Ten years ago last November my virginity was taken from me in a non-consensual sexual encounter. The words victim and rape have never appealed to me personally, because for me those words make me think of violence—of events that occur in parking garages and alleys. That wasn’t how it happened for me. Stranger danger and physical violence are real and those encounters happen every day. But statistics show that most rapes happen in the comfort of your own home or the home of your partner or in the company of someone you trust. That’s how it was for me, and this is my story.
Even ten years later I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve spoken to about what happened to me. It has always been easier for me to write my truth than to speak it. Even now, it’s easier to sit behind a computer and share deeply personal information with the whole world than it is to look my mother in the eyes and tell her that harm came upon me when she was out of reach to protect me. A mother will do anything to protect her child. Your pain is her pain. There is no boundary line. Because of this I felt the need to shelter my own mother and protect her from knowing what happened to me. To be clear, what happened wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t my fault, either. But in staying silent, I felt that I could bear the pain of it while sparing her. I’ve learned that if you are unable to speak your truth, then it is because you feel shame. Shame requires secrecy, silence, and judgement to thrive. It cannot endure when doused with empathy. It cannot spread when you use your voice to shine light upon it. A decade later I am ready to speak my truth, for myself, but also for you. Because a cultural shift needs to occur, and we each have to make a choice within ourselves to be that change.
It was Thanksgiving Day. I was in a new relationship with a guy I met through the local band scene. I brought him into my home to meet my family during lunch and I met his over dinner. After dinner I played Scrabble for the first time with his family and a seven-year-old kicked my ass. To this day I still haven’t played Scrabble to save myself the embarrassment. After that we went to his bedroom in the basement to watch the movie Final Destination 3. There were Christmas lights hanging on the ceiling. As my clothes came off I knew I didn’t want to participate in these activities. Every alarm in my body was going off that I needed to get out of this situation, yet I didn’t know how. In that moment, I was completely ill-equipped at how to de-escalate the proceedings, because up until that point in my life, having sex was nowhere on my radar. My plan was to wait until marriage. I knew that. He knew that. And I still couldn’t find my voice to say no. They tell you that in moments of panic your fight or flight response kicks in. But if the #MeToo movement has taught me anything over the past year, it’s that there’s a third option. Freeze. Many of us, when under extreme stress, withdraw into ourselves. Instead of kicking and screaming or trying to run away, we simply try to disappear. A thousand thoughts ran through my head all at once and they paralyzed me. I was scared of rejecting him physically and in turn being rejected emotionally. I was worried about being uncool or “a tease.” And while I couldn’t find my voice to say no, I also didn’t say yes. There was no opportunity to say yes, because there was no discussion. Only silence.
For years I felt guilt and shame about what happened because I thought it was my fault. I thought I should have been more clear. I should have said no. Perhaps me saying “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” wasn’t enough. What if “Maybe some other night” wasn’t convincing enough for him? Maybe I had sent mixed signals by allowing him to undress me. Maybe by laying there motionless and staring at the Christmas lights I had been compliant. I left his house shortly afterward feeling numb, and nearly in tears. He said things like “I’m sorry” and “We don’t have to do that again if you don’t want to.” A few days later, after it became very clear to him that those events would not transpire again, he broke up with me through a Myspace message. I was completely undone. I laid awake crying and screaming into my pillow. I felt emotions that have been unmatched over the course of the past decade.
Looking back it is very clear that he went into the entire encounter with one goal, and when he took all that he could from me, he left. Shortly after I learned that he was already on the registered sex offender list, because he had molested the seven-year-old that beat me at Scrabble. He was breaking the law by even being in his family’s house on Thanksgiving. But I wasn’t interested in pressing charges. At that point my shame and my guilt didn’t allow me to speak up. I told myself that I should have been smarter than to date a sex offender in the first place.
