if-i-told-you-wouldyoujudgeme

[if-i-told-you-wouldyoujudgeme]

A week after confession

Life is weird.

I say that a lot.

I say it usually in response to a situation that I find myself in, the origins of which, I don’t quite understand. This is kind of like that.

I have felt a lot in the last week. I haven’t been able to say that for at least a year. For many reasons before this week, I was emotionally frozen.

Obviously, I haven’t finished the processing. But I’ve learnt a lot about myself I had forgotten. First and foremost, I am extra. I’m emotional, passionate, feeling. I have been criticised for it a lot in my past. But it’s who I am. I need it.

Without it, I miss out on my biggest source of happiness. Loving, believing in, trusting and caring for, the people around me. Despite knowing that and knowing I needed it, I just couldn’t. I was dead on the inside. I was still myself, just without the emotion.

Confessing the thing that was locking me up, certainly helped with that. This week was the first time I really took my self-care seriously and the first time I didn’t feel guilty for taking recharge time. I went to work when I was ready, and I enjoyed it thoroughly when I did. One of the few benefits of working casually.

The professionals that support my mental health did not make light that my public confession was a bold mood. But they didn’t deny the validation aspect of the entire thing. As long as I don’t dwell too long on the experience, it could turn out to be a good thing.

I’m still sure it was the right choice. 

I needed the room in my head. 

I often use the phrase “I just can’t take on any more, my cup is full”. When I say that, people don’t really get it. They think I’m just complaining (don’t even get me started on that). Anyway, the point is, that that is real. My head was always full and still kind of is, to be honest. This secret was heavy and thick and was always floating in the back of my mind, even when it wasn’t directly being acknowledged and it has been nearly 5 years since. When you put on top, all of the new difficult things that I've been trying to push through in everyday life since then, it makes for a full cup. 

Never dealing, never healing just push on and always forward. 

But for the things that really hurt you, whatever they may be, justified, dramatic or not, you can’t just do that. Those things will be there and from what I’ve learnt, it’s ok to not process them right away, in fact sometimes it’s impossible to, but you have to make the time, make the room. Especially when it’s something that really affects you.

Because the world will keep turning, the sun will still rise and life will keep moving forward and when it does, it will continue to change. 

Go through it, grow through it.

Over the last 5 or more years I’ve felt so much being taken away from me. And to be honest, some more has been taken over this week too. There is so much that I had come to peace with that turned out to be different with the way I thought. But I have gained so much back as well. It’s all really changed my perspective on life in general.

I’m not in a headspace where everything is just amazing. Because I’m just not that kind of person, at least I haven’t been for a while. But I’m at peace with life’s imperfections.

Today is a real tough one. I really want to roll into a ball and sleep and here is one person in the world I actually want to talk to but, I have these days. The Only thing I can do is sleep early and just feel it out. 

Because the world will keep turning, the sun will still rise and life will keep moving forward and when it does, I will need to continue to change. 

I guess we’ll see.

Sarah

[if-i-told-you-wouldyoujudgeme]

The immediate aftermath of confessing

I always encourage people to be honest about their experiences, genuinely believing that you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. But when it came to me, I genuinely believed that no good could come from people knowing my darkest secret.

I don’t know what I expected when I shared my story. I may have been in denial, thinking no one could be bothered to read so much. I mean, it took me all day. What was I even thinking writing it all out?

When the first comment came in I was stunned. I was expecting questions, I was expecting criticisms, the usual when you go public with something controversial. What I wasn’t expecting was the support. I wasn’t expecting the emotion that came from realising that I was no longer carrying this alone. And I only got more emotional with each comment.

I knew that I wasn’t alone. That this happens a lot. The whole point of the piece is that mine is one of many stories. But that is a different thing to carrying a secret alone.

Now it is out there. Now, I don’t have to recall the details verbally. I don’t have to stutter and fall over the words. I can read them and change them at will, making them more accurate, making them more true to my experience.

I don’t have to read the looks on your faces as you read my words, which is the hardest part for me in any social interaction. I will feel what you do, even when I don’t want to.

I want to thank all of you who offered me themselves to talk to if I needed. I had forgotten how alone I wasn’t. And to all of you who even took the time to read it, even without comment, it is everything to me. I don’t want to feel shame about it. It wasn’t my fault. The more of you who know, the more power is taken from him and given to me.

