Do I Blame Myself?

Do I blame myself? Yes and no.

I went with this guy fishing one day. He asked me, and I said yes—believing that my tomboyish style made me just one of the guys. I didn’t think much of it. He was my father’s friend. Not one of the older ones, but still someone I thought I could trust. I didn’t expect him to be so determined—or that he would have everything planned.

On the way to the fishing spot, riding in his rusted old truck, the conversation took a turn. He started asking questions—strange ones, ones no friend of my father should be asking. Questions that didn’t belong anywhere, let alone on a casual drive.

Then came the one that froze everything: “Do you like the rape scenario?”

He said it plain, like it was nothing, but I heard something under it—fear, maybe hesitation. My brain went silent for a moment. I knew right then this wasn’t spontaneous. It was planned.

How did I know? I guess because I’d always been a little obsessed with serial killers, crime shows, dark psychology. I watched SVU religiously from the age of twelve. That strange knowledge? It clicked into place like a puzzle I didn’t want to solve.

After that, I went into survival mode. Play the part. Stay calm. Pretend. That was my tactic. And honestly, I believe it worked.

We turned down a long dirt road that cut into thick woods. When the trees cleared, there was water—he stopped the truck, put it in park, opened the door slowly. No rush. He walked to the back of the truck and came back holding a gun.

That’s not a fishing pole, I thought.

Still, I didn’t panic. He handed the gun to me. A test, maybe. See if I’d try something. I didn’t. I could’ve fought. Maybe. But I’ve always been the kind of fighter who uses common sense—or what people call common sense. My parents used to say I had none. But it kept me alive that day.

He didn’t kill me, maybe because I didn’t fight.

Then came the next part. He asked me to strip down to my bra and underwear and pose with the gun. Said he wanted a picture. I did what he asked. Maybe I even shot him a smile. Not with the gun—just with my mouth. I knew the gun wasn’t loaded. I also knew that if it had been and I used it, I might’ve ended up being the one who looked like the monster. Another part of the plan, I guess.

Then he said something that stuck in my head: “You know [name] told me he always wanted to try you out, but he could never do that to your dad.” Speaking of my dad’s best friend.

That sentence—it’s still stuck in my brain. Did he mean it? Was that the seed that started all of this?

After the photo, he took the gun, went back to the truck, and came back with something wrapped in foil. I never saw what it was, but I knew. Drugs. He handed it to me and told me to swallow it whole. I did. No hesitation. I didn’t know what it was, only that I was about to be raped, and maybe even killed. Still, fear didn’t kick in. I’ve always said I was part-time psycho. Maybe that’s how I got through it.

What followed was not the worst of it.

He laid me down across the truck seats. I played along, acted like I wanted it, like I was into it. Trauma cinema. Just a performance. When it was over, I got dressed like it was normal. Just what you do.

He drove me to his house after that. Right past his family, straight to the bedroom. I remember thinking—do they know? I thought about saying something. But I didn’t. What if they defended him, even with proof? So I stayed quiet.

What follows IS the worst of it.

I laid on the bed like I wanted to be there. It became a long, sleepless sleepover. Whether it was the trauma or the drugs, I didn’t sleep for three days. He raped me repeatedly. I didn’t fight. I didn’t scream. I just waited.

One night, while he slept, I took his phone and deleted the photo he took of me. That was the only thing I did. The one thing I knew I could take back.

By the fourth day, something shifted. Maybe he was done. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t talk. Maybe—hopefully—he felt ashamed. He took me home, dropped me off in my driveway, and left.

I never heard much from him again. I never talked about it. Until now.

So, do I blame myself? Yes—for the way it played out. For saying yes. For being naïve. But I also know not to blame myself for what actually happened.

I was raped.

And I chose to give that man grace. That was my decision. Maybe the only one I got to make. But I think it was the best choice I could’ve made.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing it because someone else out there might be walking around with the same silence. And I want them to know: you’re not crazy for how you survived. You’re not weak for playing along. You’re not dirty because someone treated you like a thing.

You were there. You lived. That’s enough.

And maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop blaming yourself too.

God gives grace to us all. I know this now, once I became a Christian—years later. God has the wisest knowledge, and He chose grace. I choose to believe in that. I hope this helps any other victim of rape who struggles with giving themselves—and even their rapist—grace.

Grace Victim Unit. For me, only now.