After he raped me
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I’ve heard it said that when Cain killed Abel it was the first time blood was shed in Scripture. Or perhaps someone will notice that when God made animal skins for Adam and Eve to wear (prior to Cain’s existence), this was the first shedding of blood in Scripture. Neither is true. The first time blood was shed in Scripture was through Eve. In fact, the first two times blood was shed was through Eve. Number one: the blood that flowed out of her upon Adam’s first sexual union with her, the blood of a broken hymen. Number two: when Eve’s uterus contracted and shed its lining in her menses. Number three: Enter God, the shedder of blood. We know that Cain was not birthed until after the Fall, so we can say that the third time blood was shed was when God shed the blood of animals to make coverings for Adam and Eve who now knew they were naked and felt ashamed. God shed blood to cover them. Number four: when Eve, the Mother of the Living, gave birth to Cain. Any way you look at it, Eve’s blood was without question the first blood that was shed. And it was probably the second and the fourth, too. And it was blood shed for life, not the bloodshed of death. There is an inextricable link between the shedding of blood and the giving of life. Anyone familiar with human biology and reproduction knows that a woman’s monthly cycle is the God-ordained rhythm for conception of life. If no baby is conceived, the uterus cramps to shed its lining, eliminating it from the body through the flow of menstrual blood. If a baby is conceived, about 40 weeks later, through a lot of blood, she brings forth the baby out of her womb. And even if the baby does not come to term, God forbid, it will still be delivered from her through the shedding of blood. There isn’t one of my friends who has told me about her miscarriage and not mentioned the blood. Conception, life, and delivery are immersed in blood. There is no getting around it: Eve was the first person to shed blood in Scripture. And it is no surprise that the blood of the Mother of the Living was shed in the natural rhythms put in place by God to bring forth life. From the beginning God communicates the deep connection between blood and life. He does so through Eve. He does so in the Law. He does so because He is readying us for the final shedding of blood that would bring forth eternal life: the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, Redeemer of Life. “‘I will set my face against any Israelite or any foreigner residing among them who eats blood, and I will cut them off from the people. 11 For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life. Do not drink the blood of the animals because the life force is in the blood” (Leviticus 17:10-11 NIV). DO NOT DRINK THE BLOOD. LIFE IS IN THE BLOOD. “Then [Jesus] took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you. 28 This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. This cup is my blood shed for you. Take it and drink’” (Matthew 26:27-18 NIV). DRINK THE BLOOD. LIFE IS IN THE BLOOD. By Valerie Geer 3/12/15 Digression #1: Though Scripture does not directly state it, I wonder if Creator God was actually the first to shed blood when He put Adam into a deep sleep and made Eve from (or took Eve out of) his body. Did this involve blood? I suspect that it did. Life from life, and the life is in the blood. Eve from Adam. Adam was already alive when God put him into a deep sleep and removed Eve. Whether God literally and physically fashioned Eve out of the flesh and blood of Adam, or whether it was a mystical event that He just spoke into existence and Eve sort of appeared after God thought it or said, I don’t know for sure. I strongly suspect, though, that God got His hand in there, just like He did when He fashioned Adam out of the clay of earth like a Sculptor, and fashioned Eve out of the body and life force of Adam. She was in there—living—and God brought out her life and gave her flesh. I think that probably involved blood. If so, then God was the first to shed blood, and, just like Him, it was blood shed in the bringing forth of life, in the bringing forth of the Mother of all Living. The woman through whom He told us the Messiah would come, whose body, through blood shed, would bring forth life. This, of course, was fulfilled in Mary when she gave birth to Jesus, the fulfillment of that ancient promise to Eve that her offspring/seed would crush the serpent’s head. Digression #2: Revelation 13:8 and 1 Peter 1:18-20 lead us to believe that Jesus Christ was the lamb slain before the foundations of the world. In other words, before the world was even created, it was Jesus Christ crucified. If this is the case, then again, the first to shed blood in Scripture is God Himself in the grand act of giving eternal life to all through Jesus’ final sacrifice on the cross. Conclusion based on Digressions #1-#2: God authored the shedding of blood to bring forth life. He did so because this is how He would redeem the world through His Son. As humans, particularly as women, our physical bodies are a living metaphor. We see in our own bodies the picture of redemption when our own blood is shed for the purpose of bringing forth life (hymen, menses). |
Reader Discretion Advised
Sensitve Content: rape
My bloody fingerprints left stains on his bed sheet. My virginity and menses permanently stamped on a cotton trophy. I bet he still has that sheet. He probably pulls it out, lays on it, and masturbates remembering me. He was like that. My rapist was a sick son-of-a-bitch.
I didn’t know he was my rapist until about 15 years had passed. I thought he was my boyfriend. I thought I was an adult who made a consensual, albeit foolish, decision. Woops, is what I thought.
