by Donna Bishop
“You never told me about him.”
“We actually got engaged, but I broke it off. Nothing like a pregnancy scare to make you really examine your relationship! When I got my period, it was a second chance — I didn’t love him and I was wasting both of our time. But then something happened to me that was so devastating, I just withdrew from everything.”
A frown creases Celeste’s brow, “Oh, my goodness. What?”
“Are you sure you want to hear about this? It happened about ten years ago and I’ve never told anyone…but it’s been with me a lot since starting this therapy with you and it always haunts me around my birthday. The thing is, I don’t want to go back there with hypnosis — it might feel like reliving it.”
“I understand, Liv. If you hold the soapstone and focus on it while you tell me your story it’ll help you stay grounded. I’m right here for you. Stop any time you need to. Do you want me to run the tape, or keep it off for now?”
“Yes, please put it on. I want to tell this. Just like I needed to let the sexual abuse rise to the surface, I need to let this come up as well. Somehow it’s connected to me finding my way to move ahead in my life.”
“Okay, Liv, we’re going to do one other thing in preparation. Visualize your spirit line radiating around you, healing the trauma and preventing further harm from being done. Now let’s connect that thread to others — let’s call on the strength and courage of Hannah, Moragh, Veda and both of your grandmothers. Breathe in their love and their protection and know you’re safe and cherished.”
Both women breathe deeply. Then Liv speaks.
“I’m just going to say it. At my twentieth birthday party I was drugged and gang raped by a hockey team.”
For a moment, Celeste bows her head, absorbing the impact of this stark statement. Then she takes one of Liv’s hands in hers and looks up to meet her eyes, transmitting strength. Liv takes a deep, jagged breath and begins to speak, slowly at first, and with many pauses. She looks away from Celeste and focusses her eyes on the green angel hair fern on the coffee table, not wanting to be tempted to censor herself because of the pain or discomfort she might cause her friend.
Session No. 9 Transcript, Nov. 6, 1987
Vince and I had already broken up, but our friends in Portman had this party planned, so we sucked up our sad feelings and drove down together in my rusty little Volvo. Vince smoked pot continuously all the way — that was one of the things that turned me off about him, his heavy use of pot and alcohol. It felt like we were never on the same wavelength.
By the time we arrived at the party he was already quite out of it. We didn’t see each other for the rest of the night.
The party was in a grungy old house on the outskirts of Portman, where four guys lived together. I remember it had this musty smell, like a combination of sweaty sports gear and rotting apples.
I grabbed a peach cider from the cooler we’d brought and drank it fast. I was both nervous and excited — lots of my high school friends were showing up and I really didn’t feel like telling them what was going on with Vince. I went outside to the bonfire with my friend Lucy and we shared a joint. There were lots of people out there, some I hadn’t seen in quite a while. I started to have fun. My friend Gene from the post office was strumming a Neil Young song on his twelve-string guitar.
I’d come a long way since high school, where I’d been fairly shy and quiet, with the exception of my small bouts of social activism. I was wearing a long, flowered peasant dress with a low top. I was the new me — the cool, seasoned traveller, now enrolled in a college in another city. Old friends exclaimed about my sun-bleached hair, my tan, my amber and silver jewellery from Greece.
When I went back into the house, someone had cranked the music up really loud — I remember the violent, jarring sound of Black Sabbath. The “cool” jocks from our high school had shown up and crashed the party. They were all part of the local hockey team — not a national-level team but the one that travels to other cities and provinces to play. They’d been doing everything as a pack, from playing sports to partying, since their early teens. These were the guys most girls wanted to be with — and most guys longed to be — in high school. Not me — even then I preferred the intelligent, artistic type.
But there was one of them that I had a serious crush on. Leif was Norwegian like me, and his smile was infectious. He looked like he would be nice, even though his group had a reputation for being a bunch of dickheads. My heart would skip a beat when he smiled at me as we passed in the hallway.
