Help Me, Readers: My Husband And I Haven't Had Sex For A Year After He Triggered Me In Bed

We are still not in a good place after he tried something during sex that sent me spiraling. Has this ever happened to you? How do I get past it?

Happy Saturday to you. It's always interesting figuring out which new story from Another Jane Pratt Thing to email you every day. I want things to come at a time that you might want to read them and I like to create balance day to day because there's enough imbalance in life already. But if the subject line for the story today makes you think of something we ran just a few days ago, it's because we did get these two great submissions right at the same time and both seemed worthy. And maybe are evidence of a more-common theme. They are on a topic - being triggered during sex after past abuse - that I also relate to, and based on the comments we got, so do many of you. Another coincidence(?) is that the writers of both stories have the same (evocative) last name, Glass.

This time, though, the story is not an It Happened To Me past tense, but something that is currently going on that this reader/writer, Melissa Glass, would really appreciate your help with. So let's see what our individual experiences and collective wisdom are on this topic. Note that I've never used “experts” in any of my publications, because I believe that you all, based on your own life experiences, are the best qualified to help each other. So for those of you especially who grew up with that kind of advice from Sassy or Jane magazines or xoJane, let's pay it forward (as I don't say) here to meet Melissa in the comments and help her out.

The other thing that may seem familiar about this post is that the opening sentences echo exactly the language of a headline that we published two months ago. Regular close readers will know which story I'm talking about, and if you don’t, I'll tell you. The important thing about that overlap in the phrasing is not that it suggests creative appropriation or even inspiration. It says to me that it's way too prevalent that people are not just saying “I was raped”, but “I was raped…” - and then following that with the number of times.

I'm so sorry that is a theme and let's all do everything we can to get to where no one has to write that again. And please let’s help Melissa out now. And each other always!

Sending you love and strength while still allowing for vulnerability (I know that's a tall order that I'm still working on myself),

xo Jane

Me on my wedding day. After I met my partner, I dyed my hair dark and kept it dark for almost another decade. I think it helped me feel like a different person. Someone confident, social, not a care in the world. Isn't it odd the way we try to trick ourselves into believing what we want?

By Melissa Glass

In 1994, I was raped. Twice.

Thinking back on it now, it’s hard to fathom how willingly I accepted the blame, even when one of the assaults involved my drink being drugged. Like some twisted knee-jerk response, thanks to the conditioning reflective of that time, I still called the other assault “date rape” even thirty years later.

Like many women who have gone through the same thing, I did not report either assault to the police. I had been living in a Section 8 (reduced-income) apartment complex, after emancipating myself from my family, for less than a year. I was going to college on student loans in a tiny town in Alabama, far away from my parents and siblings who were dealing with their own traumas at the time.

“People I knew would invite guys they were seeing from out of town to bring a friend, because I would probably sleep with them. They never even asked me.”

I feared losing my housing if I reported what happened. I felt so alone.

And after going through all the steps of self-hatred one goes through in these situations (re-tracing the night, counting drinks on the tabs, trying to remember if I led anyone on, telling myself I dressed like a slut) I didn’t need some male cop questioning me and not believing me.

Plus, I had a reputation. I was easy. I enjoyed sex. More than one friend during that time would invite guys they were seeing from out of town to bring a friend, because I would probably sleep with them. They never even asked me.

Me, the summer before college, and before the assaults, in 1992.

So, in an effort to put all this unpleasantness behind me, I did what any girl would do: I found a string of abusive boyfriends to “protect” me. Better the devil you know, right?

Four years, an abortion, and an arrest later, I managed to somehow climb out of that pit of self-loathing and crawled back to my mom’s house under the guise of “healing”. But really, I just wanted to disappear. Those first few years I slept like the dead, got up in the afternoon, barely functioned. I couldn’t work and I had no insurance, so any type of therapy was out of the question. (As if I would have gone.) I went on the cheapest antidepressant I could find and found a job for ten dollars an hour that I could never support myself on. I lost several teeth from lack of dental care.

“Up until this point, nearly all sex I’ve had since the rapes involved some substance or alcohol. Sometimes quite a bit. Sometimes just a little. But generally, something.”

And then I met the man who would be my husband. He was kind. Outgoing, loud, friendly. Everyone loved him.

No pictures please. For almost a decade after the assaults, I didn't want to be photographed and I avoided looking at myself in mirrors as much as possible. I'm honestly shocked I could find anything from that time period, but I think this was circa 1997.

He was the exact opposite of me. I just wanted to forget the past, forget it all. And I did. I leapt into a new life full of clubs, dancing, parties, ready-made friends, travel …it was extreme-level socialization, a numbness that could be easily masked. No one knew the real me because I didn’t know the real me.

I moved in within a few months. Married within a few years. Eventually, and not without significant hiccups, had a baby.

Me, right when I started college in Alabama in 1992. Two years later is when those assaults occurred.

Fast-forward ten years and it’s 2024. I had been dealing with all sorts of symptoms doctors couldn’t really help me with. Vertigo, pelvic floor pain, muscle spasms, neuropathy, joint pain that came and went. Up until this point, nearly all sex I’ve had since the rapes involved some substance or alcohol. Sometimes quite a bit. Sometimes just a little. But generally, something.

One night we were fooling around and my husband tried something different.