The Whole Truth: Part VII

I am so proud of this dear friend and so honored to be sharing her story. I watched her process of After the Rape and I am so proud of her for getting to this moment. Not the one where she tells you her story in detail but the one where she stops blaming herself because no one deserves to be raped and no asks for it.

Rape culture is a pervading epidemic when our boys don't even know that what they've done is rape. Rape culture is a pervading epidemic when our boys and men would characterize rape as something that only happens in back alleys and not something that happens to women who are unconscious or past the point of reasonably consenting. It is an epidemic when our boys think that they are entitled to sex and don't know that real, fulfilling sex is consensual, meaningful and fulfilling for BOTH parties, not just for him. Guess what? We are living in that epidemic. This story proves it.
                                                             

I am writing my story for two reasons: 1) to bring attention to the most common type of sexual assault and 2) to talk about what happens after the assault.

When I was 15, I went to help my grandmother with a convention she was participating in in OKC before heading to their home for a week to visit. When I got there it was “Surprise! Your cousin you haven’t seen since you were too young to remember is coming with us!” It was fine, really. He was nice and only a year older than me so I was pretty excited to have someone to hang out with. The first day in the pool he got a little grabby, but I thought he was playing so I brushed it off.  The first night we got to my grandparents’ house he came to see me in my room but I was almost asleep so I ignored him. The second night he asked me to come in his room (my grandparents went to bed really early) and he kissed me, which made me really uncomfortable, and I pulled away. He kept telling me how beautiful I was and how he just wanted to touch me. He pushed me down on the bed and forced himself in my mouth. I tried to pull away but he held my hair. When I could finally leave I did, crying in my room until morning. Three other three nights it happened. I begged him not to and he said he would break my arms if I refused. I believed him because he was so much bigger than me, which pissed me off. I prided myself on not being weak, but I couldn’t see an alternative.  At the time I told one of my closest friends and begged him not to say anything because I didn’t want to get hurt, but I promised to tell after I got home and he held me to it. The day I got home, he came over and told me I had two days to tell my parents or he would.  So I did. Then I told my grandmother. She responded that she didn’t believe me and there was no way her baby could do that. Then she back tracked a little and said if he did it, it had to be because of the way I dressed that summer (shorts, tank tops, swimming suits). I was devastated. Those words hurt me more than the act ever could.

A year or so later, I dropped a male friend off at work one night and he reached over and kissed me and when I pushed him away,  he didn’t immediately back off and it triggered something in me. I broke.  I don’t remember much from that time except my mom telling me she was forcing me to go talk to someone and her calling her insurance. This sticks out because she was always tough as nails and raised us to handle our problems ourselves and be strong, which I thought clashed with talking to a psychiatrist. But since she insisted, I went. I remember the psychiatrist’s office perfectly…it was very “homey” but like the person was trying too hard to make it that way- floral print EVERYWHERE. I don’t remember much about how she actually looked, but she used animals to assist her therapy and had two little pugs and a room full of bird cages. I sat on a pink couch with flowery pillows. I jumped right in with telling her what happened, but I focused for some reason on my grandmother and the hurt that I hadn’t truly gotten over. And then this professional, the woman who was supposed to help me asked “Do you think that she could be right? Boys can’t always help themselves and we, as women, need to be modest at all times”. Yes, yes she did. She said those words to a vulnerable sixteen year old girl who came to her for help and all she found was blame. To this day, I am super uncomfortable in any revealing clothes.

Fast forward ten years. I am married to someone who treats me with so much respect and is always very sensitive to what happened and never pushes me beyond my limits. One of the local bars here was hosting a Halloween party and I went with a friend. I drove my own car but we met there. We had drinks, more than a few and I went outside to cool off and get out of the crowd. I told my friend where I was going, but when I went back in to check on her, a mutual acquaintance told me that she had left.

She left.

Without telling me.

She didn’t even call to check on me. I had to call her the next morning.

