This post comes with a Trigger Warning. Part 6 is about being drugged and raped. This may be a long post, because I can’t split this one up. It’s too difficult to write about.

After my husband died, a part of me went with him. I had an opportunity to leave the state and move in with some friends, and I took it. Fleeing from my pain seemed like a good idea. While there, I casually dated. I wasn’t interested in anything more than companionship. Instead of sleeping around, I stuck with one person for convenience. I picked a man who seemed eager. I was sure he wouldn’t become attached to me, and I certainly wasn’t in any danger of falling in love with him either. I chose wrong.

One night, there was a party at my house. I had just made myself a drink, and had a couple of sips. As one of the hostesses, I left my drink next to my boyfriend, and went to greet and chat with people. I’d come back and take a sip, and continue to talk to guests. Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so well. I started feeling nauseous, and dizzy. I went to the bathroom, where I got sick, but I wasn’t feeling better, only worse. I went to lie down in my room, and my boyfriend was there waiting for me. He had this grin on his face.

He knew. He was ecstatic that I was sick. He told me how turned on he was by that. As I watched his face, I started losing my ability to move, and talk. He seemed to know what was going on, and he started talking more. He told me how sexy I was, helpless and scared. He undressed me, and undressed himself. He choked me with his thighs as he stared at me and told me how turned on he was by me at this very moment. He loved my fear. You can figure out what he was doing, at that point. I passed out. When I woke up, it was morning, and he was next to me.

I woke up in pain, everywhere. I remembered everything up until I passed out, and I was terrified. When he woke up, he told me what a great night it had been. He never talked about specifics. He never acknowledged what he did, and I didn’t either. I knew I had to break things off, but I was scared. He was dangerous, and he knew where I lived. Where my friends lived. I don’t know how much time passed anymore, but one day he came over. We weren’t alone, and I picked a fight and broke up with him. I thought I’d feel better, but I was still terrified. He would show up at a coffee house I practically lived at. He got to stay, as I never shared what he had done. I’d get someone to walk me to my car, and I’d go home. Where I still watched and waited for him to show up. He never did.

With endometriosis comes irregular periods, and even with doctors saying I was most likely infertile, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. I bought two more, and they were positive. I felt sick. God didn’t give me a child with my late husband, but the rapist could knock me up?! He was cruel. I quickly decided to keep it. The baby was innocent in all of this, and the only good thing to come out of it. I started planning for her. I had no idea if it was a girl or boy, I was just wishing for a girl. I bought onesies and tried to figure out where we could live, and when I should move away. I didn’t want my ex to find out about her existence.

That wouldn’t be a problem. I miscarried. Nothing good would ever come from that hell of a night. More of me died that day. I grew even more resentful of God. How could He allow a rapist to impregnate me? Only then to take the baby from me? I was sure He hated me. I was sure this was all my fault. I hated my life, and the world I lived in. I begged Him to have a heart, and let me die. Like He let my husband and baby die.

Again, things got worse.