This is probably the longest entry I’ve written. My apologies in advance, if you happen to read it. I’ve started and stopped writing it many times over the last few weeks and I’m tempted to delete it, but I’m going to publish it while I have the stomach for it. I may delete it in the future, though. I’ve already briefly mentioned the second time I was raped, and I’ve also said that I think I’m no longer affected by it. I told the Lt Col about it within a few days of it happening, we talked it out, I moved on. I made a conscious decision to not allow myself to be affected by it further, and I think I’ve succeeded. I learned an important lesson from the second rape, in that I finally “got” how important it was to trust/listen to my intuition when it comes to red flags. I have a tendency to ignore them because I don’t trust my intuition where men are concerned, but I hope that has changed now. I only wish I’d learned to take heed of them earlier on — preferably before the Serbian/first rape.
I’d started dating the Serbian shortly after Christmas 2010. This was a vanilla relationship. We’d met by chance in a mutual friend’s flat. He was easily the most incredibly handsome psychopath you could ever hope to meet. He was slightly drunk when we met (as was our mutual friend) and kept calling me beautiful and trying to dance with me. I couldn’t believe that someone that good-looking would find me attractive and I thought he was either so drunk that he would’ve flirted with any random female, or he was making fun of me. This issue goes back to my school days, when the popular boys would make fun of my appearance. Today, any time a man calls me beautiful, stunning or even just pretty, I immediately get angry and defensive because I think they’re making fun of me. Other compliments, I can handle. But not those.
It bothered me so much that I told him to fuck off and I left. Since I lived downstairs, it was easy for him to drop by later in the evening. He wanted me to go out for a drink with him. In that moment, I’d thought he just wanted someone to drink with, I didn’t realize he’d meant as a date. I said no, but he was very charming and persistent and I ended up saying yes (because it’s very difficult for me to say no). My friend insisted that he was a great guy (harmless, was the exact word he’d used), and that I should lighten up and let him take me out on a date. Something told me I should be staying far away from the Serbian but, at that time, I hadn’t dated anyone seriously for a very, very long time and I guess I was lonely.
One thing led to another and we ended up dating regularly, despite there being numerous red flags at every turn. The Serbian was unreliable, always late, and often drunk. Not drunk on beer, mind you — we’re talking half a bottle of rakija. He had a good job and made good money, but he spent all of it on alcohol, drugs (I didn’t know this for quite some time), and God knows what else. Any time we went out, I ended up having to pay for him, which pissed me off greatly. If he got drunk when we were out, he’d inevitably mouth off to someone his size (6’3) or larger, and I’d have to intervene and drag him away, all the while thanking the other guy for not beating the shit out of my drunk, asinine date.
Why did I tolerate this behavior? I really don’t know. I did tell him to fuck off and go away a number of times, but he continued to come back and was very persistent. The sex was very good in the beginning and I was flattered that someone so good-looking would take an interest in me. And from time to time, there were moments when he seemed capable of being the type of man I was looking for. Such moments were rare, however. In addition, just prior to meeting the Serbian, I’d become acutely aware that I’d fallen head over heels in love with the Lt Col, and I’d hoped that dating the Serbian would be a good way to nip that in the bud. (It didn’t.)
A few months after we’d started dating, the Serbian told me he had to move out of his flat. He’d said his friend was selling it, and I’d believed him. In retrospect, I now think he was just trying to find a rent-free situation and knew he could manipulate me into letting him freeload. Not once during our time together did he pay for anything, nor did he treat me with any measure of respect. I refrained from mentioning this to the Lt Col, because I knew he wouldn’t approve. I could already tell he didn’t like the Serbian much just from what little I’d told him. I knew I was with an asshole (though he certainly wasn’t the first) and I don’t know why I stayed with him for so long.
As time went on, more and more problems arose. The Serbian started demanding sex (literally shouting, “I want to fuck, now!) as often as 8 or 9 times a day. If I wasn’t up for it each time, he’d throw a fit and tell me he was going to go fuck someone in a bar. This always put me into a state of panic and I would then relent. He’d also started becoming violent. One night, he pulled his cock out and demanded a blow job. We’d been fighting all day and I wasn’t in the mood. He got angry and told me he was going to go out and fuck some local girl who’d been calling him all day.
