My first sexual encounter was with my girlfriend when I was sixteen, her fourteen. When things started to get hot and heavy, at some point I looked into her face (I was mostly far too fumblingly shy to make eye-contact), and saw she was wide-eyed and silently terrified.
I immediately stopped and apologized, terrified myself at what I’d done. (nothing beyond heavy petting, but still terrified). When I stopped and apologized over and over, she burst into tears.
And she told me about being at camp two years earlier, when she was twelve. She’d befriended a camp counselor, who’d gone on a walk in the woods with her, and then pushed her up against a tree and started trying to undress her. But she kicked him in the balls and ran off.
And that had been her only sexual experience, and now she was getting horrible flashbacks. I apologized, told her I’d never hurt her, and backed the hell off.
Fast forward a year and a half, when we were in the process of breaking up. Our last real conversation was on the phone. I forget what we were talking about, but then there was a long silence, and then she said, "Daniel…I have something to tell you. Remember what I told you about the camp counselor?
“I didn’t get away.” And she sobbed uncontrollably while I helplessly, uselessly, numbly tried to comfort her.
Fast forward five years: the breakup had been very traumatic, just like too much of the relationship had been, but we finally began emailing each other again, based in part on a short story I’d written that incorporated the story I just told you. In our emails, she told me that she still wasn’t sure what happened at camp.
And she told me another story, about a time she and some friends were playing in the street when she was younger, and a guy drove up and asked them for directions, and when they came over to the car they saw he was masturbating. They didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it was creepy, so they told their parents.
The cops came and interviewed her and asked her, among other question, what color the guys’ shoes were. Thinking that she’d better give them some answer, she said “Brown.” The cops, knowing that she couldn’t have seen the guy’s shoes, concluded that she was lying, and she was punished severely for lying to the police.
The thing was, she told me, she was so confused by all this that her childish mind at the time figured that she must have been lying to the cops. After all, her parents told her she was lying, and the cops told her she was lying, and didn’t they know?
And the same thing with the camp counselor story. Her best guess was that, at the age of twelve, she couldn’t deal with the fact that she’d been raped, so she told herself that she’d kicked the counselor in the balls and run off, because that was a much more pleasant story. But slowly she’d stopped telling herself that story, culminating in that night on the phone with me.
This is a long way of saying that I don’t think Zabali’s alterations to her story are necessarily fabrications. As near as I can tell, sexual assault at such a young age is a reality-shattering event, and it’s difficult to tell exactly what happened.
My heart goes out to you, Zabali, for your horrifying experience.
Daniel