Trigger warning: This post has graphic details of one of the nights I was raped when I was 17. I tried to go back to see it from the perspective I had back then, to give full voice to my experience and to try to understand my reactions a little better.
I’m sprawled across someone’s bed, fully clothed. My shoes are on. The room is spinning and it takes me a moment to figure out where I am. Scott’s room. I can see a pile of CDs on the bedside table, a mess strewn across his floor. I can’t really move. There’s rap music vibrating through the ceiling from upstairs. I’m not even sure how I got here, but I am really drunk. It feels kind of like I’m floating. I wonder if anyone’s looking for me.
When I wake up again everything is much quieter. The light is still on but there’s no music, no laughter. I am inside the sheets and I seem to only be wearing my bra. I’m not alone. I try to sit up and Scott reaches across me and holds me by the arm, “Nah, it’s okay. You can stay.” He tilts his head and smiles at me. It’s more like a smirk. He seems so sure of himself and I’m not sure at all. Did I lead him on? Did we already have sex? I don't speak at all. Inside my head I am screaming at myself, "What are you doing, get him off you!" I can’t seem to move my legs. He keeps a firm grip on my wrist and it’s hurting. I’m kind of dizzy. Really drunk. He puts his fingers inside me. I don’t try to stop him. I don’t do anything. He’s really calm and I think, "I must have agreed to this." Then he manoeuvres my body, turns me over onto my stomach. He’s penetrating me from behind. I can barely keep my eyes open but I notice the black satin sheets and the chunks of vomit in my hair. I don't think I feel anything but numb.
I’m not sure how I get home. Later I’ll call Katie and tell her we had sex and that I’m so confused because I don’t even like him "like that". I’m so ashamed of it. We’ll never mention it again.
This memory has been one of my sticking points ... It's something that I could never really bring myself to talk about because it felt like it was evidence against me. It was proof that this was 'my pattern' and that I was stupid or reckless or naïve. The self-critical part of myself wonders why, after this happened, I still considered Scott to be a friend or at the very least wasn't more suspicious of him.
He was the essence of casualness, both during his assault and afterwards. His self-assuredness made me question myself. It gave me the impression that what happened wasn't so bad, I must have been overreacting. If I hinted around at it and other people couldn't figure it out, it must not be all that important. It felt as though it were in a 'grey area' because I'd been drinking. I think my NOT labelling it was my way of protecting myself from the ugly truth. If I didn't say the words I didn't have to face their impact. We'd been close friends since we were 12, and I thought that if I made everything normal then it would be. That's how he remained in my friendship group. Silence, denial and that same 'everything is just fine' smirk of his. I see all of the insidious ways it affected me even when it was buried.
***
A month or two after this happened, we were both at a mutual friend's 18th birthday party. My family had gone away on vacation, but I had chosen to stay behind because I had exams coming up that whole next week. The plan had been that a couple of my friends would be staying at my house too, so that I wasn't alone because I had a restraining order out on my ex-boyfriend. Things didn't end up going to plan. The self-recrimination comes in because Scott was really insistent about giving me a drink. I didn't drink the whole thing because I realised he was being weird about it... but then, I still left with him. I wanted to leave the party earlier than the friends who were supposed to be staying with me because I wasn't feeling well. Scott offered to share a cab, with the intention that we were going to drop me off first and then the cab would take him to his house.
I passed out in the cab, and I remember my head on his shoulder and I don't really remember much else. I don't know if it was a blank or if I literally woke up at his place. I remember standing out the front saying really adamantly, "No, I'm gonna call the cab back. I need to go home. I can't be here." Then there was a back and forth where he said, "I just need to make a quick phone call and then I'll walk you home. That's fine, you can go home."
So I remember waiting outside and I was feeling confused and panicked. I'm pretty sure that's when I first had the thought that perhaps my drink had been drugged, and that maybe it wasn't the first time... and even though I had that realisation, I was still there waiting for him to come back to walk me home. I don't know how to forgive myself for that. I didn't feel safe with him, I'd chosen to leave a party with him, and suddenly I was in a "fooled me twice, shame on me" kind of situation. I can't know for certain, but I'm fairly sure he was calling the others to tell them of a change of plans. Someone who I had once trusted and considered to be a friend, set me up to be gang-raped and I didn't see it coming.
I know that what I’m dealing with is an illusion of control and I want to work on the self-blame and the internalised responsibility that I have used as a coping strategy. I remembered a response that I had written to someone else years ago when I was in my early 20s, so I searched for it to see what advice I'd have to say to someone struggling with similar feelings. This is what I wrote back then:
I'd like to gently challenge this idea you've expressed that your experiences of sexual assault fall into a grey area. The sentiment that there is such a thing as 'grey area' consent doesn't make any logical sense to me. Either someone has consented, actively and willingly without coercion, or they have not. It is not possible to give half-consent or to be half-raped and therefore there is no grey area, regardless of the relationship or what led to that moment. All this to say that from my outside perspective I can clearly see that what you endured really wasn't your fault, you did not do anything in the lead up to deserve his horrific actions. You certainly do "deserve" to be here and to be supported as you navigate your way through this. It's always much harder to apply this same compassion or logic to ourselves though, isn't it?
Sometimes I find myself thinking about self-betrayal, self-blame and fear as us potentially being afraid of our own power. What happens when we feel empowered? Typically positive things, but it can be difficult to empower ourselves in the aftermath of trauma. On the flip side, it can be really easy to slip into a belief that we had more power than we really did.
In so many ways the feeling or belief of self-betrayal could also be framed as a way of trying to maintain a sense of control. "If only I'd…" In reality we were in a situation/s that we had no real control over. We were at the mercy of a merciless other or others. Feeling powerless and helpless is a terrifying feeling that we understandably all want to avoid. Who ever wants to be vulnerable? But perhaps it is walking into the heart of that frightening, dark place that we begin to truly heal. Easier said than done in many respects, is my experience... but I think that is exactly what you are doing here in a forum of survivors who can relate and understand and hopefully challenge the notion that you are in any way to blame.
For me, accepting that it wasn't my fault always leads back into not having control... at those times, in those circumstances.. When I self-blame I don’t have to deal with the true reality of my childhood or the multiple rapes I have survived since. If I am to blame, then I can somehow “rape-proof” my life with reassurances that it won’t happen to me again because I won’t let it, right?
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