“They’re not going to believe you. Sign here.” That is what she told me when she gave me the pen and the custody agreement. “This is your best bet. Sign here. They are NOT going to believe you!” How did I get here???
It was the summer of 2016 . . . . After exchanging phone numbers online sometime before, we went out on a date. We were incompatible from the very beginning. Early on, I talked about waiting until marriage. He talked about how often he needs to masturbate. I talked about keeping his hands off of me. He talked about how arguments over sex made his brother nearly get a divorce. I talked about going OUT while he wanted to come over late and “chill.”
The date was dinner and a concert. The same night, I found out my uncle was really, really sick and unfortunately on death’s door. Even with my own experience coping with grief, I didn’t know how best to help or console my cousins during this difficult time. Instead of condolences, the dater relished in my discomfort over the topic. During dinner, he played the Devil’s advocate and pushed me to mourn both future and past funerals. Holding back for as long as I could, choking on my tears, he blurted, “I just wanted to see how you’d react.” It was in that moment, the date felt dead. I was sitting across from a man who took a perverted pleasure in inciting grief the same way a hungry hyena eagerly gnaws on a bone. For me, it ended right then and there. Were it not for my heels, I would have begun walking. Would he make a scene? The concert venue felt a million miles away in my painful shoes. Would he follow me?
I felt uncomfortable and got in the car. When we arrived at the venue, I stood in line in those heels. He followed. I tried to walk as far as possible from him. He followed. I moved seats. He followed. During the performance, I stared straight ahead and ignored what little conversation he tried to start. Towards the end of the show, the venue allowed the audience in the back to move closer to the front towards the stage. Despite my uncomfortable shoes, I stood on those really high heels for I don’t know how long. At this point, he didn’t follow me and I hoisted myself upfront on those digging straps until the end of the concert.
The drive home was relatively unremarkable. Unfortunately, that was a stark contrast to my arrival at the doorstep. I already told him before, “It’s a little late to be coming over.” But he entered anyway . . . “Never [too late] for me” was his mantra.
It didn’t take long for him to try to kiss me. After a few fumbled attempts, I was able to dodge my face away from his. “No! I don’t want to,” only resulted in him trying to put his hand up my dress. He positioned himself between me and the exit. I tugged my dress down and tried stepping towards the front door. This ignited him pushing me in the opposite direction … towards the bedroom. “I don’t want to.” He went for my lips again, then my dress, then another push. This time, I stumbled nearly to the ground and panicked. Oh my God! With no traction, the effing heels were impeding my escape. The struggle escalated. I fought with all the strength I had, but he was determined to get what he wanted, regardless of my protests. I had no time to think, just sheer panic, fear and humiliation and a complete disbelief that this was happening to me.
When he was done, his grip let up and I was able to get up and get to the front door. He followed. I grabbed the knob and swung the door open to have it act as a shield. He paused for a moment with the door open. In the best voice I could muster, I said, “I don’t want to see you ever again.” He smirked, with a corner of his lip going up.
I was blinded by panic and felt paralyzed after the rape. In my mind, it was not even an option to go to the hospital afterwards. After all, I am an ER doctor. Can you imagine showing your stretched underwear and privates to your co-workers on one of the worst nights of your life? As for going to the police? Something wrong/immoral/unethical happened, but I had not completely processed that a crime had been committed. In that moment, I convinced myself I would never see him again, so what’s the point?
It was weird when he texted me to hang out the next day. I dismissed him with one-word answers or short phrases. “Nothing’s changed from Saturday L” His response, “You are holding an extremist (and a bit religious fanatic) view on our interaction with each other by taking this stance.” He calls, he texts, and I’m not interested. More time passes, and . . . , I’m pregnant.
I have to be honest. It never occurred to me during my pregnancy to have an abortion. It never was even a remote idea. It’s not that I thought about it and dismissed the idea. It just NEVER even crossed my mind until a family member brought it up. “Thank God, you never thought of getting rid of it.” It? What do you mean? My baby? This growing miracle of life? I wanted the healthiest, smartest, strongest being possible and so I nurtured the pregnancy the best that I could, especially considering I made the mistake of telling my rapist I was pregnant – out of fear that he’d find out from my family and things could get worse that way.
In the beginning, I thought he impregnated me on purpose. Throughout the pregnancy, he sent me memes and videos — some about women being incubators made to receive a man’s sperm. As an African, he was past his prime at age 40. And he wanted “a family of mine maybe . . . so I can control [them] better.”