He was standing with a group of his friends, laughing and talking. When I saw him, I felt that same flutter of attraction again. He was talking with this Tim guy. I never liked him — he always had an arrogant smirk on his face, and you never saw him with the same girl twice. The two of them looked over toward me and exchanged glances. Suddenly I felt cold and nervous. I looked around the room — Vince was nowhere to be seen. I was annoyed by this and assumed he was smoking up with his friends or had already passed out.
I was heading outside again when Leif came over. We chatted a bit and he offered me a birthday drink, something mixed with orange juice. I drank some and noticed a bitter taste, but I didn’t think much of it because I’ve never enjoyed the taste of hard liquor. We talked about what we’d been doing since graduation. He asked me about Europe but before I was able to answer, I began to feel very dizzy. The people surrounding me seemed to have auras — every colour of the spectrum. His was bright red with flashes of brown. He said, “You should come and lie down.” Through my dense fog and growing unsteadiness he seemed like a bright haloed angel, leading me to safety. I trusted him completely.
He led me to a basement room and onto the bed. He began to take my clothes off, saying I would be more comfortable if I undressed. I said no, I was fine and just needed a nap, but he proceeded to lift my dress over my head. I remember feeling chilly and sweaty at the same time and asking him if he could turn off the black light in the corner of the room as the purple haze it was creating made me feel even more disoriented and strange. He said, “No, we like to see what we’re doing.” I didn’t have any idea what he meant by that at the time, but a physical chill and fear permeated my body. I wondered if this was what it was like to die.
My limbs got heavier and heavier and it felt like my brain had turned into a stone. The room went a darker purple. I had no control of my limbs or my speech. The door opened and others came in, maybe eight or ten guys all together. As my eyes adjusted to the black light, I could see their shapes getting into position, surrounding me and guarding the door. Two of them were still wearing their hockey jerseys, red with white letters. Disembodied white teeth and numbers surrounded me. I heard one of them joke that he didn’t score at the game but he was sure going to slam his puck into this hole.
I stopped breathing as they came closer to my body. I tried to scream “No,” but nothing came out. They seemed to know exactly what position to take, just like they were playing a game, like they’d done this many times before. They held my arms and my legs and they took turns raping me. Brutally, forcefully.
Only one stood back. They called him Midget. He was smaller and shorter than the others. I tried to focus on the whites of his eyes his teeth and his t-shirt that had white letters that said Led Zeppelin. He made no move toward me — he was just looking at me, his expression sad and apologetic, sometimes twisting into anger. One of them noticed he was standing back and said, “Take your turn, Midget. What are you, a fag?” He looked at the guy and said “Fuck you,” and I thought for a moment he might stop them or call the police — but he just stood there looking helpless.
At least he saw me. I’ve often felt that he shared that horrible experience with me and probably carries it, and many others like it, with him still.
The third or fourth guy ejaculated after only a couple of thrusts and the other guys jeered and teased him. Another guy right after that…I remember he had a buzz cut and a pock-marked face…he was the
most cruel and violent. He bit my nipple and broke the skin — the pain tore through my nervous system, which otherwise seemed disabled.
One guy laughed, “Jesus man, you nearly bit her tit off, it’s bleeding.” I heard another one of them — I think it was Tim’s voice — boasting that he lasted twenty thrusts before coming. The other guys cheered. “Hey somebody said it was her twentieth birthday, one for every year, eh?”
I remember thinking I was screaming but there was no volume — trying to fight but having no strength — trying to plead but having no words. Not even being able to cry. After the sixth or seventh guy, no one needed to hold me down. I was drifting in and out of my body. Some came back for a second round. I recognized the guy who’d been jeered for coming so quickly and this time he was more brutal. He told the guys to let go of my arms and he turned me onto my stomach and raped me in my anus to a chorus of cheering and backslapping. My cowardly ally, Midget, had left the room at this point and I was completely alone. The ripping pain and terror, and maybe the drug they gave me, caused me to black out completely.