He stood up to leave and I stood up at the same time. I was jostled as he walked by and, out of reflex, grabbed the nearest thing to keep from falling over — his arm. I accidentally ended up scratching him in the process and he went into a rage. He slapped me (3 times) so hard, that I wasn’t able to see anything other than pitch black darkness out of my left eye for probably a full minute, maybe longer. That may not sound like a long time, but it fucking felt like forever. I became hysterical, thinking he’d blinded me. Thankfully, my vision returned, but a large dark spot remained in my field of view for almost 2 weeks afterward. (Fortunately, it had only been muscle damage and it healed completely.)
As my vision started to return, I could hear the Serbian getting dressed in the bedroom. I locked Pooh-bear in the living room (for her own protection — I did this every time we fought because I was afraid he’d kill her if she bit him) and went to talk to him. It was well after midnight and I asked where he was going. He said to fuck the girl who’d been calling him. His tone was snide and aggressive. I should’ve just let him go, but something inside of me couldn’t cope with the idea of being walked out on in that way and I begged him to stay. He said no, he needed more sex and I should be flattered that someone like him had any interest in me, as he was a prince and I was fat and ugly.
I don’t know if he really thought these things or not, but hearing them knocked the wind out of me. I had, at various points in our relationship, mentioned that I sometimes felt like I wasn’t pretty or sexy enough for him. As for my weight, he knew I was sensitive about it because I’m religious about counting calories and exercise almost every day. But whether or not he really thought those things, the words took me right back to my childhood and I just stood there, unable to speak. He started to laugh. He said he’d take pictures of the other girl’s pussy while he was eating it and text it to me. I started to cry (something I rarely do) and asked him to not go to her, to not leave me.
Without warning, he flew into a rage. He said that all I cared about was my dog, that she was all that mattered to me. That he was nothing to me, that I treated him like shit, that I didn’t respect him, that I insulted him, that I thought I was better than him because I had more money, had a better education. His face changed in a way that I can’t really describe and his eyes went completely — and I do mean completely — black. He said that he was the better person, that he deserved better treatment, that he deserved to have sex whenever and wherever he wanted it. He started speaking in Serbian after that and I could only understand bits and pieces.
His eyes glazed over and his mouth contorted like a wild, rabid animal. He was full of rage, but also extremely focused. He picked me up and threw me on the bed. He continued to speak in Serbian, but was more or less just muttering and I could tell he wasn’t speaking to me directly. I could also tell that he couldn’t really “see” me anymore. I don’t know how else to describe that, but when I (eventually, 1 year later) told the Lt Col about it, he said it sounded like tunnel vision. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t the first time I’d seen this expression on a man’s face and I knew there’d be no stopping whatever he was going to do. He held me down by the throat with one hand and started ripping my clothes off with the other. This triggered some bad memories from my relationship with the Professor, and I started to panic even more. I tried to reason with him, to beg him not to do it, but I really don’t think he heard a word of it.
I was begging him to stop, apologizing for everything over and over again, my voice getting louder and louder as my panic grew. I’d never been raped before, but someone had almost raped me during the previous year, and I kept hoping the Serbian would stop at the last minute, just like the other person had. But I knew he wasn’t going to. I’d been kicking, punching and fighting back as best as I could in that position, but it was totally ineffective. Right before it finally happened, I was just about to scream the actual words ‘help’ and ‘rape’ — and then realized it would’ve been pointless. Not only would no one in a nearby flat understand the word rape, but screaming it aloud wouldn’t stop it from happening. The police certainly wouldn’t have made it in time to help and I didn’t want my neighbors knowing that it happened.
I can remember the first minute or two of it. The nauseating, gaping grin on his face. The sweat sliding down his cheeks and chin and then dripping into my eyes and mouth as I screamed. The drool dangling from the sides of his mouth as he grunted like a wild pig. His sweaty hands and nails digging into my skin. The pain of my thighs being held open as I was ripped apart inside. The rest of the event itself, I don’t really remember. The next thing I can recall, is him standing up, getting dressed, telling me was leaving and would be back later. The clock was directly in front of me; it was after 3 am now.
