I thought, "surely God is at work in all this."
When I arrived the African country, I experienced my share of culture shock. So many people, such a vast expanse of Jungle, such strange voices. I was the only white person I saw for a long time. It turned out that I was not going to be living with teachers in a house near the orphanage. It turned out that there was no actual orphanage, either. As a matter of fact, almost none of what the Leader had told me was true.
I was sent to live in a compound of three houses, squashed together like american townhouses are. It was 20km trip through jungle if I wanted to walk to the "orphanage". And about 10km to the nearest town with a market. I was told not to use public transport on the roads, that someone would come everyday to pick me up. "okay, I thought, this is workable." I mean, I was taught to make the best of things. And come on, I was in Africa! Wasn't this what I'd wanted?
The orphanage itself turned out to be a school. Primary grades 1 through 6. Most of the students were from families who paid tuition, although there were still about one third of them who were either orphaned, had parents with Aids, or were from war torn areas. They paid no tuition and lived year-round at the school (kind of like an orphanage). Still, I felt very mislead, and began to worry about what exactly they wanted me to do. School in Africa is very regimented, students do not ask questions, and there is a time and place to do everything.
I didn't know how to teach. I didn't know enough about any subject to teach it, much less teach it in a way that I didn't commit any cultural faux pas. I couldn't preach either, which was the only other thing they seemed to want me to do. At this point, I was really worried.
It turned out not to matter so much, though. Firstly, I was a white person and was treated with high indifference and not really expected to do anything except hand out money which I didn't have. Secondly, for the first three weeks I was there, they kept forgetting about me. I didn't get picked up like I was supposed to and I ended up spending a lot of days in or near the compound either by myself or with Isaac.
I suppose this brings me to the point of all that backstory. I was left alone a lot, the only white person for miles and the only other person that could speak decent English was my neighbor in the compound, Isaac.
Isaac was a tall, thin, dark African. His voice was a bit high for a man and kinda squeked when he talked sometimes. He had big, smushed lips; like the kind you saw in really old cartoons with black people in them. He was my friend. I had no one else.
When I was alone, he would offer to take me places. He had his own car and could go where ever. He showed me where the nearest market was, showed me how to shop by bargaining about prices. He took me to the capital city once because I was so homesick, once. He knew of a place where you could buy the African equivalent of a pizza. He even gave me a puppy at one point. I thought God had answered my prayers. I thought He had sent me this wonderful friend. But there were things that bothered me about Isaac, too.
Isaac would call me an angel. He would tell me that he had prayed for God to send him an angel to love. He never came right out and said that he thought God had sent me for him, but he implied it almost everyday. I can't say that I didn't entertain the thought myself. I even let him kiss me once. But I prayed and prayed and prayed about it and it never felt right. So I told Isaac that I didn't think God had sent me for him. Maybe it was some one else, but it definately wasn't me. I told him that God blessed our friendship, but nothing more. I told him . .. , but I'm not sure he listened.
We watched movies together, Isaac and me; American movies bootlegged from the states. He would make vulgar comments sometimes or during a love scene ask an inapropriate question about "what american girls really do." I wrote it off as a cultural difference. There was still so much I was very unsure of about Africa and I didn't want to believe anything bad about my only friend. I tell myself a thousand times that I should have known. I should have seen it, but I didn't.
I started to become a little afraid of Isaac. It was just little things; him grabbing my arm, him saying something mean or vulgar, him not wanting me to leave when we were together. But I thought this a Christian man. He runs a Christian school, has Christian friends from North america that he even lived with for awhile. He would not do anything to hurt me. God was in our lives and He would protect me, anyway. I was still afraid, though.
Then, one night, he came into my house in the compound. He started talking about angels and me and then about sex. He said he had waited too long for me and he needed me. I asked him to leave. I told him that God wouldn't want us to do that. That it wasn't in God's plans for us. I feel so stupid about that now. I had such faith in God and His plan.
Isaac didn't leave. I was scared then. I was so afraid I couldn't think, couldn't breath. He was stronger than I gave him credit for, being so skinny. His hands were like wires around me. He had pushed me down on my bed and was holding me there with his hands and the weight of his own body. At some point, I remember grabbing my bible off the night stand; it was a little green leatherbound thing, I had thought it was so powerful. I prayed and screamed for God that night. God never came, no one did. I held the bible to my chest and when he finally got up, when it finally stopped, I threw it at him. He just left, quietly, as if nothing had happened. Me, I locked the doors tight after he left and spent the rest of the night sobbing on the bathroom floor underneath the shower.
And I fell down that rabbit hole, and I'm still not out of wonderland. I can tell you it certainly isn't wonderful. Like the Alice of the story, I've found out that its a lot scarier then you could imagine. I've lost my way, I've lost my faith, I've lost so much. So now, I'm struggling to get it back.
My therapist said I should write about, since I do that so well. So this is me, writing about my life. My real name isn't Alice and originally I wanted to make this blog anonymous. But I've seen that sometimes the real thing has a better impact on the world and on people. Though I'm still struggling with feelings shame and betrayal, it seems more important to be honest with those that read this blog and those that need to read it.
Welcome to Wonderland
I suppose, since this is the whole point of this exercise, I should just put it out there first thing. In June of 2007 I was raped while on a "mission" trip to Africa.
I had been a typical college student in the states before that. I was part of a community service organization on campus and I had scholarship that required me to spend two summers of my academic career serving others in a non-profit organization. I was also a devout Christian and around the time that I was to begin planning for this trip, One of the leaders of the African church came and preached to us.
He preached to us about serving others, about being like Jesus, about the blessing it is to serve God. He said that Africa needed people to come more than money to be sent. It was exactly what I needed to hear. I felt as if God was speaking directly to me and I knew without a doubt that this was what God wanted me to do. I feel very young and foolish about that now.
