March 24, 2008: Stand Up
Originally authored in March, 2008, approximately 1 year after the sexual assault took place. This is the second version of "Stand Up," which was submitted to an anthology.
I was raped.
There, I said it. I was raped. I am a victim of sexual assault. You probably know someone like me. That girl from Chem 101, or maybe your TA in Psych. I read somewhere that 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Women like me.
I doubt they talk about it. I didn’t. I don’t trust people any more. Even now, I can’t help but wonder: will you believe me? All you have are my words. I’d believe me, someone like me, but I was there.
I was raped.
So, let me tell you what I am not. I am not at fault. I am not a slut. And I did not deserve this. No one does.
The really funny thing is that, after saying all this, I can barely remember it happening. I remember drinking and I remember dancing. I remember how happy I was, laughing at a joke my roommate made as the room was a pastel blur, colored in lime Jello shots and cheap beer. And then I remember getting sick and throwing up. I remember making a mess on my pants with vomit and booze and going to my room to change. I do not remember being followed by him, but I do remember saying no.
I said, “No, I do not want to have sex with you. I am too drunk to have sex with anyone.” I said that-I said it loudly. I can remember looking at him in the face and saying it, amused that this dirtbag thought he had a chance with me.
I do not remember how I was pushed, flat on my back, onto my bed. I do not remember how my pants were off. I do not remember how there was a condom in my hand.
But I do remember the way he held me down, how heavy he was, how much it hurt. I couldn’t look at him. I closed my eyes. I may have passed out.
I remember I had to ask the next morning, “Did we have sex?” I remember that at first, I couldn’t remember anything.
I guess it’s really not all that funny.
I tried to be normal. I was normal for 36 hours. It took a day and a half that I can barely recall before I stumbled into a police station in the next county and cried to the officer that I thought I was raped. I wasn’t even sure.
They told me later that I was in shock. I wore my work uniform, and I thought I’d still be normal and go to work like a normal person and forget it never happened. But it’s like…my body was on autopilot. As I begged my legs to take me to my job, they forced me into the state police station. And I started to cry.
The next week was a mess. I was on a table, legs spread, being poked with q-tips and pinched by needles. I was on the floor by a toilet or trash bin, vomiting from the medicine that would, hopefully, protect me from AIDS. I vomited a lot. I was on the phone with my mother, begging her not to be angry with me because I was raped. I was wrapped in a hospital gown, being told to urinate while the nurse watched. They cut my hair; they took samples of my blood. They took my panties, a cute pair I’d only just gotten.
I wasn’t a person, I was a subject. I was a two-dimensional diagram with labels affixed to my body with cheap Scotch tape. This is where he kissed me, and this is where he bruised me, and this is where he tore me and whispered, “So tight, so tight.”
But as I spent hours in the shower trying to wash those labels and memories from my skin, the world kept on going without me. I was late for assignments, and my professors were angry, and I was going to lose my scholarship. My boss was worried. My friends were calling.
I hid from them; I hid from the world. I let my father take my calls and tell them I was attacked, and I let them feel sorry and make their assumptions because I thought I deserved this. I let everyone else have control because I didn’t deserve it. Slutty lushes, they deserve to be raped and poked and prodded and lose their scholarships. I wanted to die.
I wish I could tell you that someone saved me. I wish there was a wonderful rescuer who knew all the right things to do. My only rescuer was time. Time, and the people who may not have known all the right things to do, but-Goddamnit!-they tried. They told me they loved me, and they told me they were there for me, and best of all: they told me they believed me. They believed I was raped even when I didn’t and they believed that I didn’t do anything wrong, that I didn’t deserve this.
The worst enemy in all of this was not the rapist, and it was not the people who didn’t believe me. It was me and my self doubt and my shame. I was angry with my body for betraying me, and sometimes I still am. I was angry that I didn’t fight harder. I wracked my mind with all the things I could have done differently, with all the things I should have done. I binged and purged and starved myself-I thought I’d make myself as ugly on the outside as I felt on the inside. If no one else wanted me, I’d be all alone and this would never happen again. I would be lonely and miserable…and safe.
But the thing is: I couldn’t have done anything differently. It doesn’t matter how I was dressed or how much I drank or whether my hair was in a ponytail or my lipstick was too red. It doesn’t matter. He, the rapist, invaded my space and took my control away from me.
It’s been a year since I was raped. I am doing better, but I am not okay yet. I am not sure I ever will be, but I am better.
So, now, I am taking back my control. I am standing up and telling the world: I was raped, and it was not my fault. I am standing up because 1 in 6 of my classmates will be assaulted. I am standing up because, despite considering myself a strong, empowered woman, I spent months in my own prison of self-doubt and shame. And I am standing up because if I do, maybe you will too, and maybe we’ll see that we’re in this together.