To those people who lovingly slid into my dm’s and said that they didn’t know what to say other than sorry that that happened to me, thank you for acknowledging my struggle. There is nothing else you need to say. Hell, you don’t even need to say that. You could have just ignored it, so again, thank you.

Where to now...

My best friend called me and asked if I was ok after my blog post worried her. She asked me what I was going to do if he found out if he went insane about it? What can I do? How much more can he destroy me? When you’ve seen the bottom, when you finally hit the ground, nothing can scare you anymore because you’ve already been there.

I don’t address him by name. I’m not slandering his reputation. Those who know who he is from context clues, already knew what he was doing, they were there. They knew the way he acted was wrong, even the minor stuff, and they said nothing. I am simply recalling the facts in the most logical way I possibly can. It is clearly a retelling of my experience and also, I’m not protecting him anymore. Being scared of him only makes him the winner.

If you read what I have written and you know who he is then you know I’m not the only one he treated that way. I’m just the squeaky wheel. So the next time you’re out and he’s drunk, acting like a predator and insulting women because they reject him, call him out. Nobody wins when you let people behave like that.

On a lighter note...

For years I had been longing to have my mental breakdown. My beautiful, emotional sadness. My crazy, car-keying, face-punching, ball-kicking rage. But nearly 5 years on and it never came.

Why did I want to go mental?

I’d rather be crazy and then rise from the ashes of the life I had burnt down then submit to the numbness within me and let him win. But like I said, it never came. there was no release. I could only continue to tread through the water.

It is my hope that my release will come as a result of my story. That may then be that as relevant details arise in flashbacks I will edit it so that I never have to mentally recall them again and I can finally move forward.

I didn’t tell my story for sympathy or revenge, I didn’t even tell it so people knew. I did it so I knew so that I no longer had to feel shame about it.

The other part I didn’t expect from the sharing of my story was the validation. Validation that I was me before it happened and I’ll be me forever after. That I am human, that I’m ok. That I am worthy. That I am loved.

But there was one word that kept coming up... brave.

That I was brave to tell my story, that it was courageous to make it public. I know how cliche it is but I don’t feel brave.

I don’t feel brave because bravery is being scared and doing it anyway. Doing something in spite of the fear that makes you want to stop. I don’t feel brave because wasn’t scared. I wasn’t scared of telling you. I am not scared of you knowing. When I was scared, I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t do anything about it. So I’m not sure why it’s brave of me to tell you now.

Despite that, despite the fact that to me, this feels normal because it is my life and it just is as it is now, I accept each loving sentiment with as much grace as I can muster.

I did come out of the other side of this experience but it is not completely over, it is a process, it may never be over. But I hope I never feel the heaviness I felt before you knew.

To steal the mantra off of one of my biggest inspirations this year... Always forward.

Love now and into the future,

Sarah

[if-i-told-you-wouldyoujudgeme]

The thing that took me 5 years to tell you, aka My 20th Year, aka My Shame-filled Secret.

If you see this and you need me to make another tag for triggers let me know.

Trigger warning: instances of rape, sexual assault, mentions of binge eating. 

I’ve done my best to address the ‘whens’ but the whole year was a bit of a blur in that respect.

...

                                                   Ok, so...

The day I turned 20 (November 2011) I broke up with my high school boyfriend. We had been on and off for a few years and I felt like I had fought a long time to make it work. Although he was always super respectful in the bedroom, he had become quite jealous, critical and controlling and I had escaped my hometown to complete a Teaching Degree. And although I really did (and still do) love him, and I was scared that no one else would be that respectful to me in the bedroom (which is a fact he constantly reminded me of) there really wasn’t a real reason to continue. With the addition of a myriad of other reasons, on the morning of my birthday, I couldn’t take anymore. We broke up by text message.

Now as depressing as that is, and was, I was loving life at Uni. For a few months, I was away from my unhealthy relationship, away from my family, away from everyone who ever knew me and told me who I was. I had left town deciding that I was going to be whoever I really was and if I didn’t like who I was, then I would work on that as it came. 

As it turns out, I was ok. I was independent, I made amazing friends in some strong, determined women who understood where I was trying to get myself, loved me for who I was and who supported me when things got difficult. 