I spoke to the Leader after the ceremony and I spoke to my pastor about it. Everyone was excited. The Leader told me he already had a place in mind for me. " . . an orphanage, " he said. The Bishop told me later that I would be living in a house with teachers near the orphanage and that all I needed to do was come and work and he would take care of everything. That was it, everything I wanted. To be really helping people, not just paperwork or sending money or something. Really working.
My pastor and my church got behind me and they helped me raise all the money I would need for the trip. On May 8th, 2007, I left for Uganda, East Africa. I was so excited and scared and happy. I thought, "surely God is at work in all this."
When I arrived the African country, I experienced my share of culture shock. So many people, such a vast expanse of Jungle, such strange voices. I was the only white person I saw for a long time. It turned out that I was not going to be living with teachers in a house near the orphanage. It turned out that there was no actual orphanage, either. As a matter of fact, almost none of what the Leader had told me was true.
I was sent to live in a compound of three houses, squashed together like american townhouses are. It was 20km trip through jungle if I wanted to walk to the "orphanage". And about 10km to the nearest town with a market. I was told not to use public transport on the roads, that someone would come everyday to pick me up. "okay, I thought, this is workable." I mean, I was taught to make the best of things. And come on, I was in Africa! Wasn't this what I'd wanted?
The orphanage itself turned out to be a school. Primary grades 1 through 6. Most of the students were from families who paid tuition, although there were still about one third of them who were either orphaned, had parents with Aids, or were from war torn areas. They paid no tuition and lived year-round at the school (kind of like an orphanage). Still, I felt very mislead, and began to worry about what exactly they wanted me to do. School in Africa is very regimented, students do not ask questions, and there is a time and place to do everything.
I didn't know how to teach. I didn't know enough about any subject to teach it, much less teach it in a way that I didn't commit any cultural faux pas. I couldn't preach either, which was the only other thing they seemed to want me to do. At this point, I was really worried.
It turned out not to matter so much, though. Firstly, I was a white person and was treated with high indifference and not really expected to do anything except hand out money which I didn't have. Secondly, for the first three weeks I was there, they kept forgetting about me. I didn't get picked up like I was supposed to and I ended up spending a lot of days in or near the compound either by myself or with Isaac.
I suppose this brings me to the point of all that backstory. I was left alone a lot, the only white person for miles and the only other person that could speak decent English was my neighbor in the compound, Isaac.
Isaac was a tall, thin, dark African. His voice was a bit high for a man and kinda squeked when he talked sometimes. He had big, smushed lips; like the kind you saw in really old cartoons with black people in them. He was my friend. I had no one else.
When I was alone, he would offer to take me places. He had his own car and could go where ever. He showed me where the nearest market was, showed me how to shop by bargaining about prices. He took me to the capital city once because I was so homesick, once. He knew of a place where you could buy the African equivalent of a pizza. He even gave me a puppy at one point. I thought God had answered my prayers. I thought He had sent me this wonderful friend. But there were things that bothered me about Isaac, too.
Isaac would call me an angel. He would tell me that he had prayed for God to send him an angel to love. He never came right out and said that he thought God had sent me for him, but he implied it almost everyday. I can't say that I didn't entertain the thought myself. I even let him kiss me once. But I prayed and prayed and prayed about it and it never felt right. So I told Isaac that I didn't think God had sent me for him. Maybe it was some one else, but it definately wasn't me. I told him that God blessed our friendship, but nothing more. I told him . .. , but I'm not sure he listened.
We watched movies together, Isaac and me; American movies bootlegged from the states. He would make vulgar comments sometimes or during a love scene ask an inapropriate question about "what american girls really do." I wrote it off as a cultural difference. There was still so much I was very unsure of about Africa and I didn't want to believe anything bad about my only friend. I tell myself a thousand times that I should have known. I should have seen it, but I didn't.
I started to become a little afraid of Isaac. It was just little things; him grabbing my arm, him saying something mean or vulgar, him not wanting me to leave when we were together. But I thought this a Christian man. He runs a Christian school, has Christian friends from North america that he even lived with for awhile. He would not do anything to hurt me. God was in our lives and He would protect me, anyway. I was still afraid, though.
Then, one night, he came into my house in the compound. He started talking about angels and me and then about sex. He said he had waited too long for me and he needed me. I asked him to leave. I told him that God wouldn't want us to do that. That it wasn't in God's plans for us. I feel so stupid about that now. I had such faith in God and His plan.
Isaac didn't leave. I was scared then. I was so afraid I couldn't think, couldn't breath. He was stronger than I gave him credit for, being so skinny. His hands were like wires around me. He had pushed me down on my bed and was holding me there with his hands and the weight of his own body. At some point, I remember grabbing my bible off the night stand; it was a little green leatherbound thing, I had thought it was so powerful. I prayed and screamed for God that night. God never came, no one did. I held the bible to my chest and when he finally got up, when it finally stopped, I threw it at him. He just left, quietly, as if nothing had happened. Me, I locked the doors tight after he left and spent the rest of the night sobbing on the bathroom floor underneath the shower.
And I fell down that rabbit hole, and I'm still not out of wonderland. I can tell you it certainly isn't wonderful. Like the Alice of the story, I've found out that its a lot scarier then you could imagine. I've lost my way, I've lost my faith, I've lost so much. So now, I'm struggling to get it back.
My therapist said I should write about, since I do that so well. So this is me, writing about my life. My real name isn't Alice and originally I wanted to make this blog anonymous. But I've seen that sometimes the real thing has a better impact on the world and on people. Though I'm still struggling with feelings shame and betrayal, it seems more important to be honest with those that read this blog and those that need to read it.
Welcome to Wonderland
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