“Oh, my poor friend,” Celeste says with compassion.
It’s okay Celeste, it was really horrible, but this story is better out than in. Even in recounting it to you, it feels like it’s losing some of its power over me.
When I woke up, I was alone in the same room. The house was quiet. My head pounded with pain. When I tried to stand up I blacked out and fell back onto the bed. I tried again, stumbled toward the door and flicked on the harsh overhead light. Looking down at my naked body I remembered what had happened. Horrific images invaded my brain and jolted me into action. I had to get out of there. Spinning in circles, not knowing where to look or what to do, I slipped on a puddle of spilled beer, and fell to the cold, dirty, linoleum floor. Standing up, I felt a gush between my legs and looked down to see thick, pinkish, yellow ooze leaking from my vagina down both legs. My blood mixed with their semen. I gagged and scrambled over to where my flowery peasant dress lay in a corner like a deflated being. My amber beaded choker was broken and there were beads scattered across the bed I was raped on. I loved those beads and that beautiful memory of buying them at a market on a Greek Isle but I couldn’t make myself gather them off that bed. My underpants were nowhere to be seen, maybe tangled in the bed sheets, or taken as a trophy. I pulled my dress over my shaking, stinking, bruised body and limped upstairs — the pain in my pelvis made it hard to walk.
There was nobody around. The place was a shambles. There was no sign of Vince. I found my purse in the kitchen where I’d left it, got into my car and drove.
My parents had just moved out of our house, the one I’d grown up in, in Portman, a few miles away, and it hadn’t been listed yet. It was a dilapidated wreck. In those days it took weeks for the phone and electricity people to come and disconnect services, so there was still power and phone. There were a few pieces of furniture they hadn’t taken with them, a bed and a couple of chairs. I broke in through a window and ran to the washroom to vomit. All I could think of was my need to get clean. I turned the hot water faucet to full throttle in the old claw foot tub. And then I realized I’d be destroying the evidence. I had to report this crime. I’d been taught to believe if you were in trouble, call the police. I stumbled to the phone and dialed the police.
I’ve replayed that phone call in my mind countless times.
Hello, Bonjour, Portman RCMP.
Hello, something terrible happened to me last night.
Can you give me your name and the number you’re calling from, miss?
Liv Andersen. This isn’t my phone but it’s Yellowstone 57170.
All right, Liv. Can you tell me what happened?
I was…raped.
Are you in a safe place now?
Yes.
Have you been injured, Miss?
Yes… no. It’s mostly bruising.
Have you been examined by a doctor?
No.
It’s important that you don’t have a bath until you get checked over.
Okay.
Now can you tell me what happened to you?
I was at my birthday party and this guy gave me a drink and I think it was spiked...
Did you know the guy?
It was nine or ten guys — a hockey team.
Do you know the men that did this to you?
No. Sort of. Some of them.
Can I send an officer to your house, ma’am? What’s your address?
No, I don’t want to see anyone.
How old are you?
Twenty today.
So, you’re not a minor. And where did this incident occur?
At a house where some of my friends live. They took me to the basement.
Were you drinking at this party?
I had one peach cider and then whatever they gave me. I think it was a vodka and orange juice.
Who allegedly drugged you?
One of the hockey players. Maybe two, I don’t know.
Did you take any other drugs?
Well, yes, I shared a joint earlier with a friend.
How would you know if you had been drugged if you were already high?
I wasn’t really high, I don’t know. I feel sick.
Has this happened to you before?
No.
Were you a virgin?
No.
How many partners have you had?
I don’t know how to answer that. Do I count the guys that raped me?
What were you wearing at the party?
A dress, a long dress. Why are you asking me that?
How many guys were there again?
Nine or ten. I passed out and I don’t really know.
Did you say “No” when you could see what these guys wanted?
Excuse me, I need to throw up.