I was learning the importance of hard work and after 6 months of battling binge eating issues before I had left, discovering that there was more to ‘being happy’ then numbing my feelings with food. I was also pretty broke, so I didn’t have much choice. As a result, I had lost a bit of weight (not in a very healthy way). By the time I had come home for Christmas that year, I was feeling pretty great and as far as people told me, generally just looking healthy and happier.

Since I was out of being under the control of my ex, I spent the Christmas break with a childhood friend that I adored, in between supermarket shifts. He was my favourite person in the world, the light of my life but was very troubled, and for a reason that I am still not quite sure of, we just stopped talking. Which did nothing good for the inner turmoil I was internally dealing with that maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge.

                                Then things weren’t so great.

It was not long after this, that a chance encounter while running errands for my mother lead me to run into him. My high school ‘friend’ (not to be confused with boyfriend, although we had dated briefly in high school). The one my high school boyfriend had always warned me to stay away from (though, he said that about everybody).

When I look back now, the relationship was terrible from the start. But my loving and loyal nature wouldn't let me see it, to my own disadvantage. We would have only dated for 6 months (maybe not even that long) but it took less than that to kill the very essence of who I was.

Like I said, when I look back now, the relationship was always terribly unhealthy for me. We always did what he wanted, even if I hated it, even if it made me miserable. He was a cricket umpire, I hated cricket, he would make me go to the matches anyway... all of them. I didn’t really drink and wasn’t comfortable in pubs, he would drag me to the local pub, get drunk, gamble away his money all while having me there as an accessory, to make him feel special, his possession to touch when he wanted. If I didn’t feel like kissing him, hugging him, being touched, he did it anyway. It was ALWAYs that way.

But he wasn’t horrible to just me. The way he spoke to his mother, the women who gave birth to him, the women who worked her butt off supporting people with disabilities for their family should have been the biggest red flag. But I wanted to believe everything would be ok, that for me he’d be different.

No matter how much I pushed back and said no, things always went his way. We NEVER did what I wanted. We never spent time with my friends, only his. Every time I needed him to come through, he let me down. Every time he said he would, he didn’t. Why did I keep going? Honestly, I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing by the guy I chose to be with.

                                    The hardest part to tell you.

Now I’ve been dragging on a little with things that may not even matter because I am avoiding the hardest part of the story. 

I no longer address this person as an ex. I almost never address him by name. He is only ever addressed, even in my personal diary, or in counselling, by his first initial, or by what he really is... my rapist.

To you, knowing what you know so far, it seems kind of obvious. Hell, it’s pretty obvious to me now, I should have run for the hills. But in the midst of it, for whatever reason, I couldn’t see it.

As much as I should be able to explain different instances of what can be described as rape. I can’t. Only some details that have only just started to return to me and no specific dates. Yes, dates. It happened more than once. In fact, it was a regular occurrence. I would sometimes travel 5 hours in my tiny car naively thinking it wouldn’t happen this time.

How do I know I was raped? How did it happen so many times? Am I sure that’s what it was? Why didn’t I scream? 

There’s is probably a million things I have heard on the rare occasions I have told people that I just couldn’t answer. It becomes so hard to answer when you feel the intense burning of anger throughout your entire body and your brain becomes so clouded you begin doubting your own experience. And up until recently, I was completely unable to recall details or even sensations because I struggled to accept that it even happened. It was because of the inability to recall details, that I don't think anybody really took me seriously.

It isn’t until now that even the people I did tell in the past, will know the whole story.

But I know what happened. I was there. I felt the pain. I felt the fear. I felt the loss of control over what is supposed to be my body.

How do I know it happened? How do I know it was rape? ... I did not give consent. When it first happened, I believed that it was a misunderstanding. That I just didn’t make it clear enough that I didn’t feel like having sex, that the use of a condom is a condition of my consent, that this was on me. But as time went on and it continued, when it happened again and again,  I realised that nothing short of hurting him would make this stop. 

Why didn’t I hurt him, kick him, scream for help, knowing his family would hear me? Well, it’s not that simple.

We all know that when we feel threatened, and the adrenaline starts flowing through our veins, that it engages our “fight or flight response”. Therefore in this situation, I would either do everything I can to escape him or fight him till he is unable to hurt me right? 

