I had to go work that morning, and I left feeling numb. I couldn’t even think. How was I supposed to think? That whole day was filled with shock and sickness. The day after that I realized what happened, I was drugged and raped by someone I thought I could trust.
Next morning he bought us all croissants and took us all for breakfast, he paid for mine and then he walked me to my train to go home. His only words were "Last night was fun huh?" I say "Um… You did me… Without protection…" I kinda giggled a bit, nervously and he replied with "Yeah but whatever, no biggie. Plus, you were the one wiggling your butt and asking for it, dirty little girl!" after a wink… I got on my train, got home, told my mother what happened and she said "Well, you know what you were going to London for!"
I was closest to my Grandmother. We didn’t talk much, but I never felt the need to always talk with her. I was comfortable with her, and thinking back now I think she was the only person I was truly comfortable with. I trusted her. It was my Grandmother who realized something else was going on. I was pregnant. I may, or may not have fallen down the stairs, but one thing is for sure. I was raped. We didn’t discuss it.
The emotions I felt were so great I had no idea how to digest them. I had just been raped but I don’t remember any of it. What the fuck !?!? My sister was about an hour and a bit away on the train, my friends were scattered across London and my mum and dad were living in Spain. For the first time in my adult life I felt well and truly alone.
I keep blaming myself because I think I asked for it.. Asked for it with my clothes.. Asked for it by drinking too much.. Asked for it by going to his room..
a good friend
would have
asked questions
are you okay?
what happened?
So I immediately got off of him and said I didn't want to have sex. I'm pretty sure I even apologized. I said it multiple times because he incessantly argued with me. Something about that I HAD to let him. I had to let him finish. I couldn't be a tease. I kept saying no! I can't. I don't want to. No. Sorry. No. The more he argued the more afraid I felt, and the more rapidly I started fading. Then I told him that I really needed to sleep. I was about to pass out I physically can't. No. In my mind I reasoned that it all would be over then. When I passed out he'd realize it wasn't happening and he'd leave.
I may have been intoxicated but I KNEW this was not what I wanted.
I asked him to stop, and unlike so many other stories, he actually did.
Because of this, I never considered it rape.
I still don't even know what to call it.
But I know it wasn't right.
I know it wasn't consensual and I know he took advantage of me.
I woke up naked, confused, and with a blaring headache. Next to me is this guy, naked as well. I check my phone, it's 5 a.m. I get up and leave. I call a friend, because I'm alone and scared. He said, "you know how you get when you drink. I doubt it was for
The commonalities I have with the other brave women who have come forward are what made me realize how wrong it all was. Reading the stories was like having my mind read. I sunk deeper with feelings of guilt and disgust. I was part of an intricate web woven by a man who was manipulative and powerful. I fell for every carefully constructed, tried and true line he fed me. He played his game with me as he played it with so many women before me. I was another woman to add to his collection.
I still find it hard to not think it was my fault, to not think I was leading him on, to not think I was stupid to be there alone and perhaps I was but a normal person would not have date raped me…..they may have taken advantage in a "normal" fashion but I would have been coherent and able to fight it off, call for help, run away…whatever.
The next day I left to my own city and got a rape kit done. The clinician there informed me that because alcohol was involved " it would be more harm than good to report this to the police." " You'll just end up spending a year or more in court reliving the experience, and you likely won't get anything from it"
When I did crawl into bed he started to stir, I mentioned that I was home and safe. As soon as I had made a comfortable little cocoon for myself he was pinning me to the bed with his knees forcing himself in my mouth.
I spent eight hours in the hospital getting evidence documented, there was an 18-month "investigation", and no charges were ever laid. I was told that because I willingly went to my attacker’s apartment, it would be too hard to prove beyond a reasonable doubt.
Turning off the lights and putting on the movie Speed, she retreated to the living room where she completely forgot about us. How the event came about is a mystery to me, but the four boys eventually ran out of things to occupy them and decided to experiment with me. Some older and some younger than me, they pinned me down, removed their and my underwear and simulated a gang rape.
This is my story –of a 13-year-old victim who reported to the police in 1956. Ancient history? Perhaps, but it may give some insight into why victims don't report and the surreal experience of doing so. That said, I firmly believe that victims should speak out and identify themselves. It is not their shame! Not publishing names "in order to protect the victim" implies that somehow it is the victim's shame. Rapists are the ones who deserve to be identified and shamed.
