This battle with food and taking care of myself had happened before. It grew worse each time it happened, and it went unnoticed by my family. In all fairness, they rarely saw me as it was. I went up to three months before calling my mother a few times. It was at least that long in between visits to see them. I avoided holidays with them and had been doing so for years by this time. Mom was always "busy" it seemed. I guess I came by that honestly. I don't know what kept me going.
I was losing what little health I had and it was getting worse at home.
"You're such a disrespectful bitch!" He started yelling. "I asked you to do one thing today and you are so busy being wrapped up in your own little selfish world you can't take care of one damn thing!" I would be sitting on the couch crying as the shouting started. The "one little thing" he was talking about could be anything on any day. It could be something like washing a load of laundry to mowing the yard or sending a text to him at lunch.
Any of these was punishable by vociferating, followed by, "Get in the shower you cunt you stink." Or something similar. Weeping, I'd run to the bathroom and shed more tears as I scrubbed off imaginary filth. This shower was a preparation for being raped. I knew it and believed I had no escape.
I would take the longest, hottest shower I could stand in hopes it would numb me somehow for what was about to happen. I would put on my robe, slowly open the bathroom door, and he would be waiting for me. I would be taken by the arm and manhandled down the hall to the bedroom. I'd be thrown on the bed. Sometimes on my back, sometimes face down, depending on his mood.
If I was face up he usually said something like, "I want to see your face and watch you enjoy it." (As if that were possible.) If I was face down he would say, "I can't stand looking at you tonight, I'm doing this for you."
I would lay still and lifeless as possible. I sometimes strained or winced in pain, or shed silent tears and endured flash backs from my rapes and abuse as a child.
I hated myself for not fighting back, not protesting, not running away.
After my rapist monster got himself off, he would all but collapse his fat, sweaty body on top of mine.
He would catch his breath and make some comment like, "god you're a great fuck." I would lay in humiliation and defilement on my side so my back was facing him.
This is why I had no appetite. This is why I wanted to lay down and perish. This is why I weighed 96 lbs on a 5.4' frame. Each rape was different and yet all of them were alike.
I was sinking.