Not me. Not when it’s someone I am supposed to be able to trust.

It’s not often talked about but there is a third response to such danger. The freeze response. That was me. The phrase you’ve heard of, “being frozen in fear”? That’s real, it happens. It happens to me when I am threatened at the hands on someone I trust or love. It happened when my high school boyfriend raised his hand at me because I wouldn’t move during a depressive episode earlier the year before and it happened then.

I was scared. I was frozen in fear. I wanted to get out. A part of me wanted to hurt him, to scream, to fight. But I was stuck. Every time, I physically went blank. I had a million things running through my mind and I couldn’t focus on a single thing long enough to make use of it. And this was every time. Every time I believed it wouldn’t happen again, that I could do something more to get him to stop, that he just didn’t get it and I needed to help him get it. But every time the new thing I tried didn’t work. Every time, my head would race but my body would eventually freeze.

Pretending to be asleep didn’t work ( for all he knew I was actually asleep). Gently saying I didn’t feel like it didn’t work. Firmly saying “no” or “stop it” didn’t work. Pushing back or trying to push him off me didn’t work. Being in pain and saying so didn’t work. The bleeding didn’t work. Asking for more “me time” didn’t work. Reminding him that I didn’t want to have sex without a condom didn’t work. I was never safe. The only time I ever could recall feeling like I’d be listened to in general was when his mother was around. they were the rare occasions when I knew he wouldn’t mistreat me because he knew she would call him out on it.

If I was with him and we were alone we had to have sex. It was mostly at his family home but not always.

Why didn’t I leave him? A part of me was scared of him. If he would do this then what wouldn’t he do? 

Another part of me believed that he loved me, it was my duty and I Ioved him. 

Another tiny part of me believed it was what was expected of me, it was his right.

I’m still not sure what thoughts were my own, and what were the ones he made me believe.

                                          I remember once...

On one occasion, we were with mutual friends (from high school) at the pub I had grown to hate. One of which had a fiance who was heavily pregnant. She was also with us. The guys were drinking somewhat heavily but I chose to be super sober because I was protective over the pregnant fiance. They were super in love, and super excited about the arrival of their first baby. I was super happy for them. Apparently so was he. He wished it was us and made no secret about it. To be honest, I didn’t completely hate it (not yet anyway). It was nice to think he wanted a family with me. Again, I believed he loved me.

As he got more drunk throughout the evening, he became more pushy about starting a family. I brushed him off because he was just being silly and drunk and was just being influenced by the presence of his best friend. it all seemed pretty cut and dry. I figured because he was so drunk it would be easier to simmer the pushiness down especially after the friends had left. But as usual, I was so wrong. He was going to try to get me pregnant that night and I had no say in the matter. 

Stupidly, I had rebelled against being on the pill after my last breakup, because I was forced by my ex’s mother to be on it and to not be on it made me feel more in control of myself. So to say that I was berating myself at this point is an understatement. 

No words can describe the fear I felt that night.

That instance is one that sticks in my memory so much because it was the one that I felt the most fear, the least control. I did not want to have a child. Not yet. I had just started my degree and finishing it was the most important thing in the world to me. The idea of getting pregnant at that time of my life was terrifying. The idea of someone forcing me and my body into such an unwanted situation was terrifying. I was relieved when he wasn’t successful.

*EDIT:                    The time I was ‘asleep’...

As a result of posting the original post (or coincidently), I had a flashback of the incident I referenced about being asleep so I’m adding it.

It was night time. The bedroom lights were off. The weather was warm. I was at his family home, in his bedroom. It was either one of the weekends I made the 5-hour trip in a day to be with him or a uni break. I don’t remember. We were both in ‘bed’ (it wasn't really a bed, it was a mattress) trying to get to sleep. 

At this point in my life, I was pretty miserable so it was not unusual for me to be lying still for ages in the dark while he went to sleep. He always thought I was asleep. That was how I liked it. 

On this occasion, I was lying there but genuinely trying to sleep. He was constantly rolling around, clearly unable to get to sleep. That was when we hugged me. Again, not an unusual occurrence. I was his favourite possession after all. But once his arms went around me, it was unlikely he would lie still.

I didn’t stir.

