The Long Promised Entry
Hope Courage Bravery Endurance
Disclaimer: The following entry may be disturbing. Not graphic, just upsetting. Just wanted to give you all a heads up. I do hope you continue reading but the choice is yours. This is a long entry. I tried to separate the 2 stories, but really, they’re 2 parts of the same story.
One in four women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. Think of all the women you know. Or think of a smaller number, your coworkers, your classmates, your extended family. Divide that number by 4. The number you have left is a sobering one.
This is my story. I am the one in four.
For a long time I wondered what exactly had happened, what had led up to this terrible thing that happened on a June day in 2000. Was I raped? No, I don’t think so. Was I assaulted? To this day, I am not sure how to answer this question. I still cannot remember the conversation leading up to this whole thing. I cannot remember whether I said yes or no, not because it was traumatic or violent but because it was ordinary. I think I just got tired of saying no. Afterwards, I didn’t want to label myself as an assault survivor because I didn’t want to detract from all the brave women who have dealt with worse. And that meant admitting it to myself. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter exactly what happened. It doesn’t matter what the technical definition is. It doesn’t matter what name you give it. Those were freeing realizations. That whatever happened to me, it didn’t change the pain and the hurt and the anger that I felt.
If one person out there can avoid what I went through by reading this, then I have achieved my goal. Those of you who are young, be careful and be wise and trust your instincts. Don’t let inexperience get the better of you. Those of you with children or young relatives, talk to them. Start the conversations now. Teach them respect for themselves and for other people. Teach them the meaning of the word “no.” Those of you with similar experiences, I wish you hope, courage, bravery, and endurance. You are not alone. You do not need to be silent. Every experience is different, but I believe the emotional impacts are quite similar, like that tiny thing that, just when you think you’re OK, triggers the flood of pain. The hurt, the pain, the loss of trust.
He was someone I knew, someone I dated for 9 months and 1 month too long, someone I selfishly ruined a perfectly good relationship over, someone I thought loved me. Notice I said I thought he loved me. Despite saying it once or twice, I never loved him. I see that now. There were warning signs but I couldn’t see them while I was in the relationship. I consciously decided to stop speaking to him around July 2001. I have not spoken a word to him since then. He does not get a name. He took my voice away for 6 years. For that, he does not deserve a name. I am taking my voice back. I am telling my story.
------
Some background on the first part.
This happened during my senior year of college. December 10, 2002, late one night during finals week while I was heading out to the library to write papers. We lived in the same building in the same wing, he on the second floor, me on the fifth floor. I lost the night of writing. But I have this piece, which I wrote immediately afterwards. I have never never edited it. The last 3 paragraphs are as if I were talking to him.
The First Story
I knew one day it would happen. I thought about it every time I reached the second floor. I could avoid him as much as I tried, but eventually I knew I was going to get into an awkward situation. As I was about to press the crash bar on the door, I heard the lock click. Someone had just swiped their card to open the door. I pushed the door open, and there he was.
“Okay,” he said, surprised that someone had opened the door the instant he was about to grab the handle. Or maybe he was surprised to see me.
I stared at him for a split second and walked past him as if he were a stranger. God, that felt awkward. In an instant, I felt the whole thing come back, the pain and the memories and the awful times. Suddenly, I was wide awake with anger. I couldn’t talk to him. I couldn’t acknowledge that he existed. I didn’t want to be cold, but after so long of not talking to him, I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to talk to him. I did but I didn’t because I knew it would do no good. He hurt me so badly and he has no idea why. To him, it was no big deal. It was his duty as a boyfriend. To me, it was everything I didn’t want, nothing I expected. I know talking to him would make the situation worse. He’d blame me, say I led him on for nine months, that I damn well knew what I was getting into, that he’d wasted the relationship with me when he could have been dating someone else. I’ve imagined this scene over and over again, and it plays out the same way every time. It’s my fault, you stupid prude. All my fault. He wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Why would he remember that day? Would he remember the insults, the comments that should have been said more sensitively?
For once, I wish I could do to him what he did to me. Sit him down, take away a piece of him, and fling it out the window like it didn’t matter. Our relationship was never based on love. I saw his anger management problems, how he punched a desk for no reason, how he whipped the floor with his belt when he got frustrated. He had never lashed out at me, but that didn’t prevent him from doing it some time in the future.
And the first time I was lucky. A different guy listened. He understood that no meant no and had some respect for me. Or maybe he just didn’t want to jeopardize the chances of getting into his first choice college. Whatever the reasons, he didn’t assault me. I didn’t emerge uninjured, but I was spared of any major damage.
