My Rapist Is Watching My Instagram Stories

It happened when I was feeling so happy and relaxed.

I have a long history with this country. And with her. Who was celebrating her 35th birthday, although there was some debates over how old she actually is this year which is ridiculous. She even had to call her mom to make sure of that. I mean, I don’t really care how old she is. I love her in every way.

“I’m booking a villa for my birthday. There will be space for you.” is her kind of love language. And booking a flight ticket to see the people I love is my love language.

It was love that brought me there in the first place. A villa with a jacuzzi and a swimming pool.

There was food, alcohol, music, laughter, chaos, children, and a sense of I’ve returned to somewhere I know with the people I like.

My rapist is watching my Instagram stories.

I still cannot quite talk about what happened. There was grabbing, chasing, more grabbing, and trying-to-close-the bathroom-door-behind-me-quickly-so-he-couldn’t-come-in involved.

For a week after it had happened, I couldn’t bring myself to admit that it was a rape. I was still fighting in denial but the body never lies.

I functioned 30% of the time to seem normal and spent the rest lying in bed. Crying came like waves. It came and went with great intensity. I felt tired. I fed myself with comfort food. My body needed to feel somewhat grounded but I felt exhausted from denying what really happened.

So I gave in. I’m still giving in. And it was painful.

I told myself if I let it take away from spending time with the people who truly care about me, I’m just being unkind to myself.

So I took my puffy eyes from crying for days to see D, a very good ex-colleague of mine, and his family. Two years ago before I moved out of the country, I gifted him a children's book about animals for his upcoming baby. Now the baby has become a happy toddler, eating noodles while covering the floor with more noodles.

So I listened to her talking about a guy she just met for a month and she was smitten. I couldn’t concentrate on the entire conversation. What she was talking about seemed to be very far from me. But I tried to stay connected with people. I tried not to isolate myself. I know this is helpful for me. Hey, I’m a therapist. I can do this.

So I tried to tell her what happened. And she kept telling me I should report him when I’ve already spent most of my energy functioning like a normal person. Or I should be careful if I exposed his name because he could use it against me and I have no evidence to prove it. How on earth can I prove someone has hurt me when all I could think about was not to get hurt by him at all?

So I asked her if I could trust him to go to a concert together, just me and him. She said yes, he’s a decent person. I couldn’t tell whom to trust anymore so I stood him up.

So I tried to say what happened but I couldn’t because I’m all too aware of the judgments that come with it, including my own.

I didn’t call for help. In order to call for help, you need to first realize and admit you’re in danger. Was I in danger?

I was. But I’m not talking about this time.

Again and again, similar events happened where I was all alone. Where I had to walk along the highway to process what just happened. Where I thought maybe I shouldn’t smile. Where I thought maybe I shouldn’t reach out to people when I was in distress. Where I stood on the street crying and saw my perpetrator walk past me just giving me a glace without saying anything.

I didn’t have the strength to call for help and bear with the disappointment or more danger that might come along. Things can escalate so quickly. Things can go from fun to distress so quickly. So quickly that I didn’t even know what just happened.

All I could think about was to keep myself alive.

I knew all too well what people had said.

“You’re so brave for traveling alone.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“It’s dangerous for you to be out there alone.”

I’ve heard about it too many times that part of me has bought the narrative.

On September 27th, 2024, a man named Blagoy Yordanov sexually assaulted and raped me.

And I refuse to be silent about it.