I ran to the bathroom, not knowing if I was going to cry, scream or throw up, leaving the phone dangling at the end of the black spiral cord. The tub water was about to spill over the sides. I turned it off and teetered on the edge of the tub, pondering that phone call. Then I threw up into the toilet again. There was nothing left in my stomach to throw up, so it was only yellow bile. Then I cried, for a long time.
I couldn’t answer the cop’s questions — I couldn’t even remember whether I said “No.” Just the way he dealt with it implied it was my fault — I was asking for it.
I remembered that the father of one of the guys was in the RCMP — he could’ve even been the one I was talking to. No one was going to believe that I was raped.
I held my mouth to the cold water tap and drank what seemed like a gallon of water, then peed and gingerly dragged my body into the hot water. I stayed in there for hours and hours, draining and refilling the tub as soon as it began to cool.
I remember living in and out the bathtub for several days. The phone rang and rang, but I didn’t answer it.
To say it was the darkest and loneliest time in my life would be a gross understatement. I suppose I was in shock. Ten years later it’s hard to remember the way I felt other than numb. I know I cried until I could no longer cry because my throat was swollen and raw. Then I sobbed silently until even my tears dried up. With the tears used up, I had nothing left to express myself — no words, no coherent thoughts and no one to hear my thoughts, share my pain or comfort me in any way. Just me alone for days.
I could have called my brothers, they would have come, but I didn’t even think of it. They wouldn’t have known what to do. I could’ve called my mom — she would’ve been there in a heartbeat. She would have made me go to the RCMP and report. She probably would’ve taken me to the hospital to get checked. She would’ve brought me to her new house, cried with me, been angry, made me drink tea and homemade soup. But my dad would’ve been there and he was the last person on earth I wanted to know about this. I had old high school friends whom I’m certain now would’ve been supportive, helpful, understanding — maybe they had similar experiences themselves, maybe even with the same
guys. But it didn’t even occur to me to call any of them.
It must have been the shame that kept me from reaching out. I felt like a sick animal crawling into a dark place to be alone, to either heal or die. I had no wish to share that darkness with anyone. I remember wishing the house would burn down with me in it.
The old house had a free-standing hot water tank in the kitchen. It was metal, painted brown, and I remember holding onto it for warmth and support just as I had as a little girl — it felt safer being in-between rooms. The emptiness and quietness of that old house was distressing to me. During my childhood, I don’t believe I was ever there by myself. Seven of us lived there and our mom rarely went out. As a teen, I had longed to be alone there, but now that I was, it was frightening. It rained most of the days — a driving, hard rain pummeling the patched metal roof. I tried to find rhythms and patterns in the rain but would lose track. Mostly, I longed to look out the window and see the clouds clear, the blue return and the sun come up over Mount Baker. Maybe I could get my bearings back if I could see the mountain of my childhood.
Sometimes I’d glance in the cracked bathroom mirror and note the changing colours of the bruises on my neck, from red to black and blue and the broken skin on my lip, the blood blisters and bites on my breasts, then I’d look down at my discoloured arms and thighs. But for the most part I tried not to look at myself at all.
I slept during the day and stayed awake all night. I’d scramble out into the rain and sit in my Volvo, listening to sad, soothing songs by Janis Ian, Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell. When I felt able to handle the phone, I called the college in Twin Rivers and dropped out of all my classes. It was too late to get my tuition back, but I didn’t care.
Hunger began to win out over nausea and I discovered my mother had left a few packages of saltine crackers and there were still some MacIntosh apples on the tree outside the kitchen window. I ate those and drank water from the tap. The bruises spread far and wide like maps of an unknown country, then changed again, from black and blue to greenish orange.
On the morning I was finally able to leave the property, I looked closely at my face in the mirror. My reflection had changed. Not just because of the remaining bruises — it had been a couple of weeks, so they were mostly faded to yellow. My face was no longer the open, shiny face of a joyful, free-spirited young woman. My eyes revealed a shadow beneath the blue.