October 16, 2015

I was sexually assaulted on October 16, 2015.

I didn’t realize it was an assault until this past summer, about four months ago. I thought that I had had a consensual encounter, that for some reason made me feel repulsed and uneasy. The morning after it happened, we went out to breakfast, and he didn't have enough cash to pay for his meal. I was wearing a skirt and while he was in the bathroom, a waitress approached me and told me to keep my legs together. I saw him a few times afterward. I even had consensual sex with him. Because we had already had sex, I felt like I owed it to him. We fucked once so now I had to see it through and give him a chance, even though I had never wanted to touch him in the first place. I tried to convince myself he was just someone I was dating, even though I felt sickened and disgusted by him. After a few weeks, I broke it off. He had wanted to visit me at home and meet my family. The thought filled me with panic and dread. He was upset and tried to hurt me, saying he wasn’t in love with me, and that he had even been “talking” with someone else. He expected me to be jealous. I didn’t care. I was just happy to be rid of him.I didn’t think about him or what happened for eight months. During that time I had a depressive episode, something which is not unusual for me. I felt myself starting to fall immediately after the incident took place, but couldn't make the connection between what happened and the overwhelming sense of revulsion, violation, and panic that continued to escalate over the next few months. And, I refused to admit to myself or anyone what was happening. I had to keep up appearances; I was one semester away from graduating and I couldn’t give up, or slide back into my poor student routine.

I felt myself starting to fall immediately after the incident took place, but couldn't make the connection between what happened and the overwhelming sense of revulsion, violation, and panic that continued to escalate over the next few months.

In early February I was in a car accident. This gave me a socially acceptable explanation for my increasingly abnormal thoughts and behavior, which were becoming difficult for me to hide. Shortly after the accident I began having anxiety attacks and post-trauma symptoms. I was paranoid and manic. I felt afraid and unsafe, like danger was lurking around every corner, and I couldn’t sleep. At the same time I felt ashamed, fraudulent. The car accident had given me an excuse to be traumatized, but deep down I felt like a liar. My anxiety and obsessions developed a new focus: Rape. Assault. Hating and fearing men. When I was 18, an ex-boyfriend didn’t stop immediately when I asked him to during an extremely painful attempt at anal sex, and he humiliated me afterward. This is an incident that I barely remember, and have always felt like I was imagining. I don’t think about it much and have never felt especially traumatized about it.When I could no longer deny my preoccupation with sexual assault I attributed my condition to this. I rationalized that the accident had “opened the box,” as a friend of mine put it, and allowed me to finally experience the trauma of what happened to me when I was a teenager. But I knew this was a lie. I had a feeling that wasn’t the whole story. Something was so, so wrong, but the only explanation I could muster to myself was that this was my fault — a weakness, a character flaw, an excuse. I obsessed about rape constantly, thinking about it for hours each day. I was extremely depressed, and paralyzed by fear and anxiety, hardly leaving my room except to go to class. I felt so scared and violated. So sick and disgusted and ashamed. Why did I feel this way? I tried talking to a friend about my experience with the ex, but I still felt like a phony. There was another reason why I was feeling this way, and what happened to me then wasn’t it.I moved in with my boyfriend in May, but my depression and anxiety continued to intensify. It was affecting our relationship. I was paranoid and distrustful of him; depressed, angry, and breaking down constantly. After a particularly brutal argument, I confided in him that I had been assaulted six years ago, and that my aggressive, crazy behavior was because I couldn’t stop thinking about rape. The next day, as I was reflecting on the previous evening, seething with hatred, shame, and disgust for myself, worn down by my mantra (rape, rape, rape, rape, rape) which had been repeating itself constantly for the better part of a year, it suddenly occurred to me. What happened to me last year was the reason I felt this way.

The next day, as I was reflecting on the previous evening, seething with hatred, shame, and disgust for myself, worn down by my mantra (rape, rape, rape, rape, rape) which had been repeating itself constantly for the better part of a year, it suddenly occurred to me. What happened to me last year was the reason I felt this way.

I was at work when I had my revelation. As I mulled this over I became more and more disgusted and sick to my stomach. There was always a sense of unease attached to the previous assault, but there was no denying what had happened to me in October. I was absolutely sure that I was not imagining or exaggerating the incident. Suddenly, I remembered it very clearly, and I resolved to write down what had happened, so that I could not doubt myself like I did before. I drove home filled with anger and hatred, and waves of panic washed over me as I realized we were friends on Facebook. I deleted him on social media and blocked him on my phone with shaking hands and bile rising into my esophagus. It has been over a year since it happened. Usually, I am happy, or at least content. But I'm still haunted by what happened and my mantra continues. I feel so guilty and ashamed. When I think about how he doesn’t think he’s a rapist, and probably doesn’t realize that he violated me, I feel sick. I question myself, and think that I don’t deserve to feel this way. I read things that remind me of this, and see that many people would say that I was not raped, that I had "buyer’s remorse." Or that it’s my fault because I let it happen, that I wasn’t really raped. The police probably wouldn’t have been able to do anything. A judge would never convict him. Worst of all, I think about how maybe I “made him a rapist,” because surely it wouldn’t have happened if I’d protested more, if I’d insisted harder, if I’d said no one more time, if I’d raised my voice, if I was more forceful, if I’d had higher self esteem. Shame, guilt, sick, disgusted.I am angry at him, but angrier at myself. There’s a voice that whispers, it didn’t happen like that, you’re imagining it. You brought this on yourself. This is your fault.