He began his usual act of ‘affectionately’ kissing what he had access to, none of the stuff I actually liked though. It wasn’t for me. Love wasn’t his style. It wasn’t about what I enjoyed. This was about waking me up, and getting me only just ready enough to have what he wanted.

I still didn’t stir.

My theory was, that if I behaved as though I was deeply asleep, he would get frustrated, then bored, then stop, then go to sleep. This time at least, that’s not what happened.

At no point did I stir in a way that seemed as though I was going to wake up and engage. I sleepily brushed him off with my arms. I made that sound you make when you’re dreaming and you say no in your dream and rolled away from him. But he did not let off. 

I was so sure he’d get frustrated and stop because I was clearly not giving consent. I clearly did not want to have sex. I kept up the charade of sleeping, I kept on not engaging. I was quiet. I didn’t kiss him back at all. By the time I realised that this was another instance where things were completely out my control, it was too late. I was frozen. I remember looking at him in the eyes. I remember the hatred I felt for him. I remember the moment another part of me died. I remember not being able to speak. I remember not being able to move.

He finished. He told me he loved me. He rolled over and went to sleep. 

  Then another time (this one’s not so bad, but still bad)...

There was one other instance among the many that I remember in more detail and is arguably not as bad because what could have happened, didn’t. 

It again involved the presence of his 2 best friends and the fiance mentioned before. I am pretty sure that it was Australia Day 2012 but it may have been later. It was a rather hot day at his house and he and I were essentially playing host to his friends with snacks and stuff.

For whatever reason, we decided it would be an awesome idea to get kiddy pools from K-mart (the ones that came with ball pit balls) and play around with them. So I, his single friend and the pregnant fiancee, (who were the only sober ones) drove the 20 min each way to get them. I’m still not sure why the other 2 didn’t come with.

Anyway, after a fun-filled afternoon playing around with the hose and pools and plastic balls, we were really wet but it was kinda warm so it wasn’t so bad. At least not to me. While we were all sitting around on the verandah, talking the afternoon away in the sun, he announces that he’s going to go shower. This is nothing out of the ordinary, obviously, on top of the fact that he showered many times a day anyway (and yet always smelled terrible). 

He asked me if I wanted to come, which again was not out of the ordinary. I, naively thinking that I was safer in front of his friends, declined saying that I thought it was rude to leave his friends there without either him or me around. Internally, it was more about knowing what it meant, and just generally really not wanting to have a shower yet. He then insisted. I replied by firmly saying “I said no”, again thinking because there were witnesses, he would back off. 

Once again, I was incredibly wrong. What followed was him grabbing my wrist to get me to follow him. I got myself loose, again firmly reiterating that I didn’t want to have a shower and sat back down. 

Again, he grabbed my wrist and proceeded, with more force, to drag me towards the stairs in order to get me up them and into the bathroom. During this, I was trying to stay calm but firm. I remember very clearly repeating phrases with increasing desperation and loudness such as, “I said no”, “I don’t want to” and “stop, you’re hurting me”.

Despite my increasing force to get away, despite thinking I would manage to break free at the base of the stairs, he, although skinny and lean, was able to drag my fat ass up a flight of stairs and into the bathroom. 

His friends (I now know they weren’t my friends) did nothing, said nothing. I guess they didn’t want to get involved in a domestic issue. If it was so bad I would hurt him or adrenaline would kick in, right? I thought so too.

Which brings us back to the scene in the bathroom. He positioned himself between me, and the only door of that room. He could see I was mad because he kept trying to make out like I was being ridiculous and that it all didn’t have to be this way if I just did was he was asking me to do. I guess he thought that I would think it was easier to do what he wanted then make the effort to go back downstairs after all that. 

But I wasn’t having it. Not this time. I wanted out. I’d would continue to play happy-go-lucky girlfriend later, but this, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t take. I was going to get out of this particular situation untouched, even if I had to draw blood to get it. I didn’t care about what those people downstairs thought of me. I didn’t care about my pride or keeping up appearances. I only wanted what should have rightfully been mine. The right to decide what I did with my body.

The rage that filled me when I saw that he placed himself between me and the escape route was unforgettable, indescribable and unlike me. The need to survive was my only focus. The route of escape was my goal and I was going to reach it. He was shirtless standing in front of me, assuming I’d back down. I looked him straight in the eyes, and with all the strength and venom I could muster, uttered the unforgettable phrase calmly, honestly... “Let me out, or I WILL kill you”. 

