We met when I was 16. He had just gotten home from boot camp for the military, and was a mutual friend of a girl I had known my whole life. We stayed up late and spent the whole night talking about our life stories and even watched the sunrise. Young and naive, I was instantly smitten, and we became a couple within two days. Over the next couple of months, he was so respectful and I felt I could depend on him for anything. I can’t even remember why, but I ended up breaking up with him after being together for about two months. We didn’t contact each other after that and I honestly just stopped thinking about him.
Two years later, I was hanging out with a friend when she received a phone call. She got really excited and hung up with the biggest smile on her face. One of her best friends was in town and wanted to hangout, so he was on his way over to her apartment. About 20 minutes later, she got a text telling her to meet him downstairs. When we got down there, I was in shock, I was speechless, and I felt like I did the night we met. My stomach was so full of flutters that I thought I was going to be sick. He smiled at me and hugged me. I fought back tears and my knees almost buckled.
When he was ready to head home, he asked me to go with him. I couldn’t say no, and we were intimate that night.
So this long lost boyfriend and I became a couple again. I was so happy, I was smiley and giddy all day. I moved in with him almost instantly. At first it was like old times. I soon discovered he was the guy I was madly in love with.
We had parties every night, he was always drinking, and I came to realize he was an alcoholic. In fact, I learned that the night he came back into my life was actually the day he got out of rehab and he was a cocaine addict. He was so aggressive when he would drink and it scared me. I don’t know why, but during parties he would leave and go to the bar that was right next to where we lived.
Finally, after about a month, I got annoyed with all of this and never having a night alone with him, so I confronted him about it, and it was instantly all down hill from there. His face distorted and he hit me. I was in shock because he was so respectful to his mother, he was such a mama’s boy, and he told me how his dad was abusive to his mother and how much he hated him.
He apologized, but told me I should have not been so aggressive about it, and that I should have approached him in a more respectful manner, so I told him I would be nicer next time something was bothering me.
We were happy . . . well, I thought we were happy. I became a heavy whiskey drinker — drank it right from the bottle, but it had to be Jack Daniels. He bought me my very own bottle when we went to a friend’s party once because I have never been a beer drinker. He was telling everyone how awesome his woman was, and was egging me on to chug it. So to make him happy, I downed it — the whole thing, and I passed out.
When I woke up, there was my “soulmate” making out with some other woman on the couch — not a fun night for me. Apparently, I must have had a “disrespectful tone” because the abuse really started. After that, he was never respectful or gentle. It was always rough, everything was rough, our fights, sex, make out sessions. . . . It was all painful.
I tried reaching out for help from others, but nobody listened to me. So I convinced myself I was just being dramatic and I needed to stop being so hard on him. On our three month anniversary, he proposed. In the moment, I was so happy and of course, I said yes! That very night, we decided we wanted to start trying for a baby.
He was an alcoholic and I was taking medication to cope with my depression. We were both also smokers. We tried every night for a baby, and when my period started, he beat me, telling me it was my fault and that I was taking away his chance of being a father. He kicked me in the stomach and told me that it was discipline for letting this happen, and if I continued to keep him away from fatherhood, then there would be consequences. I ended up even more depressed.
One night we had a huge fight — cops were called, party was shut down, everyone sent home, no one arrested. He slept in the bedroom with the door locked, while I slept on the couch. I could hear him snoring within seconds, as I lay there crying until 3:00 in the morning.
At about 6 a.m. the next morning, after I was only sleeping for about three hours, he came out of the bedroom, grabbing me off the couch. I told him to put me down, but he ignored me and preceded to carry me into the bedroom and lock the door.
He pinned me onto the bed, holding me down by my wrists. I told him he was hurting me, but he told me to shut up. He said he wanted our family and he would be a father. I was crying and begging him to please not do this. “This isn’t you,” I said to him through sobs. He said he wanted to make love to his wife. I was so scared and it hurt.
This wasn’t the first time I’d felt this pain. I felt it at 13 when I’d been raped, but this was different. This was my future husband — the father of my future children. How can this be what love is? Was this to be my future? Was this going to be married life? This didn’t feel like love.
I was sobbing and begging him the whole time to stop, that it hurt. He told me to stop being so dramatic, that I was going to make the neighbors think something bad was going on. When he finally finished — which was only maybe 20 minutes though it felt like forever — he kissed me and got up. As he stood in front of the door, I curled up into the corner against the wall. He smiled, gave me my clothes, and told me that he loved when I was loud. I felt sick.
I got dressed and asked him to please let me go. He moved out of the way, and I ran straight out of the apartment. I started walking — I wasn’t going anywhere, I just was walking. I thought about suicide all day that day.
I called our mutual friend, crying, telling her he hurt me, that I was scared of him and that I couldn’t do it anymore. She picked me up . . . , and drove to his apartment. I screamed at her, but she told me that he knows the fight was his fault and he wanted to apologize. I got out of the car and left. As I was walking away, I heard her yell that I was a drama queen and that he just wants to do the right thing and make it right. But he couldn’t, because I didn’t even know who he was.
I walked to my aunt’s house, and texted him that we were over. He called, but I refused to answer. For about a month I was suicidal, and on top of it, he was having me followed.
One day, I woke up with horrible cramps, so I thought my period was starting. A week later, I started throwing up at the smell of eggs . . . , and still no period. My aunt took me to get a pregnancy test. The result broke me: I was pregnant. Pregnant? How could I be pregnant?! With his baby?! What was going to happen to me? But abortion was never a consideration for me. I always knew abortion was wrong.
I decided I couldn’t tell anyone what happened. After all, this is what we wanted, together, with each other, right? It was probably a good thing not telling anyone, because I never had to deal with others suggesting I abort my child because he was conceived in rape. When I finally gathered the strength to tell him I was pregnant, he didn’t believe me. He would joke with people that it wasn’t his baby, that I probably cheated on him.
My pregnancy was very difficult. I was put on bed rest after going into preterm labor multiple times. I couldn’t even shower — it had to be baths.
I went into labor on July 16th, 2009 at 35 weeks. I went to the regular hospital in the town l normally went to, but they turned me away, saying I wasn’t in labor. After sitting at home for hours, my mom drove me to a different hospital 30 minutes away. They confirmed I was in labor, but that I needed to go home and help my body progress. At 5 a.m. on the morning of July 17th, after no sleep, I woke my mom up and told her it was time to go in. It was a long hard labor. His head got stuck, so they needed forceps and to cut me to get him out.
After hours and hours of labor, I heard the most beautiful sound I have ever heard in my life — the cry of a new life, and I created that life. When they placed him in my arms, I sobbed and held him close. I told him I loved him, that he was my hero and told him “Thank you.” Through tears, I smiled at this little human in my arms because I had a reason to live. He saved my life. I never again needed the meds to cope. I knew my son needed me, so I had to stay on this earth.
His biological father saw him a couple of times after my son was born, and then took me to court to fight for full custody. When he lost, he never reached out again, and after a year of no contact and no child support, his parental rights were terminated.
About 11 months after my son was born, I began dating, and a few years later, we married and my husband adopted my son. I know many people use rape as a reason to abort, but I firmly believe in punishing rapists, not babies. After being raped, my son was my rainbow, he was the light at the end of the tunnel, he was God’s way of telling me that my story is not over.
BIO: Desere Olson is a wife, stay at home mother of four, and now a pro-life blogger for Save The 1. You can follow her on Twitter: @OlsonDesere