 I went back outside to sober up and I met a table full of super nice people who asked me to join them for a bit and we hit it off.  Although, at this point I was another couple drinks in and things were getting hazy. They invited me over and I don’t remember it but for some reason I decided to take them up on their offer to carry on the party at their house. We got there and smoked a bowl, as I was told the next day, and then I asked one of the guys to bring me a drink. At this point I really don’t remember anything other than sitting on the couch and seeing the Waynes Brothers on TV and thinking “Is this show even still on?” and that was it.

Next thing I know, I’m on a bed and someone is inside me.  I freaked. I pushed him off and ran out of the room, almost tripped on the stairs because I could have sworn I was on the first floor when I was last conscious. I drove home, although I’m still not sure how and I’m lucky I made it. The next day, my husband had drill and I called him when I woke up and begged him to come home; I needed him. After I told him he just hugged me and told me everything was going to be alright.

Here’s the part that no one really talks about: what happens after the rape. I didn’t want to press charges. I knew that immediately. The guy was barely an adult. He called me the next day to make sure I was okay because I left so suddenly and then was devastated when I told him that what he did to me was not what I wanted. He had no idea, which is a problem created by society. We perpetuate a rape culture. But, I digress.

So I asked my husband to come with me to the hospital because we didn’t have medical insurance and I knew I needed to get the Plan B pill. When I got there I told the front desk what happened, but that I didn’t want to press charges (the guilt I had was burning me up, there are no words for it and all I could think of is that no judge in the world would believe that I wasn’t a whore).  

After waiting two hours, I was finally shown to a room and in came a male doctor and a male nurse.

 Not a female in sight.

For a rape victim.

I couldn’t believe it. The nurse was spectacular, but the doctor… oh, the doctor. He was very off handed with me because I refused to press charges. He insisted that I could not get pregnant from my rape. I demanded the Plan B. He said he would test me for STDs and treat me for them but pregnancy was really not something to worry about. I asked about the scary thing that was weighing heavily on my mind: HIV.  He said that my “incident” (he never once called it rape) wasn’t serious enough to worry about HIV because it wasn’t like I was attacked in an alley; it was just a party. He followed that comment with,” But just in case, don’t share any food or kisses with your daughter or husband, because they could get HIV that way.”  I learned in future testing experiences that is not at all how you can spread HIV. I spent 6 months in fear and worry for nothing. As he was leaving I had to remind him that he didn’t tell the nurse to bring me the Plan B *again* and he parted with “try not to leave your drinks unattended, it can obviously have less than nice consequences.”  It was the most condescending conversation I have ever had and because my husband was with me and I didn’t want to press charges, no one took me seriously. Two shots and a handful of pills later, the nurse said they had done everything they could and he would send in a social worker for me to talk to. 

An hour later, a harried looking woman came in, practically threw a piece of paper with a phone number on it and said “You might want to talk to someone if you are really actually hurting”. And left. And that was that. I was left to deal with the fear and pain by myself.  Luckily, I have a wonderful group of women that I can share my story with and they accepted me and carried me through. Six months later I am STD free, thank goodness, and far more educated for it.

No one really talks about what happens after the rape. No one really tells you about how awful and sick the STD preventatives make you and how it will change your relationship with everyone. No one talks about how hard it is to call what happened an “assault” much less use the word “rape” and even how hearing the word can make you want to throw up. Oh man, and the guilt, good lord, there is so much guilt. I could not stop blaming myself “shouldn’t have gone out-you are married!” “Surely you must have wanted it, why else would you go home with strangers?” all the things I said to myself because I just knew that others would ask. Funny thing is: no one has. I don’t sugar coat my part in it- I was drinking, I probably got high, hell at some point the guy got my phone number-but bottom line was I was not conscious and with all the holes in the night, I had to be very obviously intoxicated, not at all capable of consenting. Drinking is not asking for rape. Dressing however you want is not asking for rape. Rape is never okay. Sex should be mutual and pleasurable and if the person is not conscious, it cannot be that.  Something else no one talks about is the support you can get and the people that stand by you. I would never have survived these experiences without the support of my husband, my parents and siblings, and my friends.

Oh, and just a tip: If you go out together, you come home together, end of story.