Then, in the few years leading up to age 37, I realized I had been wrong about him. He was not my boyfriend. He wasn’t even simply a jerk, or a bad choice I made. He was a rapist. Perpetrator. Abuser. He groomed me, bought me my first alcoholic beverages, took me to his house, asked my drunk-ass-self if I was okay with having sex with him, knowing I was an intentional 21-year-old virgin; he obtained my drunken consent, and had sex with me. I was not passed out. I was drunk for first time in my life. And he knew it. He not only knew it, he arranged for it.
To be an adult, a 21-year old woman, and to admit that you were manipulated, groomed, and sexually violated by a predator, a man seven years your senior, is difficult. To admit you had no idea what the felt, experienced difference was between a beer and a tequila (a tequila sunrise + a kamikaze, to be exact), is humiliating. To admit that you were so broken and hungry for intimacy that you trusted a stranger, engenders shame. Perhaps this is why it took me 15 years to fully realize the rape and admit it. I felt embarrassed that I was so naïve as a college-educated 21-year-old woman. It was a classic scenario of guy-gets-girl-drunk-so-he-can-sleep-with-her, and I was, for a variety of reasons, unable and maybe even unwilling, to see that. So I felt embarrassed and ashamed, stupid.
If you hadn’t been so naïve and put yourself in that situation, he wouldn’t have had sex with you. After all, he did ask you if it was okay, and you said yes. Many people would affirm that. My own inner voice affirmed that for years.
But no longer. Now, I am ready to stop referring to him as an ex-boyfriend and start referring to him as a rapist. Consent under the influence of alcohol is not consent. I know that now. I also know that he, alone, is responsible for his actions. No amount of my own naiveté diminishes the predatory nature of his decisions. I am not responsible for what he did. He could have done any number of honorable, respectful things with me, in light of the knowledge he had about me—that I was and wanted to remain a virgin; that I had never consumed any alcohol in my entire life.
Instead, he chose to take advantage of that information in a way that he knew would result in me lying in his bed, framed by my own bloody fingerprints, just like a crime scene.
I am 37 years old. I have been happily married for nearly 15 years. I have given birth to four sons. I have a career. I have an advanced degree. And I have finally realized that I was raped 16 ½ years ago.
Sensitve Content: rape
My bloody fingerprints left stains on his bed sheet. My virginity and menses permanently stamped on a cotton trophy. I bet he still has that sheet. He probably pulls it out, lays on it, and masturbates remembering me. He was like that. My rapist was a sick son-of-a-bitch.
I didn’t know he was my rapist until about 15 years had passed. I thought he was my boyfriend. I thought I was an adult who made a consensual, albeit foolish, decision. Woops, is what I thought.
Then, in the few years leading up to age 37, I realized I had been wrong about him. He was not my boyfriend. He wasn’t even simply a jerk, or a bad choice I made. He was a rapist. Perpetrator. Abuser. He groomed me, bought me my first alcoholic beverages, took me to his house, asked my drunk-ass-self if I was okay with having sex with him, knowing I was an intentional 21-year-old virgin; he obtained my drunken consent, and had sex with me. I was not passed out. I was drunk for first time in my life. And he knew it. He not only knew it, he arranged for it.
To be an adult, a 21-year old woman, and to admit that you were manipulated, groomed, and sexually violated by a predator, a man seven years your senior, is difficult. To admit you had no idea what the felt, experienced difference was between a beer and a tequila (a tequila sunrise + a kamikaze, to be exact), is humiliating. To admit that you were so broken and hungry for intimacy that you trusted a stranger, engenders shame. Perhaps this is why it took me 15 years to fully realize the rape and admit it. I felt embarrassed that I was so naïve as a college-educated 21-year-old woman. It was a classic scenario of guy-gets-girl-drunk-so-he-can-sleep-with-her, and I was, for a variety of reasons, unable and maybe even unwilling, to see that. So I felt embarrassed and ashamed, stupid.
If you hadn’t been so naïve and put yourself in that situation, he wouldn’t have had sex with you. After all, he did ask you if it was okay, and you said yes. Many people would affirm that. My own inner voice affirmed that for years.
But no longer. Now, I am ready to stop referring to him as an ex-boyfriend and start referring to him as a rapist. Consent under the influence of alcohol is not consent. I know that now. I also know that he, alone, is responsible for his actions. No amount of my own naiveté diminishes the predatory nature of his decisions. I am not responsible for what he did. He could have done any number of honorable, respectful things with me, in light of the knowledge he had about me—that I was and wanted to remain a virgin; that I had never consumed any alcohol in my entire life.
Instead, he chose to take advantage of that information in a way that he knew would result in me lying in his bed, framed by my own bloody fingerprints, just like a crime scene.
I am 37 years old. I have been happily married for nearly 15 years. I have given birth to four sons. I have a career. I have an advanced degree. And I have finally realized that I was raped 16 ½ years ago.
Valerie Geer
Writer. Women's activist. Theologian. Providing authentic reflections from a female perspective.
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