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Things
I told myself when I contemplated sharing this difficult part of my life:
It's
not relevant to your life today. Don't tell your story.
It's
not as serious as what other people have been through. Don't tell your story.
Are
you sure it wasn't your fault? Don't tell your story.
What
makes you think anyone would care? Don't tell your story.
Nobody
is going to believe you. Don't tell your story.
People
won't look at you the same way. Don't tell your story.
Nearly 24 years later, I'm still afraid to
talk about the fact that I was sexually assaulted. And that's why I'm going to
talk about it. That's why I'm telling my
story. I'm telling it for me and for other victims. I'm telling it for
those who are afraid to come forward, and those who did and are burned at the
stake of public opinion for it.
I was fourteen. He was nineteen and my
first boyfriend. I was making a lot of bad choices at that time, and starting
to date someone my gut screamed at me not to date was no exception. He was
pushy from the start, trying to get me to do things I didn't want to do. I
didn't feel ready for sex yet - with him or anyone else. I just wanted to date
someone, fall in love, and, when the time was right, make the choice to lose my
virginity.
But I was young, insecure, and loved the
compliments and attention that fell in between the moments that raised giant
red flags. He was older and lived on his own and had cool friends. I didn't
know what healthy relationships were supposed to be like because I had never
had one. Maybe this was it.
We had only been dating for a couple of
weeks. It was New Year's Eve and my parents were out. I had told him he could
come over (even though they had told me he couldn't.) When he did show up, he
was drunk. We ordered pizza and watched TV. He had his hands all over me.
"Remember how you said you might want
to tonight?" he breathed in my ear.
"I remember," I said. "But I
don't think I'm ready."
"Come on. I didn't come over here so
we could just eat pizza," he said with a hint of aggression, and began
getting a little more forceful with his hands.
"I really don't want to have sex tonight,"
I said.
"But you said you wanted to."
"I said I might. And I now don't want to."
"Come on. Don't be like that," he
said, and pushed me down onto the couch, roughly kissing my neck.
I tried to push him off of me. I said stop. I said no. He kept going.
I remember weighing the options in my mind:
1. I could fight back harder. It's what my insides were screaming at
me to do. But he was bigger, stronger and intoxicated. Our short history had
told me he had no respect for boundaries. Would he get mad? Fly into a rage?
Put a throw pillow over my face to stop me from screaming? I legitimately feared
for my life.
2. I could stop fighting and let him have his way with me. I would
very likely get out of the situation alive that way.
I chose survival. And so, through tears and pain, I lost my virginity to the man who took it without my consent.
When he was done, he asked me if I had
enjoyed myself. Something in his eyes told me I should lie. So I wiped my tears
and said yes. I even tried to convince myself I had.
When he left, I hugged and kissed him. I then
paced around the house with my arms wrapped around myself. I wondered if this
was how every girl felt when they lost their virginity. Maybe it was that
painful for everyone. Maybe all girls were scared and needed to be forced a
little, or it would never happen. I tried to reframe my rape in a positive
light. It didn't work.
I broke up with him the next day.
I never thought about going to the police.
Part of me felt like it was my fault. I chose to date a guy who was clearly bad
news and far too old for me. I chose to ignore the signs prior to that night,
which would have sent many girls running in the opposite direction. I chose to
have him over when no one was home, knowing what he was like.
Some of the (very few) people I did
tearfully confide in didn't believe me, or felt it must have been my fault for
many of the reasons I tried to tell myself it was. One even went so far as to
call me a slut.
If there was ever a dark tipping point in
my life, that night - and the reaction that followed - was it. Within months, I
was in a drug and alcohol treatment center, my already addictive personality now
completely out of control. I nearly died trying to suppress the pain.
Years later, when I was in my mid-20's, a
friend of mine dated the same man. I warned her, but kept my distance. Within
months, she had to get a restraining order against him for violence and
stalking.
I often wondered if any of her traumatic
experiences would have happened if I had gone to the police and tried to press
charges. Would he have been put away? Would he have received the help he
certainly needs? How many other women had he assaulted over the years? I'll be
honest; I try not to think about it too much.
Like so many women (and men), I am a victim
of rape. I was a fourteen-year-old girl. It was not my fault. It took many
years of therapy to be able to say that and believe it. Still, the little shame
trolls sit on my shoulder, reminding me that society never sees victims as
blameless.
Why
am I sharing this now? Recently, Canadian radio
show personality Jian Ghomeshi was fired from his job at the CBC, most likely
due to allegations from four women that he physically and/or sexually assaulted
them.
The number of women coming forward has now
climbed to eight. While most of the alleged victims have remained anonymous,
Actress and Royal Canadian Air force captain Lucy DeCoutere has bravely chosen to come forward publicly with her story. Given how difficult it is for me to
write this blog post, I can't begin to imagine what it took for her to come
forward in such a public case.
I don't know Mr. Ghomeshi outside of
listening to him on the radio, nor do I know any of his alleged victims. Is
this one giant conspiracy against a man who is arguably Canada's most famous
radio personality, or is this a case of someone we thought we knew with a much
darker monster inside than most of us could imagine?
If these allegations become formal charges,
we can let a court of law decide who's telling the truth. What I find
interesting, however, is how quickly people have taken sides in defense of or
against Ghomeshi. Two of the most prominent arguments I've seen in defense of
him are: "No way. I love his radio show!" and "If these
allegations were real, charges would have been pressed already."
So, basically, if you think someone is
likeable, they can't be an abuser. And if you were really assaulted, you would
have gone to the police.
I dated a likeable guy and he raped me.
That rape went unreported. It altered my view of men and changed my
relationship to sex. It reshaped my life - and nearly took it. It was most
definitely real.
It's
my hope that sharing my story will help others to let go of any shame or guilt
they might still cling to. The more we share our
stories - publicly or privately - the less shame there will be to them, the more educated people will become, and the less society will blame the victims. Because we are victims.
Rape is about taking someone's power away. Today I'm taking it back.