You don’t damage a girl that badly. You don’t leave a girl that scared of the world and so unsure of herself. You don’t destroy her trust, and you don’t abandon her for three weeks while you hang out with your friends. If you love her, you don’t pressure her into something she doesn’t want to do. If you don’t care, you force yourself on her, and she just gets tired of saying no. She doesn’t say yes, but she stops fighting.
You are the reason I have a Take Back the Night button on my backpack. I bet you don’t even know what Take Back the Night is. You have no idea what I have gone through and continue to deal with. This is your problem, not mine, and yet I am the one who has to deal with the consequences. I’m the one with the trust issues. I’m the one who’s afraid.
You know what? I’m not going to be the victim anymore because I don’t need that kind of burden. It was not my fault. I did not ask for me. It wasn’t your duty. Your duty of what? To make me feel good? Yeah, you sure did a good job at that one. I’m tired of being afraid of randomly running into you. I’m tired of holding my breath when I set foot on the second floor landing. I’m tired of pretending to ignore you. I don’t have to live my life that way. Why should I be the one who feels uncomfortable when I didn’t do anything?
------
Some background on the second part:
Take Back the Night is a rally for survivors of rape and sexual assault. It is the culmination of the CARE series (Concerned About Rape Education) of week-long events. When I went to Take Back the Night for the first time during my sophomore year (in April 2001), I sat there and cried as brave women shared their stories. I didn’t realize until years later why I was crying. So, I looked forward to my last Take Back the Night in April 2003. He was there. I don’t know exactly when I wrote this. The file properties say April 8, 2003. That sounds about right.
The Second Story
So I’m at Take Back the Night and the reason why I’m there comes and stands right in front of me. I crunch my hands into fists, the automatic tension response that I have felt many times before. Does he have any idea why I’m there or why I’ve been wearing a green shirt? Does he realize how much anger I still have towards him? Does he know that I want this night to be important and he’s wrecking it? I have a right to be free with my life and he’s in my way.
I stand on my toes to see him recite the pledge. “We stand before you to show you that we understand that most rapes are perpetrated by men … but not by all men,” he read. “We stand here because we understand that as sexual assaults continue to hurt the ones we love ... we continue to hurt as well … We will no longer stay silent and be complacent.”
And I wonder whether you mean the words and if you realize what you’ve done. And I think of the things I’ve had to deal with and how you haven’t been a part of it. That’s my fault, right? I’m the one who stopped talking to you. I wonder if you’ve noticed that I’m the one who casually avoids contact between us, that I’m the one who turns in a different direction and I’m the one that feels uncomfortable. I wonder if you know about this urge I have to punch you in the face or run in the opposite direction every time I see you. And I thought I had it under control and that I knew how to deal with it, that I was finally learning to get past it, to get over the trust issues and leave your ghost where it belongs.
But then I see you on the staircase or at Take Back the Night and I am paralyzed. I want to break the silence so badly, but then I am glad I’m not speaking out because you are there. Would you know I was talking about you? Would you understand? Would you brush me off as a prude? Would you apologize, or would you blame me?
No one will believe me. I have no proof, no evidence. I’m just the girl who changed her mind afterwards. I wanted it, right? I needed it.
And it’s hard for me because I don’t remember what happened. Yeah, you have no idea what I’m talking about. At times, I’m not sure either. I remember looking at my watch, feeling the June warmth, wanting it to be over. Did I say no? Did I say yes? Or did I just get tired of saying no and not stop you? You had no right to think you knew what I wanted and what I needed, no right at all.
I’m tired of being scared of running into you. I’m tired of dealing with the pain. I’m tired of being silent and I’m tired of making myself a victim. I have these conflicting urges. I need to tell you how I feel and how badly I’ve been hurt. And I don’t want to hear back from you. You took away my voice and my trust and I will not give you a voice by listening to your story.
It hurts that I thought you loved me. If you truly did, you would have known not to push me so hard. And you wouldn’t have chosen your penis over me if you truly valued our relationship.
I learned the hard way.
------
If you have made it this far, thank you. Thank you for listening to me. I have worked through the major issues, particularly the trust issues. I have a loving supportive fiancé who has helped me tremendously. Still, there is only so much he understands. While 99.9% of the time I am fine and I don’t bother to think about this, I have a small but permanent wound. But I am moving on, one small step at a time, or one big step (i.e. posting this). It was not my intention to upset anyone, and I apologize if this entry is a trigger. I hope that one person, just one person, is wiser for having read this.