I might not have killed him if he didn’t move, but I was going to hurt him. Whatever it took to get out that door, I would have done. 

It didn’t come to that. 

He moved out of the way and got in the shower. I closed the door behind me, composed myself, went downstairs and back to ‘our guests’ like nothing had happened. None of us spoke about it again.

                                              After that...

I’d like to tell you that was the end of it. That that was the straw that broke the camels back. That I had enough and left him. But it wasn’t and I didn’t. I think we were together a few months after that, with things still pretty much the same. 

The relationship ended one night after he got depressed about losing his job, got himself drunk, gambled away all of his money and texted me while I was at my mother’s house saying that he couldn’t do it anymore.

I was angry but relieved. Just like in the bathroom, this was my escape route and I was going to take it.

He sobered up the next day, saying that he’d taken it all back, that he was just really messed up, that he couldn’t live without me. I wouldn’t have it. I was free and I was never going back.

He harassed me for a while after that. Abusive message after abusive message after abusive phone calls, trying everything he could think of to bring me down, to hurt me, to threaten me. He knew where I lived while I was at Uni and I was so scared that he would make his way up, that I’d have to face him. But it never happened.

I later found out, through the grapevine that he proceeded to tell slanderous, completely baseless lies about me, trying to destroy my reputation and my name behind my back, to people I don’t even know, to the girlfriends after me. 

I never got my victory. I never got revenge. He will never be charged. I can never prove in a court of law what happened to me. But it doesn't change the fact that it happened. 

                                       It got a little better...

After that relationship. I was pretty broken. I was always scared. It may have even been where my anxiety started to impact my life. It was that fear that I was broken, that I was unsafe, unwanted, used, damaged goods, that led me to the person who loved me before I became broken. My high school boyfriend.

Indirectly because of what happened to me, he and I got back together and stayed together for a year and a half. There was “I told you so’s” involved and of course, the relationship was not healthy, just like before. But I knew it got worse and I knew I was loved which was what I craved the most. 

In a really messed up way, he protected me, he was a kind of refuge and I will always love him and be thankful for that.

He was the only one I felt I could tell and who would believe me. For a couple of years, he was the only one I did tell and even then, he never knew all of it. I refused to talk about it and he couldn’t handle the details.

At least for a short time, I was safe, safe from the perpetrator, safe from the memories, sometimes I was even happy. I wasn’t ready to deal, wasn’t ready to heal. I needed to forget. To revert to a happier time. But I always knew I couldn’t stay there.

                                       Why have I said all this...

I know I can’t do anything about it. But it wasn’t until 4 years after the got drunk and dumped me that I was ready to accept what had happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was forced to move back to my hometown where it all happened and was too broke to leave, I probably never would have. 

After I confessed in counselling that it was something that happened to me that may have been keeping me from dealing with my anxiety, the flashbacks started. They still happen. Memories come, seemingly at random, without reason and without provocation. They come in the form of images, sounds, smells and sensations and they are all part of the process. They sound scary but I learned to deal.

I’ve documented this part of my life for a few seasons. For some people in my life, it’s essential knowledge because it helps me outline why I might act strangely in some situations or completely avoid other situations altogether. For me, it’s a reminder that it did happen. I can’t deal with what I refuse to acknowledge. It’s no way in the hopes of gaining sympathy or revenge. I don't need either.

Most importantly I’ve done it because rape/ sexual assault/ sexual abuse/ sexual violence takes many forms. This is just one story. I am just one person. Recently in the light of the #metoo movement in relation to H.W (I won’t name him, he doesn’t deserve to be humanised at this point), I was humbled by the women who chose to share their experiences. 

But having said that, it’s important to remember that survivors don’t owe you their story. If this kind of thing happens to you, regardless of the gender of you or the perpetrator what you do with the experience is up to you. Who you tell and when you tell them is up to you. You have control over what you do with the information.

                                  So again why did I share mine...

The main reason is empowerment. Being factual about what happened has empowered me because I have to deal with it. It no longer holds power over me. It just is something that happened to me. I am hoping that this will help me to let it go just that little bit more.

