*Brief Disclaimer...for those of you who know me in real life, you know this isn't something I talk about, and I apologize. I apologize for the frankness and I apologize for not sharing this sooner. For those of you who didn't know, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. However, I'm not sorry if it's hard to read. People need to hear these things. When it happens to people in the news, it isn't real. I'm real. I'm really real. It really happened and it will happen again. Maybe not to me, but it could happen to you, it could happen to someone you love, regardless of age or gender. Chances are, it already has.
I've had enough.
I mean I've really fucking had enough. I'm sick and tired of reading everything about Steubenville in the news. I'm sick and tired of hearing the people defending the rapists and attacking the victim. Did we forget about her? Yeah. Yeah we did. Society, you disgust me. Media, you disgust me even more. I haven't just had enough. I'm really pissed off.
I get it. She "asked for it." She "didn't say no." Clearly it's ok to touch her and hold her down and to take advantage. How silly of me. But how come in other parts of the world when we watch stories of women being gang raped and brutalized and dehumanized it's somehow horrifying, but when it happens in our own backyard, we turn around and blame the victim? Don't tell me it's about what I'm wearing. Don't tell me it's about a look that I gave someone "inviting" them to rape me. If I walked up to someone else and punched them in the face, it would be considered assault. But when you pull my clothes off, pin me down, and take every shred of dignity I have, I asked for it. There's something wrong with this. There's something wrong with all of you.
There's something wrong with me.
I never said anything. I never spoke up. That's just as wrong as keeping my mouth shut. It's been 7 years. 7 long years and I can still smell him on me. I still feel his pressure on my wrists while he held me down. I still see that look of lust on his face. To this day I can't remember exactly what happened, certain things I see incredibly vividly. Like I watched it in a movie. Or like it happened to someone else. But it didn't. It happened to me.
For a long time, I've lived in denial. I've been in and out of therapy for just as long, and even there behind closed doors it was something that was mentioned, but never delved into. I never wanted to, I didn't know how, and my therapist never pried. However, the older I get, and (hopefully) wiser, the more I realize how useless denial is once it catches up and bites me in the ass. And with everything in the news lately about that teeny little town in Ohio, it's time to face the music.
I was a good girl.
No really, I was. I was 19. I was a virgin and while I pretended to be confident, I was painfully shy and the most insecure person I've ever met. I saw only the good in people and couldn't comprehend that another human being could hurt someone else so badly. Yes, I knew that bad things happened, but they didn't happen to me, and they certainly didn't happen to good little girls at a good little Christian college from a good little Christian family. Oh but it happened.
He wasn't a stranger. Actually he was someone I'd known for a few years and was a year or two older than me. He was that kid who always knew the right thing to say. He always told me I was pretty when no one else did and I always believed him. He gave me attention and was sweet and gave me some place to go to escape the hell of my parents' house. Yes, I'm going to use that phrase that I hate...he was my "knight in shining armor." *gag*
Was it rape?
For a long time, I questioned the events of that night. Did I say "no"? Did I fight back? Did I bring it on myself? Knowing what I know now, I know the answer is that it's "not my fault," but that's easier said than believed. I wasn't drinking, at least I don't remember drinking anything, and even if I was, it was so little that it could never be considered a factor. I was wearing my favorite jeans, the ones that made my butt look good, a T shirt, and a plain zip up hoodie. At that point in my life, I wasn't a girl who really knew how to use makeup, let alone put it on on a regular basis, but I made an exception this particular night. I liked this kid. And I thought he liked me too.
Like I said, I don't remember all the gory details of what happened, so if that's what you're looking for, sorry to disappoint. One therapist told me it's common and a form of PTSD, a way for my brain to protect my psyche from whatever trauma took place. I was warned that I could possibly have flashbacks, weeks, months, even years after the event. I've pieced together the events of that night to the best of my ability: I went to his house. We were watching a movie. We ended up in his room where he "wanted to show me a video" on his computer. That's where it goes blank, other than the wrist pressure, the smell of his cologne (too much, by the way), and the sharp pain that ran from between my legs up through my stomach and into the back of my throat as my life was changed forever.
I vaguely remember driving home and I very clearly remember stripping off all my clothes and shoving them in a plastic bag before I jammed them under the trash in the bins outside. If I could have poured bleach between my legs I would have. I wanted him gone. I got first degree burns on the insides of my legs from how hot the water was while I tried to clean him and the shame and humiliation away. I rubbed my skin raw on the majority of my body and I didn't even feel it. It's over 7 years later, and while, with a ton of therapy and some anti-depressants, I'm doing a thousand times better, I can't get rid of him. That night and that boy will always be with me.
I suffered in silence.
I didn't tell anyone. Not for a long time. Not even my parents. Especially not my parents. I knew somehow it would be my fault. I shouldn't have been at his house, I shouldn't have been dressed so slutty (!!!), and I shouldn't have encouraged him. When it did come up a year or so later when my mother called me slutty because I stayed at friends' houses a lot, I laughed in her face. For a few reasons: 1) I wasn't sleeping with anyone and had trouble trusting people since that night, 2) I'm the farthest thing from slutty, and 3) I was staying at other people's houses because I hated being at "home." When she wouldn't let up, I told her that if she really knew me she'd know I wasn't slutty and then screamed something at her about losing my virginity to some guy because he raped me. RAPED. Mommy dearest said exactly what I expected her to:
Well, obviously you brought it on yourself.
Thanks, mother. The one place I should have been able to find solace, and comfort, I found blame, guilt, and judgment. Thanks for making me feel worse than I already did. Thanks for making me feel like a huge worthless pile of shit. Thanks for sucking as a parent. That was the only time I ever mentioned it to either of my parents, and I will never ever mention it again. It wasn't worth it.
Through the years, I've had a few people ask me if I was ever going to press charges. More than 7 years after the fact, I'm feeling it's a moot point now. To be honest, I'm not even 100% sure when my statue of limitations runs/ran out. At the time, for me, there was no way it would have worked. I had absolutely no familial support and I didn't get the help I needed on my road to "recovery" in order to process what had happened to me, at least not for a while. Do I regret not pressing any charges against the bastard? Sometimes. But for the most part, I'm ok with it all.
I am not a statistic.
I refuse to be just one more number. I refuse to accept that this is the society we live in, where it's ok for one person to violate another human being in such a horrific way. I say human because, even though this post is mostly about women's rape because I'm, ya know, a woman, rape can be inflicted on anyone regardless of age, class, race, and gender.
I'm a real human being. I'm a real woman who was lucky enough to eventually discover the support of both therapists and her adopted family of friends in order to get to where I am now. I can now say it without shame:
I was RAPED.
I wasn't a slut, I wasn't a party girl, and I most definitely was not asking for it. And neither were any of the other thousands of women and men who were raped.
Logistically and rationally, there's no way in hell thousands of us all stood on a street corner and screamed "rape me!" Anyone who has not been raped cannot understand the pain, physical, emotional, and psychological, that is associated with the crime. Why would anyone ask to be dragged through the streets and put on display and humiliated? Why would someone ask to have their most intimate pain and hurt painted in such a way that makes it their fault? I never asked to be raped. Fuck all of you who even think, let alone suggest, that someone could actually bring that on themselves.
My rape was not my fault. Her rape wasn't her fault. His rape wasn't his fault....
We're the victims. Please remember that.
No comments:
Post a Comment