I got a text from him saying he was outside my apartment and wanted to say goodbye. I let him into my apartment. I lived in a small studio apartment so we were sitting on my bed chatting. Then he kissed me and pushed me down. He got on top of me and held my hands above my head. He pinned me down and with his other hand took off my underwear. I was begging him to stop and was yelling no but my cries went unheard. I was finally able to kick and push him off of me.
Life went on as normal, everyone pretended that everything was fine and that nothing had happened. No one but a few close friends that I had finally confided in knew what had happened. But that kind of secret, festers and boils below the surface until one day the cracks start to appear.
I bluffed my way out of being taken. I took a deep breath and turned on the predator, looked him in the eye with wrath and then side stepped and began to walk toward a truck in the next parking
I was 12 years old when I became "the victim" of the unspeakable and life has never been the same for me and it never will. I can't tell you honestly how many times I was sexually assaulted as a child because I've hidden from the memories for so long by the age of 14 I could no longer cope so I turned to drugs,alcohol and anything else I could find to make me feel better if even for a moment. Maybe that's why I can remember only bits and pieces of those years.
After a little bit of time has passed, his friends pin you down as they lift up your shirt, lift up your bra. They draw a “smiley” face on your breasts and stomach. Your nipples are circled— the eyes, your bellybutton— the nose. And just above your pubic hair—the smile. You wiggle and scream, but they are bigger and stronger than you, not to mention they outnumber you five to one. You cry and they laugh. You feel both embarrassed and ashamed.
I still get nervous if sex isn't on my terms or if I'm at all unsure about it. I sometimes don't go to parties if I'm not certain that I can leave when I want to. I've had more supportive therapists, but I'm still not over it, and it's been almost three or four years. I feel like I don't deserve to call myself a rape victim because I didn't say no. My rapist doesn't consider himself a rapist. I don't like telling the story because I'm always afraid someone will say, "That's not rape. You just made a stupid decision." I've since realized that I've done this before; the second time I had sex, no one asked my permission. The guy just stuck his penis in me without even asking if I wanted to use a condom. I was inexperienced. I just went along with it. I thought maybe that was how people who'd had a lot of sex had sex. And now that I know it wasn't okay and that it wasn't consensual, I feel so stupid and unsure about almost every subsequent sexual decision I've ever made.
Having a “friend” turn into an aggressive monster forcing you to do incredibly intimate things while you beg him not to is terrifying. When I woke up, I noticed the clothes I had been wearing were on the floor and I burst into tears because I knew that I didn’t wake up from a nightmare I could forget, instead I woke up to a horrible reality.
The one lesson that I have taken from having this piece published is that we need better education for men. Rape and sexual harassment are not “women’s issues.” These issues hurt everyone. Men need to know what to do when they see a woman being disrespected. A lot of the rhetoric is troubling – Would you want someone to treat your mother that way? Or your sister? – because women should be valued not in relation to someone else but just as people. I don’t know how to get us there.
I had a similar experience before leaving [that town] and think it may have been the same guy. I was called all sorts of horrible names over the next days, weeks, and beyond because he bragged to the rest of the guys and even his female friends about it.
The little voice in the back of my head nagged at me. You don’t know this guy, your friends don’t know where you are, and this is a bad idea. Before I had a chance to change my mind the door opened and I was engulfed by his good looks and charming smile. I think he sensed my inexperience as I stood there awkwardly in the doorway.
The room is dark and cool, it smells like hot metal and the air is dry.</br>
A lullaby of ominous whispers consumes my subconscious, if I try to eavesdrop they fall silent.</br>
Slivers of lavender light dance on sharp edges of images you don't want in your head.</br>
Images you couldn't, shouldn't, don't imagine.</br>
Trauma: Like this the truth trickles down to you. Slowly you peel back one layer at a time. You built walls in defense but now you live inside a house inside a house inside a house. You live underground. It is safer to be dead but you realize you’re not ready for that. Slowly you unearth your grave.
Slowly you make space around you. Slowly you take up that space.
I'm less afraid of talking about these ones than the first one. I have no idea what became of either of those guys, and I don't care. I've lost touch with all of the "friends" we had in common back then, the ones who knew and didn't stop it, the boyfriend who gave permission for his friend to rape me…it's a part of my life I've put past me.
The first time I was raped I was 16 years old. The night exists in a series of flash-bulb images that I can neither piece together nor erase from my memory, despite years of trying. I’m still not sure if it was my fault, even though I know it wasn’t.
I don’t think about it very often anymore, but every few years I revisit the spiral of shame, and guilt.