It’s Not Okay
11 — My friend’s 14 year old brother and his friend chased me then held me down. They kept me pinned and put a paper bag over my head and told me that’s the way I was most fuckable. My friend walked in and yelled at them to leave me alone.
13 — My neighbor was a couple years older than me. Some boys invited us over to drink. I got drunk quickly and an 18 year old led me to a bedroom to “teach me” about oral.
13 — I got drunk at a party, threw up and passed out in a bedroom. A 19 year old came in and forced himself on me while I was saying please no. I woke up with vomit on my shoes, blood in my underwear and semen on my shirt.
16 — Went to sleep at a party in my good friend’s empty bed. Woke up to him holding me down wearing a condom. I struggled and got away. He told everyone we had sex.
17 — One of my best friends got mad when I got a boyfriend. He wrote and sent me a graphic story about violently raping me. Punching me in the stomach until I vomited, using my own blood and vomit as lubricant. My mom found it and I had to sit in the principal’s office with the counselor after they read it. I was given the option to leave Honors English and step down from student council if I didn’t want to be around him anymore. I apologized to mutual friends for getting him in trouble.
18 — My roommate’s friend locked her out of our apartment and got in my bed while I was sleeping heavily on anti-anxiety medication. He only stopped because she was pounding at the door. I thought it was a bad dream until I asked my roommate.
This is not a comprehensive list. Just the stand outs.
For years, I never considered myself to have been sexually assaulted. When I was in junior high, I thought it made me cool that older boys found me desirable. I thought it made me grown up to have done adult things. I thought it made me tough to be able to engage in sexual activity and not “catch feelings.” The less it meant to me emotionally the easier it was to deal with being used (both consensually and otherwise) as a disposable body.
That outlook shaped my thinking about intimacy, about men, and about my value as a person.
Besides, I thought, that stuff happened to me because I made the choice to drink knowing I shouldn’t. I thought I put myself in those situations, it’s my responsibility. I thought that mindset insulated me from being a victim. I thought I was choosing not to be a victim, thus retaining some sort of choice and ownership over my body.
Besides, I liked attention. Attention felt good. Validation felt good. Sometimes sex felt good. Like so many victims of abuse I internalized the idea that I’m at fault. That I’m dirty, contaminated, damaged goods and deserve to settle for any form of attention I can get.
But then I had kids and looked back with compassion for myself as a child, and it made me sad. I read stories about Bill Cosby drugging women and having his way with them, and it made me sick. I listened to the Republican Presidential Candidate brag about assaulting women and in horror watched America vote that it was okay, and it made me angry. Along the way, and now more than ever, I’ve been reading the stories of women who’ve lived their own versions of the same problem, and it’s made me strong.
I didn’t want to share because I was ashamed. I thought it was my fault. I thought I didn’t deserve sympathy because I was lucky my abuse wasn’t violent. I thought it would be perceived as attention seeking. I thought it would somehow take away from my wholeness as a person who exists separately from this.
But I’m tired of allowing people to believe this isn’t the reality. To falsely believe it’s an isolated incident, a couple of “monsters” out there perpetrating brutal horrors. I’m tired of staying silent because it’s not fun to talk about, or because I believe my voice doesn’t deserve to be heard, or because I’m afraid of what people will think or say or feel.
Despite what society says to us, what our president does, what power has gotten away with, despite the subvert and overt messaging calling us whores and cunts and nazi feminist bitches, women keep finding the power to listen to their gut and say “this is not okay.” One of my best friends @adult_mom tweeted examples of abuse she’s experienced and said “My voice wasn’t strong then, but it is now.” I didn’t understand it wasn’t okay then, but I do now. Because of the strength and friendship of victims strong enough to share. So I’m throwing my experience on to the growing bonfire lit ablaze with the strength of women and allies saying this is real and it’s not okay.
Please do not direct your sympathy toward me. I’m not unique. I do not need your condolences. I need you to believe the next woman who comes forward about her abuse. I need you to speak up the next time you hear “locker room talk.” I need you to have an open mind when people question the systems and culture that allow this to continue. I need you to confront the ways you’re complacent. I need us to join voices and keep saying it’s not okay.
