I realized my ride had left without me, I was feeling sick and disoriented and needed to sleep until I could walk home. I was thrilled to be at the party, drinking cans of Coors and tossing them in the back yard of the kid whose parents were out of town. I wanted desperately to be part of the cool, older crowd who drank and smoked cigarettes.
My parents were known for being strict, so I didn’t get invited out very often. Before that night, I had only been to a couple of parties, most of my wild stories were embellishments. I was being a typical teenager: acting out, rebelling – trying to distance myself from a goody-two-shoes image. My last clear memory was stumbling away from the crowd, looking for a place to sleep. I don’t think about it very often anymore, but every few years I revisit the spiral of shame, and guilt. I’m still not sure if it was my fault, even though I know it wasn’t. The night exists for me in a series of flash-bulb images that I can neither piece together nor erase from my memory, despite years of trying. The first time I was raped I was 16 years old.
