Groomed for Trafficking ...

𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: This story by Kara AB Brown speaks graphically of sexual abuse, rape, sex trafficking, trauma, and disassociation. PLEASE take care of yourself while reading this story.

One night, Douche took me dancing with some of his mall security work friends. I had the weekend off from my hostess job and, though I would have preferred staying in and watching TV or reading a book, I went out with them. 

We went to a club where the music competed with the scent of cigarettes and perfume to overload my senses. I went into my robotic state and followed the three men, two of whom towered over me. My stomach turned like it usually did when I had sex with Douche. I ignored my senses in the robotic mode, reminding my stomach not to give me away. My fear would be used against me.

We sat at a table overlooking the dance floor. The strobe lights spasmed to angry sex hip hop beats. Each of the men had a sadistic glint in their eyes. I wrote it off as imagination. Only an evil person would question her husband this way. 

One of the men brought me a drink, which I declined. I asked for water instead. 

Douche glared at me and sent me to dance with the smaller man, whom he called “Lil B.” When I told him I didn’t want to dance, Douche grabbed my arm, then shoved my hand in Lil’ B’s back pocket. “He wants to dance, so dance.” 

I shifted to a fawning, people pleasing version of myself. I moved with Lil’ B through the throng. My body tensed, sweat pooled under my breasts and pits, and I held my breath. I smiled through it all. 

We found an open spot on the floor. Lil’ B grabbed my ass and pulled me towards him, gyrating his pelvis into mine. His hard dick poked at my queasy stomach, so I turned away. He grabbed me and grinded into my ass. Because I didn’t want to make a scene, I let it happen. 

The song ended. He wouldn’t let me leave. I disappeared into my alternate reality, where a prince rescued me. I didn’t know I would be sex trafficked under the guise of a loving marriage. 

A few days later, the two men came over to play games and drink. I didn’t have any friends I could invite. Introverted and traumatized as I was, I didn’t know how to make friends. I definitely didn’t know how to keep friends once I got them. So, I hung around my husband at the time, Lil’ B, and the other guy.

They had brought two bottles of Strawberry Boone’s Farm and a couple of cases of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Douche handed me a bottle of Boone’s Farm. He ordered me to drink. I caved and chugged half the bottle before taking a breath.

The night passed in a haze. Though the details blur, I recall hands touching me throughout the night. Open talks about my breasts. My ex-husband relayed stories of blow jobs as he drove. I didn’t understand boundaries and sexual harassment, so I didn’t know I had a right to fight back. 

I grinned, but my stomach roared. I ran to the bathroom and power puked. They laughed at the purple freckles that formed when my blood vessels burst. As I emerged from the bathroom, Douche handed me the other bottle. 

I wanted to crawl into bed and dream of escape but our bed sat in the living room. I endured the torture with a smile pasted on my face. 

Douche offered them the bed and said he’d sleep on the floor. I offered to sleep beside him on the floor, but Douche demanded I sleep in the bed with them. He placated me, saying he would be right beside me. 

I laid in bed, hiding my shivers beneath the comforter. The nameless man spooned me; Lil’ B spooned behind him. One grabbed my ass while the other fondled my breasts. Tears leaked onto my pillow, but I made no noise. I didn’t move. I pretended to sleep until I passed out from the stress. 

These men came over every once in a while. Each time, I saw money change hands. One night, Lil’ B spent the night, sleeping between us. Douche had to go to work the next morning, so he left us in the bed alone.  As soon as the door closed, Lil’ B climbed on me, pulled off my clothes, and raped me until he came inside me. 

At the time, I didn’t know it was rape. I blamed myself for being attractive, for having full features, for not saying, “no,” and for cheating on a husband who treated me like shit. I didn’t tell anyone what happened. Instead, my brain created another version of me. I disappeared into my magical world, while my body went with the motions. My spirit remained as free as possible, while my body remained trapped. 

Not long after that, I decided to join the military. I hadn’t told Douche my plans until I had made up my mind. At the time, I thought I wanted to fight for freedom in the nation. The real reason: I wanted to fight for my own freedom. Divorce wasn’t on my mind, partly because of Christian upbringing, partly because of the trauma bond, and partly because his mother worked at a law office. The underlying reason I stayed: I feared him more than I feared death.

So, I took the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery), the Army and Air Force each offered me jobs, and I chose the Air Force. Airborne Linguist. My first step to freedom from my abusive marriage, which would last a decade longer.  

I used to shame myself for staying with him so long. I blamed myself for the sexual traumas. After I got out, I started learning who I was at the core. Now, I recognize the symptoms of Depersonalization Identity Disorder inside me. I talk to those parts without calling myself crazy. I take time to assess situations. I’m learning my power. I’m helping other women who have endured sexual trauma gain their powers through writing. 

The cult of Douche tried to create a nightmare of my life. But I’ve become an expert at rescripting my nightmares.

~Kara SB Brown