Rape [part 2] Son of a Sheriff. © Dakini Verona 2010

Rape [part 2] Son of a Sheriff. © Dakini Verona 2010

I sure wish that I could say that I shot the son of the sheriff, the way Clapton sang about shooting the sheriff. But it never happened, only in my wildest dreams and fantasies. As I was saying.. I was alone in the dark streets of Sarasota, Florida [rape part 1]. I was 14 years old.

Eric Clapton sang I Shot the Sheriff

My rage had subsided as quickly as it rose. I was blindly walking now, trying to figure out how I would get home. I couldn’t call my parents. No. That would never work, to admit I had been wrong. So I continued to walk and hoped a solution would rise from the dark.

I heard the car pulling up behind me, it was one of those large muscle types of cars. The kind that had a trunk so big you could easily sneak in 4 kids to the drive-in theatre. The kind that you could find 6 rambunctious boys hooting it up on a Saturday night.  In retrospect, the kind that you should never get into, even when you know the occupants.

RAPE [part 1] © Dakini Verona 2010

Rape [part 1]

WARNING SENSITIVE SUBJECT MATTER

The word itself causes those of us who have been victimized this way to shudder. But I think that it is better than the way I responded before, which was to shut down. Backup.. so far back that I left who I was behind. Sometimes it is the only way to survive. I never fully had what is commonly known as multiple personality disorder, but I know.. down to the core of my soul, that there are pieces of me that left during times of trauma.

The little 7 year old me found a place to run to. She curled up safe and sound where no one could reach her. That bad man may have been hurting that “other little girl”, but that was not ME.

I learned that trick at a young age. No little girl should ever have to run and hide that way. I am so sorry that I was unable to protect her. She was so innocent and naïve. He was just a victim himself, I am sure. That happens to young boys that are molested or raped. They grow up to become the very demons that brutalized them. Ironic, huh?

I am sitting here, somewhat afraid to explore my own demons. There were so many times that I found myself enduring yet another sexual brutalization. I only remember bits and pieces of some, those that were the most tragic have burrowed themselves so deep inside that I have to be very careful about pulling them out. The technique I have learned to is to fist acknowledge that I was the victim. That I was an innocent in all of it. Then I have to assure myself that I am now safe. Not only from my attacker, but from others that might sense that I was once a victim (many time over) and then prey on that.

I have to shed some tears.. it is all a process. I have to tell myself – I am ok. I am safe. I am loved. No one will hurt me that way, ever again. I will not allow it. I have to convince myself that it is now just a memory. I give myself permission to let it go, after I expunge it from my memory once and for all. I can release it, once I have told my story. Once and for all. My cheeks are wet. My voice is weak. My teeth are chattering as I stand here on the precipice of this monumental task trying to find the courage to bring the memories back.

This is the first time ever, that I have actually purposefully, embarked upon this undertaking. I will tell it all, as I remember.

Jail bait © Dakini 2010

Jail bait © Dakini 2010

Cindy was my best friend growing up. She lived about a mile away in Blue Mountain, New York. We lived in the middle of nowhere, but then again, we lived about 9 miles from the quaint little village of Woodstock. Woodstock was the place for artists and musicians to come and hang out. It was bohemian before it was hip. You can just imagine how much trouble we could get into there. 


Cindy and I were joined at the hips from the time we were 13 or so. We were constantly on the phone talking to each other, in those rare moments when we were not face to face.

She came from good German stock. She lived with her mom and four siblings (from what I remember) in humble home on Blue Mountain Road. At the back of her property you could find a small babbling brook. There were many evenings spent playing on the hill which led to that stream. On warm summer nights we could look up at the sky and watch the bats dart about, catching small flying insects like mosquitoes and no-see-ums (gnats). 

I remember when I lost my virginity (by date rape) and was afraid to tell Cindy about it. I thought she would think I was a whore. My sense of self worth was non-existent back then. 

She and I experimented with various drugs together. I was the adventurous one and always got us in trouble. Her mom used to hunt us down when we were out where we were not supposed to be. Cindy thought it was because her mom knew everyone, I think she was psychic on some level. 

Like the night we pulled, or I should say, tried to pull, that classic trick: "you tell your mom you are staying at my house and I will tell my parents that I am staying at yours." It worked fine with my parents; they were in their own world of denial when it came to me. Cindy's mom, on the other hand was very protective about her children. She checked up on Cindy and discovered we were not where we said we were going to be. Of course not, we were off to meet boys in the Village of Woodstock.