Groomed And Violated At Fifteen

This is a glimpse into my traumatic experience with a family friend who sexually assaulted me – taking my virginity. This person was friendly and nice to me; he would go out of his way to do things for me and treat me like a special person. Until one night, his tone and body language changed. He strong-armed me into a park and forced himself on me. I stopped eating and developed full-blown bulimia, which I suffered from for two more decades.

Fleur Elizabeth

When I was younger, I wanted to be an actor and singer. However, because of my dyslexia, I could never read the scripts, I couldn’t manage the audition process, and I was always such a hot mess. I had to learn and memorise lines to pull it off.

But I had enough bravado (thanks to my false self) to see me through. I was never a leading lady, but I managed to get small but fun roles in plays at school and loved them. And in one particular play, Pipin, I was Big Bertha. She had a big voice and commanded the stage perfectly for me.

A couple of family members came with a close family friend in support. When all the parents left after the show, the two males of the group took me to a bar. I was fifteen. It was risky, yes, but it seemed like a lot of fun, so why wouldn’t I go? I was with family and a close friend, so yeah, okay!

The short story is that we drank a lot of beer. They bought the drinks. And I got pretty drunk, I’ve got to say—unsurprisingly.

What Grooming Looks Like

The family friend was someone who visited us quite a lot. This person was friendly and nice to me; he would go out of his way to do things for me and treat me like a special person. He made me laugh and always sat next to me at the dinner table when he came for a meal.

He would sneak me alcohol, like passing me his wine or beer at family lunches. He was hilarious, so funny. There was a lot of trust there. I would go as far as to say he would flirt with me. I was being groomed.

So, that night at the bar, in this state of being pretty drunk, it was like the lights were on, and no one was home, I guess. When the family member wanted to leave, the family friend wanted to stay with me at the bar longer. He convinced me that I needed to stay with him. Then (I don’t know how this happened to this day), he persuaded my very conservative family member that I was safe with him and that he could return to his college dorm.  

I was underage, only fifteen. In real terms, my family member was nineteen and responsible for me. But he left me there, seemingly assured I was safe with his friend, who was six years older than me.

The Abuser’s Mask Falls

After my family member left, I didn’t feel all that comfortable. I knew this was wrong, so I pleaded for a cab. Agreeing it was late, he took me home in a taxi shortly after, being charming and funny as always. He asked me to go back to his college rooms in the cab. I said no and that I needed to go home. I recall the feeling of anxiety at that point. I know I moved closer to my door and hugged the handle.

When we finally got to my house, he asked me again to come back to where he lived and talk. And I said no again, insisting that I needed to go inside. Still persisting, he asked if he could get out and take me for a walk in the park next to my mother’s house. He was insistent that we should talk. I was terrified and very intimidated. His tone was firm, as was his body language and strong hold on my arm.

I felt like I had no choice as his grip was tight on me; he walked me into the park. There was a bench seat ahead, where he pushed me forward, bending me over it, and raped me.

He then took me back to my mother’s house, knocked on the door, and left me standing frozen still in the cold, half undressed, bleeding and in shock. 

My mother let me in, saw my state, put me in a shower and washed me down. The following day, she told me I could take the week off school as if it was a good thing. I remember she said it in a way that made it sound like a holiday or something fun. 

This family friend came back during that week, knocked on the door, and let himself in. I froze. And he did it again. I remember him saying, ‘This is what love is.’ And I just froze.

Afterwards, he took me into the front sitting room and sat with me on the green velvet sofa. I remember sitting in the pristine room with several silver photo frames of family and friends and all this quiet. And then, out of nowhere, I started throwing them at him and screaming for him to get out and go away. Which he did.

I never saw him again. He never visited. He never came to a lunch. We never spoke his name. But we never talked about what he had done to me; it was like it had never happened.

Emotional Detachment And The False Self

I stopped eating. I was at boarding school, and when they noticed that I wasn’t eating, I wouldn’t say they forced me to eat, but they ensured I was eating. So, then I started to make myself throw up. First it was only dinner, then everything I ate every day. 

My behaviour was erratic. I suppressed the whole memory; I didn’t remember any of it or couldn’t connect to any of it. With the enormity of this trauma, my psyche went into overdrive, building walls and further magnifying my false self. To hide from the pain, I became more and more fabulous.

I became hell-bent on winning every athletic game, being the best at netball, being the best in our circle in every circumstance, being very extreme in social situations, being risky, returning to the pub underage, dressing up in clothes that were way too old for me and being very provocative. I was still at school, and my classmates and I were sneaking out of the boarding house and going to nightclubs on Thursday nights. This went on for two years.

Triggered

In my final year of school, when I was seventeen, the girls in the boarding house would watch movies together for study breaks. On this particular occasion, it was The Accused, in which Jodie Foster played a character who was raped by five men on a pinball machine. 

Boom. That did it. That little box inside my head where this horrific memory was stored was blown right open. The movie triggered everything for me, and I lost the plot.

I had a massive anxiety attack. You would call it a panic attack these days. I was crying, and all I wanted to do was break everything I could get my hands on and lash out. But I couldn’t; I was a boarder at my mother’s school, and more shame would be attached to this, so I had to pull my head in.

To my best friend, I admitted what had happened to me. As I said the words, they didn’t even feel real to me at the time. I was never validated, so I always felt insecure about my truth.

Regardless, the cat was out of the bag with my nervous system, and things just snowballed. I was having panic attacks at school, I was fainting at school, but I was still trying to be fabulous and still trying to hide the fact I was throwing up. I ran a million miles an hour on an empty tank. 

I was full-blown bulimic. Every meal I ate, I was throwing up. And I was at the point now, after two years of living like this, that I could just throw up without even putting my fingers down my throat. But I couldn’t tell anybody about it. Everybody knew because I would stink of vomit, and people could hear me making myself sick. Yet, I was still in denial. 

Even though I was avoidant of the effects of what was going on, the boarding house mistress could no longer avoid taking action. She called my mother, and I was sent to a psychiatrist.

Dealing With Abuse Without Support

I saw the psychiatrist, and it was during the second visit that I admitted what had happened to me, that I had been raped. Today, legally, when a sexual violence crime is revealed, the doctor has to inform the parents and the authorities. The law was not so strict back then, but it required them to notify the family.

My psychiatrist shared the details of my case with my mother and father with little response. However, they took very clear action in denial: they stopped paying the psychiatrist’s bills without informing me.

Unaware, I turned up for the next session only to be turned away because my parents had not paid. I felt shame for this like it was my fault. I felt like I was an embarrassment to my family. This was why we didn’t talk about it, I thought.

I rang my mother, who immediately blamed my father for not paying. This was her usual manipulation, blaming my father for everything. She gushed about how terrible it was, but in her poshest voice, she delivered her usual invalidating speech: “You have the strength to get through. Courage and quiet mind, darling, and you’ll be fine.” And she ended the call.

The rape was never discussed. My eating disorder and the fact I was throwing up every meal were never addressed. I was just told to have courage and a quiet goddamn mind.

I lived with that shame, and I suppressed it, deep, deep, deep inside. I made myself sick for years. My poor, frail, invalidated former self endured so much pain in silence.

“My ambition is to combat the stigma of sexual abuse head-on and break the silence about the effects of these adverse experiences on our food and alcohol choices.”

Fleur Elizabeth