He said he loved me and we’d go to a nice restaurant for my birthday, which it now was (as of midnight). I laid there in silence for a while, not moving. Eventually, I got up. I could feel pain in every muscle, but my head was light and floaty. I remember walking into the living room, giving Pooh-bear a hug and kiss and putting her in the backyard. I went into the kitchen. I can remember washing dishes in the sink and then suddenly realizing that I was taking glasses out of the cabinet and throwing them into the sink, breaking them apart as forcefully as possible. And then becoming so enraged that I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I noticed a bread knife on the counter. I picked it up and looked at it. I felt like I was going to explode and had no outlet. I’m not sure what possessed me to do so, but I started to slice the underside of my forearms. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I think I was just trying to feel something that would hurt worse than what I was already feeling. I’ve never been a “cutter” and I’d always thought such behavior was insane, but I understand it now. It’s not something I’d ever do again, and I’m not proud of myself for having done it, but it did detract from the emotions I was feeling. When I was done, I’d sliced about 30 lines across my forearms. (Fortunately, they healed completely and without scarring, and I am very grateful for that.)
The Serbian returned home right after I’d stopped cutting myself. I was still holding the knife in my hand, bleeding all over the carpet and staring at the broken glass in the sink. He came into the kitchen, looked the area over, threw his head back and laughed. He told me I was crazy and he loved me. He disappeared for a moment and came back with a blade from a straight razor. He held it up and told me that if I wanted to kill myself, I should use that instead. I didn’t respond. Then he held his forearm out and sliced it across the top — deeply — 3 times. His arm looked as though a tiger had clawed him apart. Blood was running everywhere as he lit a cigarette and smiled. He said that now we’d both have matching scars to symbolize our love. He wrapped his arm in a hand-towel, kissed me on the forehead, went into the bedroom and went to sleep.
A few moments later, I realized that Pooh-bear was barking and I went to let her in. She seemed very stressed out and I realized that she’d probably been that way from the beginning of it all and I was very glad that I’d managed to keep her out of harm’s way — I’d spent a lot of time doing that during that relationship. I locked us in the living room and slept on the sofa with her. When I woke up the next day, the Serbian wasn’t there but he’d left a note saying he’d be back in time for my birthday dinner. My arms hurt badly and served as a reminder of what happened and my own stupidity — if I’d let him go when he’d wanted to, none of that would’ve happened. But, as I mentioned in another post, part of me felt like perhaps this was a suitable punishment for not helping my former roommate all those years ago.
I’m sure you’re expecting to hear that this is where my relationship with him ended, but it isn’t. I decided to behave as though none of it happened, keeping it from the Lt Col until something totally random triggered a very unpleasant PTSD episode in his office. I think I’d thought that if I could somehow turn our relationship into a good one, it would then be as though that particular event had never taken place. Or at least make up for it somehow. I know, that sounds insane. When I finally discussed it all with the Lt Col a year later, he said that’s been my coping mechanism of choice throughout my life. I’m not sure I agree, but it certainly didn’t help in this particular situation.
I stayed with the Serbian for several months after it happened, despite the relationship continuing to decline further and further each day. It wasn’t until he’d tried (unsuccessfully) to kick my Pooh-bear that I finally got rid of him. I’m so glad that I never left him alone with her during all that time; that’s one thing that I did right, at least. The Serbian didn’t go quietly, however. He stole all of my jewelry and brand new Macbook in the process, but at least he was gone. He continued to send me text messages almost every day, saying that he was going to kill me and fuck my dead body. I spent the next 1/2 year terrified to walk out my front door, fearful that he’d come back and kill me or Pooh-bear.
And then one day I got a call from the whore who’d been trying to fuck him (and probably succeeded many times over) the entire time we’d been together. Apparently, he’d moved in with her after I kicked him out. She begged me to take him back, saying he was insane and abusive and had stolen almost everything she had, but she couldn’t get rid of him because he refused to leave without having somewhere to go. I shouldn’t have entertained any smug thoughts during that conversation, but “be careful what you wish for” did come to mind. He got into trouble with the law shortly after that and apparently ran back to Serbia.
And if I never see him again, it will be too soon.