Disclaimer: The following entry may be disturbing. Not graphic, just upsetting. Just wanted to give you all a heads up. I do hope you continue reading but the choice is yours. This is a long entry. I tried to separate the 2 stories, but really, they’re 2 parts of the same story.
One in four women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. Think of all the women you know. Or think of a smaller number, your coworkers, your classmates, your extended family. Divide that number by 4. The number you have left is a sobering one.
This is my story. I am the one in four.
For a long time I wondered what exactly had happened, what had led up to this terrible thing that happened on a June day in 2000. Was I raped? No, I don’t think so. Was I assaulted? To this day, I am not sure how to answer this question. I still cannot remember the conversation leading up to this whole thing. I cannot remember whether I said yes or no, not because it was traumatic or violent but because it was ordinary. I think I just got tired of saying no. Afterwards, I didn’t want to label myself as an assault survivor because I didn’t want to detract from all the brave women who have dealt with worse. And that meant admitting it to myself. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter exactly what happened. It doesn’t matter what the technical definition is. It doesn’t matter what name you give it. Those were freeing realizations. That whatever happened to me, it didn’t change the pain and the hurt and the anger that I felt.
If one person out there can avoid what I went through by reading this, then I have achieved my goal. Those of you who are young, be careful and be wise and trust your instincts. Don’t let inexperience get the better of you. Those of you with children or young relatives, talk to them. Start the conversations now. Teach them respect for themselves and for other people. Teach them the meaning of the word “no.” Those of you with similar experiences, I wish you hope, courage, bravery, and endurance. You are not alone. You do not need to be silent. Every experience is different, but I believe the emotional impacts are quite similar, like that tiny thing that, just when you think you’re OK, triggers the flood of pain. The hurt, the pain, the loss of trust.
He was someone I knew, someone I dated for 9 months and 1 month too long, someone I selfishly ruined a perfectly good relationship over, someone I thought loved me. Notice I said I thought he loved me. Despite saying it once or twice, I never loved him. I see that now. There were warning signs but I couldn’t see them while I was in the relationship. I consciously decided to stop speaking to him around July 2001. I have not spoken a word to him since then. He does not get a name. He took my voice away for 6 years. For that, he does not deserve a name. I am taking my voice back. I am telling my story.
------
Some background on the first part.
This happened during my senior year of college. December 10, 2002, late one night during finals week while I was heading out to the library to write papers. We lived in the same building in the same wing, he on the second floor, me on the fifth floor. I lost the night of writing. But I have this piece, which I wrote immediately afterwards. I have never never edited it. The last 3 paragraphs are as if I were talking to him.
The First Story
I knew one day it would happen. I thought about it every time I reached the second floor. I could avoid him as much as I tried, but eventually I knew I was going to get into an awkward situation. As I was about to press the crash bar on the door, I heard the lock click. Someone had just swiped their card to open the door. I pushed the door open, and there he was.
“Okay,” he said, surprised that someone had opened the door the instant he was about to grab the handle. Or maybe he was surprised to see me.
I stared at him for a split second and walked past him as if he were a stranger. God, that felt awkward. In an instant, I felt the whole thing come back, the pain and the memories and the awful times. Suddenly, I was wide awake with anger. I couldn’t talk to him. I couldn’t acknowledge that he existed. I didn’t want to be cold, but after so long of not talking to him, I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to talk to him. I did but I didn’t because I knew it would do no good. He hurt me so badly and he has no idea why. To him, it was no big deal. It was his duty as a boyfriend. To me, it was everything I didn’t want, nothing I expected. I know talking to him would make the situation worse. He’d blame me, say I led him on for nine months, that I damn well knew what I was getting into, that he’d wasted the relationship with me when he could have been dating someone else. I’ve imagined this scene over and over again, and it plays out the same way every time. It’s my fault, you stupid prude. All my fault. He wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Why would he remember that day? Would he remember the insults, the comments that should have been said more sensitively?
For once, I wish I could do to him what he did to me. Sit him down, take away a piece of him, and fling it out the window like it didn’t matter. Our relationship was never based on love. I saw his anger management problems, how he punched a desk for no reason, how he whipped the floor with his belt when he got frustrated. He had never lashed out at me, but that didn’t prevent him from doing it some time in the future.
And the first time I was lucky. A different guy listened. He understood that no meant no and had some respect for me. Or maybe he just didn’t want to jeopardize the chances of getting into his first choice college. Whatever the reasons, he didn’t assault me. I didn’t emerge uninjured, but I was spared of any major damage.
