I know it’s a cliché…

You always hear about how people who are sexually assaulted blame themselves, even when it’s glaringly obvious that it is not — is never — their fault. I’m a feminist, damnit! But deep down in my core, at the pit of my stomach, in a way that feels completely intrinsic, I truly believe that what happened to me is my fault. The guilt and shame I feel about my “role” in the assault, and my behavior afterward, have been my greatest struggle since I realized what happened.I scrutinize myself — how did I behave, what did I say? Beforehand, did I shave my legs? My bikini line? I put on makeup and dressed in something that made me feel confident and attractive before meeting him; that must have meant I was expecting it? I searched through my phone, my Facebook timeline, my photos, texts messages, and emails looking for clues about what I was thinking and feeling, what HE was thinking and feeling — something, anything about what really happened that night. How did I invite this? How did I bring this upon myself?

I put on makeup and dressed in something that made me feel confident and attractive before meeting him; that must have meant I was expecting it?

I even question if it happened the way I think I remember it — or worse, whether it happened at all. Does it matter that I gave in, stopped resisting, and — to an extent — played the role of willing partner when I realized the only way I was going to be able to get out of an extremely unpleasant, scary, and humiliating situation was to give him what he wanted? Did I make it clear enough that I didn’t want it? DID I want it? I am constantly shifting between states of anger. It’s directed at what has happened to me, and at the person who violated me and completely disturbed my peace of mind. Then it swings to extreme guilt and self-doubt, hating myself for “making up” the assault, and feeling completely dissociated from myself.Maybe this is because it’s nearly impossible for me to admit that I was raped. Writing this now, my fingers hurt as I force myself to type the words I can hardly believe. I want to move on so badly, but I can’t. I’m stuck.