I was raped.
I am a rape survivor.
I was raped.
There, I said it. I was raped. I am a victim of sexual assault. You probably know someone like me. That girl from Chem 101, or maybe your TA in Psych. I read somewhere that 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Women like me.
I doubt they talk about it. I didn’t. I don’t trust people any more. Even now, I can’t help but wonder: will you believe me? All you have are my words. I’d believe me, someone like me, but I was there.
I was raped.
So, let me tell you what I am not. I am not at fault. I am not a slut. And I did not deserve this. No one does.
The really funny thing is that, after saying all this, I can barely remember it happening. I remember drinking and I remember dancing. I remember how happy I was, laughing at a joke my roommate made as the room was a pastel blur, colored in lime Jello shots and cheap beer. And then I remember getting sick and throwing up. I remember making a mess on my pants with vomit and booze and going to my room to change. I do not remember being followed by him, but I do remember saying no.
I said, “No, I do not want to have sex with you. I am too drunk to have sex with anyone.” I said that-I said it loudly. I can remember looking at him in the face and saying it, amused that this dirtbag thought he had a chance with me.
I do not remember how I was pushed, flat on my back, onto my bed. I do not remember how my pants were off. I do not remember how there was a condom in my hand.
But I do remember the way he held me down, how heavy he was, how much it hurt. I couldn’t look at him. I closed my eyes. I may have passed out.
I remember I had to ask the next morning, “Did we have sex?” I remember that at first, I couldn’t remember anything.
I guess it’s really not all that funny.
I tried to be normal. I was normal for 36 hours. It took a day and a half that I can barely recall before I stumbled into a police station in the next county and cried to the officer that I thought I was raped. I wasn’t even sure.
They told me later that I was in shock. I wore my work uniform, and I thought I’d still be normal and go to work like a normal person and forget it never happened. But it’s like…my body was on autopilot. As I begged my legs to take me to my job, they forced me into the state police station. And I started to cry.
The next week was a mess. I was on a table, legs spread, being poked with q-tips and pinched by needles. I was on the floor by a toilet or trash bin, vomiting from the medicine that would, hopefully, protect me from AIDS. I vomited a lot. I was on the phone with my mother, begging her not to be angry with me because I was raped. I was wrapped in a hospital gown, being told to urinate while the nurse watched. They cut my hair; they took samples of my blood. They took my panties, a cute pair I’d only just gotten.
I wasn’t a person, I was a subject. I was a two-dimensional diagram with labels affixed to my body with cheap Scotch tape. This is where he kissed me, and this is where he bruised me, and this is where he tore me and whispered, “So tight, so tight.”
But as I spent hours in the shower trying to wash those labels and memories from my skin, the world kept on going without me. I was late for assignments, and my professors were angry, and I was going to lose my scholarship. My boss was worried. My friends were calling.
I hid from them; I hid from the world. I let my father take my calls and tell them I was attacked, and I let them feel sorry and make their assumptions because I thought I deserved this. I let everyone else have control because I didn’t deserve it. Slutty lushes, they deserve to be raped and poked and prodded and lose their scholarships. I wanted to die.
I wish I could tell you that someone saved me. I wish there was a wonderful rescuer who knew all the right things to do. My only rescuer was time. Time, and the people who may not have known all the right things to do, but-Goddamnit!-they tried. They told me they loved me, and they told me they were there for me, and best of all: they told me they believed me. They believed I was raped even when I didn’t and they believed that I didn’t do anything wrong, that I didn’t deserve this.
The worst enemy in all of this was not the rapist, and it was not the people who didn’t believe me. It was me and my self doubt and my shame. I was angry with my body for betraying me, and sometimes I still am. I was angry that I didn’t fight harder. I wracked my mind with all the things I could have done differently, with all the things I should have done. I binged and purged and starved myself-I thought I’d make myself as ugly on the outside as I felt on the inside. If no one else wanted me, I’d be all alone and this would never happen again. I would be lonely and miserable…and safe.
But the thing is: I couldn’t have done anything differently. It doesn’t matter how I was dressed or how much I drank or whether my hair was in a ponytail or my lipstick was too red. It doesn’t matter. He, the rapist, invaded my space and took my control away from me.
It’s been a year since I was raped. I am doing better, but I am not okay yet. I am not sure I ever will be, but I am better.
So, now, I am taking back my control. I am standing up and telling the world: I was raped, and it was not my fault. I am standing up because 1 in 6 of my classmates will be assaulted. I am standing up because, despite considering myself a strong, empowered woman, I spent months in my own prison of self-doubt and shame. And I am standing up because if I do, maybe you will too, and maybe we’ll see that we’re in this together.
I was raped.
I am a rape survivor.