Year 16… If this
piece makes it past my desktop, then 16 is the charm. I’ve tried to write this or
something like it for the last six years, but I haven’t been brave, bold, or
honest enough to do so. Today, I am enough.
Initially, I never called it rape. It was “the incident”, “that”, “it”, “my
3rd year at NKU”, “the assault thing”, and a long list of other
completely bogus, undescriptive terms; but I NEVER called it rape. I never gave this cataclysm the attention it
demanded. I tried to dismiss it like I had successfully done so many other
misadventures.
·
“It happened, but he didn’t mean it like that.”
·
“He did force his way in to my apartment, but he
wasn’t trying to hurt me. He had too much to drink.”
·
“I had been drinking too. I’m not even sure I remember
it the way it happened.”
·
“I should have had someone walk me home. I knew
better than to be out that late alone, in that outfit.”
·
“We’ve had sex before! Really, he’s my friend. He
just drank too much.”
·
“I danced with him like six times. Of course, I led
him on.”
I could go on and
on and on. I made hundreds if not thousands of excuses in my mind to take the
responsibility off him and his decision. It was something… a mishap. An
accident. A misunderstanding. A bad choice. It was something else. Anything
else; but not rape. It wasn’t that. It couldn’t have been that because I knew
him. Strangers rape you, right? Not your friends. Not your homie that walks to
and from class with you 3-4 days a week. Not your upstairs neighbor with whom you
hang out on a regular basis. Not the funny guy with the dope personality and similar
taste in gym shoes & music…RIGHT?
WRONG! My friend
did rape me. He did mean it like that. He did force his way into my apartment
and hurt me, after having too much to drink. I remember exactly how it happened-
I sobered up at the very moment the force intensified; the very moment in which
my friend became my attacker. I should have had someone walk me to my
apartment, but I also should have been as safe as I felt on a well-lit, patrolled,
college campus, after a frat party. A woman’s outfit is NEVER the reason; I know
that. Our single sexual encounter, two
years prior, was not a green light for him to have me when he wanted me; I knew
that too & so did he. And if I had danced with him and only him the whole
night, it didn’t give him the right to change who I was as a person.
It took me years,
maybe 14 or 15 of them to admit that, that night changed who I was. I have
never again been who I was prior to August 27, 2003. I have not felt the same
sincerity in my smile. My trust in people, especially men, is shaky at best. I’m
no longer free at heart or unguarded. I don’t laugh as loudly as I used to and
I’m always a little suspicious of people. I check every lock 2-3 times before I
can rest at night. I watch the time constantly & take note of what time
random things began & stopped. I watched the clock in my bedroom that night;
it only lasted 3 minutes, but it felt like days. I’m afraid of the dark now…yes at 36 years
old, I can’t sleep in the dark or with a door open in the room I’m sleeping in.
I’m weird about bathroom doors & showers. I’m more selective about people,
especially men, knowing where I live; and the chances of them getting invited
over are slim to none. I don’t follow a
routine, and frankly I always feel like I’m being followed or watched. I search for him on social media and I can’t
justify why. He’s not my friend and I don’t care where he is or what he’s
doing, but I want to know. I want to know if that night changed him, because 16
years later, I’m still not the same.
For the first
year, I was in constant fear...of EVERYTHING; but I had let myself believe that
was normal because of what I had experienced. Time kept passing and I was
showing no progress. I stopped going to class, because it felt like everyone
was looking at me and talking about me. I would go to work, but always with a
hood on, looking at the ground. I didn't make eye contact with anyone for about
two years; it was hard. It made me feel vulnerable, so I watched the ground as
I walked. I went back and forth between isolating myself and surrounding myself
with any crowd I could hide myself within. My grades were poor. My attitude was poor. My
judgement was ridiculously poor. My relationships were suffering. I was
spiraling out of control, internally and exhausting myself to keep the severity
of the damage a secret.
When I decided
that I could write and share my story I promised myself that I would accept NO PITY or backlash that may follow because I and I alone did the work to overcome
this. There is no one on this earth not my best friend, not one of my sisters,
not my mom, not one soul who knows exactly what went on inside me that night and in the thousands of nights and days that
have followed. I dealt with it the way
society said I should by seeking counseling and going through the legal system
to prosecute him. I have prayed and been prayed over. I have forgiven. I have
used every coping skill in my bag of tricks, and I deserve to release what’s
left of this, in a way that is pleasing and comfortable to me.
I also decided
that I would omit the specifics, because they are pointless today. What matters
to me now is that every young woman who finds herself on a college campus alone
at night or in a bad situation, filled with shame, confusion and embarrassment
knows that 1) she is not alone. 2) this is disgustingly common 3) It is rape
& it’s perfectly OK to call it that 4) He’s not your friend; don’t protect
him.