It took me over a week to tell my best friend what happened. I invited her to lunch but couldn’t get the words out until the drive home when we were almost back to her house. Ultimately, I felt like if I didn’t say it then, I would never muster the courage to try again. The events that occurred in those ten basement minutes have overshadowed the last ten years of my life. I fell into a cycle of physical self-harm and negative self-talk, and I continually dated people with more problems than my own so that I could focus on fixing their issues rather than address mine. I was late to my 8am pre-calculus class 27 times in the semester that followed because I couldn’t get myself out of bed in the morning. I know people close to me, young and old alike, knew that something was wrong. Whenever they asked, I put on a reassuring face and told them I was fine. I was too ashamed to tell. Knowing that my mother felt my hurt in her own heart, even if she didn’t know the root of my hurt, was the only thing that kept me going. I couldn’t quit or breakdown because if she knew, she would hurt even more, and I couldn’t bring myself to let her carry that burden. So I endured in silence. She used to leave me love notes every morning with the daily weather report and a quote about persevering though hard times. “This too shall pass,” she always used to say. Her love was the only reason I could make my feet hit the floor in the morning.
It took years to realize this encounter was not my fault and even longer to forgive myself. Even now, in my personal and intimate relationships, I still struggle to voice my needs and desires. I have a hard time identifying what I need, and even when I do, I struggle with physically getting the words out. I still struggle with negative self-talk and being kind to myself each and every day. I struggle to feel like I am enough, like I do enough, and that I am worthy of my own love. I have learned to bear everything in life deep inside of myself, without knowing how to release the weight I carry. It took years to realize that simply bearing something in silence isn’t enough. It took years to realize that maybe my voice has been so hard to find because my voice had been taken from me. Literally, and in such a deeply personal and intimate way, at such a vulnerable time in my life.
I share this story because it is not an uncommon one and because as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that a large part of who I am as a person is a storyteller. Keeping this story inside myself has allowed it to have power over me, and by sharing it, I am releasing it. I’m sharing it because I refuse to let silence and secrecy continue to steal my voice. I share it because there are lessons to be learned here by all. People are not always who you believe them to be. The people you invoke into your life do not always have your best interests in mind. So please, take a look at the women you love. And take a look at yourself. Be the change. Make a point to incorporate consent into every intimate encounter you have. Because consent isn’t supposed to be awkward or uncomfortable. There should never be a gray area. Consent is something to be celebrated together. It should be sexy and it should be powerful. It is a verbal affirmation—whether whispered, moaned, or shouted, that you are present and willing to share in something beautiful with your partner. Think about that concept for a moment. Think about the shift that would occur if that was the expectation, every time.
Make a point to practice consent in your daily life. Start asking your friends and loved ones for permission to hug them instead of jumping in. Something so simple can cause a profound shift in thought once you consent to being hugged and receiving someone’s love. It draws attention to your choice and reaffirms your voice in the matter. And above all else, always trust your instincts and the instincts of your children. If your two-year-old or your nine-year-old doesn’t want to hug Uncle Dale or Aunt Diane at Thanksgiving, don’t force them to. Respect their boundaries and know that as an adult you do not owe anything to anyone. If you are ever uncomfortable in a situation, it is your right to voice that and remove yourself from the situation, no matter what the other person’s intentions may have been.
And lastly—I participated in my first self-defense course a few months ago. While relational abuse is rampant, we also live in a world where sexual violence is a real threat. Go take a course. Know how to defend yourself when saying NO doesn’t work. And realize that anything you are comfortable saying to a stranger to protect yourself is something you should also be comfortable saying to a loved one to protect yourself. If you live in Portland, I highly recommend Amanda Diggins at Straight Blast Gym on Sandy Boulevard. Not only is she a badass women’s advocate, she’s also the reigning female world champion of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.
To the women reading this who found themselves with a lump in their throat because it hit too close to home, know that I stand with you. We all do. Your voice is your power. I’m trading in my silence for solidarity.