I know that I am lucky. To be able to seem so ‘normal’, especially when it comes to relationships. I am lucky that I can emotionally differentiate between the guy that did this and other people.

That doesn’t mean it no longer affects me. It doesn’t mean I’m glad it happened. It doesn't mean I'll ever go back to the person I was before. I am forever changed because of it, a part of me will always be dead.

Rape is not something I would wish on my worst enemy.

Another reason I did this is to challenge the mainstream ideas about what rape is. 

In my case, it was not perpetrated by a stranger. I was not drunk or intoxicated by anything. I did not wear revealing clothes. I was not alone in the dark walking home. He was not a family member. I was not a child. I did say no. I did fight him off at times. I happened to be a female, he happened to be a male.

But even if all those factors were different... I did not give consent, we still had sex. That is rape.

His refusal to wear a condom, which was a condition of my consent, one that I was not quiet about, means that consent was not given or was revoked, even if up until that point, I was a willing participant. He engaged in sex with me where there was no consent, or where consent was removed. Non-consensual sex is rape. Rape is not a spectrum. It happens to both genders. It happens in hetero and homosexual relationships. It is usually about power and control.

My last reason is to empower and reassure others, because I know that sharing my story is not going to make it stop, unfortunately. But it will give anyone who reads it a look into the mind of someone that this has happened to.

                 Before we leave the bad stuff behind...

I want to arm you with information I have discovered along the way and some things I wish I knew then, may you never need it:

The leading cause of PTSD in both genders is rape. It is essentially the most traumatic event any human can go through. More people develop PTSD as a direct result of sexual violence than as a result of going to war, which personally blows my mind.

That doesn’t mean that you are broken. I am not broken. I am still able to love and trust. I am still able to enjoy physical contact. But I have my moments and the only way people have come to understand me is by me telling them. The most important thing to me now is control over my body, my life.

Some people can’t handle the story. They’ll deny it or disbelieve you. They may run from you because they are scared of making things worse for you. They may simply not understand or know how to deal with it. Unfortunately, it’s another aspect of the ordeal. But you are strong enough to keep moving regardless. 

There are people who do understand, who will listen, who do care, even if they have never been there. There are people whose actual job it is to help you get through this.

Deal when you are ready. Talk about it when you are ready. Report it to the police if/ when you are ready. Remeber this is a crime. If this happens to you if someone does this to you, their reputation does not matter, their job does not matter. They committed the crime of sexual violence, the consequences of that are their problem, not yours.

My experience and the aftermath will not match yours. The way the trauma expresses itself in everybody is different and whatever way it does express itself is ok. Never let anyone’s presumptions of rape and trauma or mental illness, in general, make you feel like your experiences are invalid. They are valid. You are valid.

The rest is stuff I wish I knew then.

You do not have to provide anyone with access to your body to prove that you love them.

The first thing you are likely to want to do when something like this happens is get washed up, change your clothes and scrub every cell on your body, but you mustn’t. 

As soon as possible, get to a hospital. You do not have to report it to police.

Evidence can be collected up to 5 days and help for up to 6 months, whether or not you chose to report it to police.

Testing for date rape drugs can be done from 24 hours to 72 hours.

Medications to prevent pregnancies and STD’s need to be started within 72 hours.

A rape crisis counsellor or support person can go with you to the hospital.

Everything you do or don’t do is your choice.

No matter who tries to bend it that way, rape is never your fault. You are not invisible. I see you. I care.

                                                      Well...

I know that that is all kinda long and heavy, but so is the process of dealing with rape. Now that I’ve told this part of my life. I’d like to back it up with the positives that came along after the initial shock of dealing with it. But it will have to come at another time.

For now, know that I stayed in Uni, got my degree, loved my friends, loved my family, and got the chance to live my dreams and that I did it all despite what happened to me in my 20th year.

Until then, remember that you are not what happens to you. Thank you for seeing me if you got this far. 

Love always,

Sarah.

[if-i-told-you-wouldyoujudgeme]

I’m sorry Hollywood...

But you know. You all know. Women, children, the vulnerable, the desperate. You take advantage and destroy when you should be protecting. You see it happening, you say nothing at the time. Child stars tell you as adults and you shut them down. What the hell is wrong with powerful (usually white) men?