You don’t damage a girl that badly. You don’t leave a girl that scared of the world and so unsure of herself. You don’t destroy her trust, and you don’t abandon her for three weeks while you hang out with your friends. If you love her, you don’t pressure her into something she doesn’t want to do. If you don’t care, you force yourself on her, and she just gets tired of saying no. She doesn’t say yes, but she stops fighting.
You are the reason I have a Take Back the Night button on my backpack. I bet you don’t even know what Take Back the Night is. You have no idea what I have gone through and continue to deal with. This is your problem, not mine, and yet I am the one who has to deal with the consequences. I’m the one with the trust issues. I’m the one who’s afraid.
You know what? I’m not going to be the victim anymore because I don’t need that kind of burden. It was not my fault. I did not ask for me. It wasn’t your duty. Your duty of what? To make me feel good? Yeah, you sure did a good job at that one. I’m tired of being afraid of randomly running into you. I’m tired of holding my breath when I set foot on the second floor landing. I’m tired of pretending to ignore you. I don’t have to live my life that way. Why should I be the one who feels uncomfortable when I didn’t do anything?
------
Some background on the second part:
Take Back the Night is a rally for survivors of rape and sexual assault. It is the culmination of the CARE series (Concerned About Rape Education) of week-long events. When I went to Take Back the Night for the first time during my sophomore year (in April 2001), I sat there and cried as brave women shared their stories. I didn’t realize until years later why I was crying. So, I looked forward to my last Take Back the Night in April 2003. He was there. I don’t know exactly when I wrote this. The file properties say April 8, 2003. That sounds about right.
The Second Story
So I’m at Take Back the Night and the reason why I’m there comes and stands right in front of me. I crunch my hands into fists, the automatic tension response that I have felt many times before. Does he have any idea why I’m there or why I’ve been wearing a green shirt? Does he realize how much anger I still have towards him? Does he know that I want this night to be important and he’s wrecking it? I have a right to be free with my life and he’s in my way.
I stand on my toes to see him recite the pledge. “We stand before you to show you that we understand that most rapes are perpetrated by men … but not by all men,” he read. “We stand here because we understand that as sexual assaults continue to hurt the ones we love ... we continue to hurt as well … We will no longer stay silent and be complacent.”
And I wonder whether you mean the words and if you realize what you’ve done. And I think of the things I’ve had to deal with and how you haven’t been a part of it. That’s my fault, right? I’m the one who stopped talking to you. I wonder if you’ve noticed that I’m the one who casually avoids contact between us, that I’m the one who turns in a different direction and I’m the one that feels uncomfortable. I wonder if you know about this urge I have to punch you in the face or run in the opposite direction every time I see you. And I thought I had it under control and that I knew how to deal with it, that I was finally learning to get past it, to get over the trust issues and leave your ghost where it belongs.
But then I see you on the staircase or at Take Back the Night and I am paralyzed. I want to break the silence so badly, but then I am glad I’m not speaking out because you are there. Would you know I was talking about you? Would you understand? Would you brush me off as a prude? Would you apologize, or would you blame me?
No one will believe me. I have no proof, no evidence. I’m just the girl who changed her mind afterwards. I wanted it, right? I needed it.
And it’s hard for me because I don’t remember what happened. Yeah, you have no idea what I’m talking about. At times, I’m not sure either. I remember looking at my watch, feeling the June warmth, wanting it to be over. Did I say no? Did I say yes? Or did I just get tired of saying no and not stop you? You had no right to think you knew what I wanted and what I needed, no right at all.
I’m tired of being scared of running into you. I’m tired of dealing with the pain. I’m tired of being silent and I’m tired of making myself a victim. I have these conflicting urges. I need to tell you how I feel and how badly I’ve been hurt. And I don’t want to hear back from you. You took away my voice and my trust and I will not give you a voice by listening to your story.
It hurts that I thought you loved me. If you truly did, you would have known not to push me so hard. And you wouldn’t have chosen your penis over me if you truly valued our relationship.
I learned the hard way.
------
If you have made it this far, thank you. Thank you for listening to me. I have worked through the major issues, particularly the trust issues. I have a loving supportive fiancé who has helped me tremendously. Still, there is only so much he understands. While 99.9% of the time I am fine and I don’t bother to think about this, I have a small but permanent wound. But I am moving on, one small step at a time, or one big step (i.e. posting this). It was not my intention to upset anyone, and I apologize if this entry is a trigger. I hope that one person, just one person, is wiser for having read this.