It took me months to realize he was stalking me. By that time, I found out the rape resulted in pregnancy. But then he left the country to go on a “hook up” trip to find an obedient wife. With his attention and affection elsewhere, I felt more at ease. So I did the only thing that I could with the information that I had at the time — I forgave my rapist of the rape. Hindsight being 20/20, I was foolishly hopeful the rape was behind me. However, that ease ceased when he returned to the States.
By the Fall of 2016, his unwanted attention was in full force. “You made me a man.” “You made me a Father.” “Love me the way I am and I will love you. Forever!” My figurative and literal headaches worsened. When he would check in on me, the frequency of his touching worsened as well. To derail his attempts, I tried to have family or strangers present whenever he was in the room. Maybe a “chaperone” would discourage him? But instead, he intensified his efforts, “I’ll never give up! No matter what you think or say.” So I increased my security measures and sought the advice of Biblically-centered individuals.
The tension heightened around Valentine’s Day when he trapped me in the car. With my third trimester belly vulnerably poking out, I wrestled my wrist out of his vice-like grip. His subsequent text messages were completely delusional:
“Do you even want us to be ‘friends’ at all? I mean I can’t even send you jokes? You wouldn’t accept any gift from me (not even a simple Valentine’s Day gift)! This (behavior) is very concerning (alarming in fact) for someone (mother) who wants to ‘co-parent’ with the father of her only child… . I find your behavior/attitude very acidic and combative in nature. How do you really expect us to raise a child together when you behave like this? I pray to God that this gets better because I frankly do not see happier times ahead at this point. Shutting me out is not the solution. As I said before, I will not fight you nor stress you out BUT I will be there for our child one way or the other.”
Arguably the legal system hurt me as much as my rapist. The Petition to Establish the Parent-Child Relationship was filed by the rapist in May 2017 in the 310th Judicial District Court of Harris County, when my son was less than a month old. My nightmare was growing. I tried to have the jurisdiction changed to my home residence instead of Texas. I knew without my family present, there was no way I could undergo a trial that included telling strangers about my rape. Somehow, I thought that as a mother who became pregnant by rape, I’d have some kind of say over when and where he’d ever be able to see my child. The judge did not entertain the motion for venue change and instead ordered mediation.
My therapist knew about the rape, my closest friend knew, and I’d told my lawyer two weeks before mediation. She just told me she wished I had told her sooner, and that I would sound like I was only saying I was raped for the custody case. She told me that just looking at me, she didn’t think I could make it through the distress of trial. But somehow, she thought I could make it through a lifetime of shared custody with my rapist?!
Nevertheless, I told the mediator about the rape, but she insisted that no one would believe me and told me to sign the agreement. I felt trapped — trapped like the night I was raped, trapped like I was in the car during the Valentine’s fiasco, trapped in the courthouse when he followed me, and trapped in the mediator’s office as the mediator has the plaintiff’s side yell their dissent from across the room. The office suddenly felt like the bedroom on the night of the assault, the door and window positioned in similar places. The antagonist now at the exit.
So under duress and without the support of my legal counsel, I did the only thing that I could with the information that I had at the time. I took what seemed like the path of least resistance and I signed the custody agreement. The End.
Except signing didn’t end him blocking me in during drop offs or pick-ups. Signing didn’t end hungry cries I heard from my son immediately after pick-ups. Signing didn’t end anything.
I was hopeful it would begin my journey of attempted healing. The increased stress caused a crisis of faith. How could an all-powerful God let me be raped? How could God tell me to forgive him and then punish me for doing so? How could God give a rapist parental rights?
And then I look into my son’s eyes, his big brown wonderful eyes, and even if the only thing I take from this tragedy is his infectious laugh, it’s still worth it. God gave me something positive from trauma and my son’s future is more important than justice.
I don’t know the deepest corners of every mother’s story whose baby was conceived in rape. But I can tell you that, although my precious baby boy was conceived in violence, he was born in love with his mother and grandparents, aunties and uncles. He’s the first grand-baby and will be lovingly spoiled rotten with all his fluffy cheeks and big eyes. He looks like my baby pictures, like all of my siblings’ baby pictures. He is adventurous and has taught me so much about love. I love you, Poo Bear! And nobody should punish you for your father’s sins.
BIO: “Ogechi” is a single mom and an Emergency Room physician. She wrote her story with the hopes it may help others in similar situations and to encourage the strongest protection for rape survivor mothers and their children to suspend or terminate the parental rights of rapists. She is now a blogger for Save The 1
