Unless you've been hiding under a rock (trust me, I'm tempted), you've seen the shit show playing out in our nation's capital. For most, this can be summed up as another political circus. But for 1 in 3 of us, it's our experiences being questioned. It's what feels like an entire nation working against us, jaws clenched with fists in the air. It's reliving our experiences every time we dare to peek at social media or the news. For me, it's every bit of my anxiety, depression, and self loathing bubbling to the surface. It's feeling hyper defensive towards people that are in my corner. It's the same scared uncertainty that I felt right after my rape. It's finding that people you've held near and dear for years are not on your side, but siding with the idea that because it's been so long, it's irrelevant. It's a punch in the gut, a slap in the face. It's a reminder that when I shared my story the morning after my rape with my own sister, she went and gossiped among family members that I was just a whore with a guilty conscious. It's a bigger trigger than I ever could have anticipated. And I'm not the only one that it's affecting. (Quick side note that according to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, in the United States, one in 3 women and one in 6 men have already experienced some sort of sexual violence in their lifetime)
It's easy to be triggered by the situation, as it seems that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is all of us. She is living our worst nightmare, publicly. Long silenced by a society that shames it's victims for coming forward, she's also being torn apart for not reporting sooner. And the truth is, she was damned if she did and so far, she's been damned because she didn't. Her face is plastered all over the internet in obnoxious memes comparing her to animals and comic characters. She's been called a whore, a liar, and a drunk. Her story questioned and picked apart with intrusive, public questioning. She's had to compose herself, smile and be polite while reliving a violent violation of her body, while the accused was allowed to raise hell in an effort to make himself the victim. Suddenly our country feels so much like one big high school, with bullies running rampant. And my biggest fear is the freshman walking in for the first time. What message are we sending victims who are dealing with their own experiences (or will)? Don't be a bully at school, but when you're out in the real world, it's fair game?
I won't get into the nitty gritty details of the case. Partly because a victim's story does not need to be ripped to shreds through the media and politics (and certainly not on this blog), and partly because I'm drained. I'm drained with feeling like I have to defend my own story, even though no one has asked. I'm drained from trying to remind myself that the people in my corner are in fact, in my corner. I'm drained from reliving the worst night of my life every time I step outside of my apartment. I'm drained from just trying to get through, minute by minute. I'm drained from reminding myself that I'm tougher than this, that I've shown so much strength in so many areas, and this guy doesn't deserve my backbone, too. I'm drained from apologizing for my feelings. I didn't ask to be raped. I didn't ask for PTSD as a result. I didn't ask for this shit to be in my face, morning until night, because the media is having a field day. I am drained.
If you're one in 3 (or 6), and you're having a hard time right now, you're not alone. You're not alone by a long shot. And if you need to talk, you know where to find me. If that won't work, please reference the resources listed below. You've been through enough and you don't have to suffer with triggers by yourself.
Finally, in an effort to start a conversation that needs to be had (and listened to, and believed, and supported), I'm sharing my own story below. It's a poem that I wrote a while after my rape, and while raw and gritty, I feel it best captures my feelings from that night, and of every night since then. I'll give you a head's up and a trigger warning for that. If you'd rather not read it, please do not scroll past the resources listed.
800.656.HOPE (4673) -- National Sexual Assault Hotline (organized by RAINN...live chat also available on their website)
(866) 367-5444 -- Darkness to Light...they can help you find resources in your area
I read somewhere once,
that the rape will tear you apart,
but it will not break you.
She was right.
I'm still here, an intact shell of a person,
being torn apart again every night,
as I fall asleep.
As I start to drift,
the sting between my thighs,
the pressure on my chest,
the blood on the sheets,
and your fist threatening my face
for hours.
It only took a little over an hour,
for me to silently surrender,
and bide my time by desperately searching for distraction as you finish having your way with me.
The light pole outside,
illuminating the quiet dirt road.
The ink on your neck,
that I wonder about so intently.
Did it cover the desperation of other women?
If you were crushing my spirit,
there must have been others before me.
And why didn't they blow the whistle?
Why didn't they save me from my own irresponsibility to come?
Why didn't the other women,
just rooms away, rescue me?
Oh. Yes. No screaming.
My body is so tired.
Why didn't your mother raise you better?
Didn't she tell you,
that it's not fucking polite to break
another human?
My neck is strained
from trying to focus
on anything that I can see from the window.
I can feel the blood everywhere.
Every thrust a new violation,
and my spirit breaks a little more with each.
The tears making their silent escape,
run down my face
and sting the spots on my neck where you squeezed too tight.
This room with no door is hell,
and I find myself here nightly,
shaking, not from pleasure, but disgust.
Reliving the three hours that both broke me and made me a better human.
The feeling is heavy-
responsibility endless.
How can I be responsible for you raping me?
(Rape. I'm a goddamn statistic now.)
Well because, if your sister calls you a whore,
you must be a fucking whore.
And just when I think you're done (I've watched three hours pass on your bedside clock), you act like a 17 year old marking your territory.
Like a drunk, pissing on the street. But this time, I'm the street.
(It's not polite to piss on your mess either)
And finally you're done with me, and just starting-all at the same time.
Suddenly I know how it feels to be a stiff, soggy towel.
A mere "thing" for you to release your frustration on.
A little while later, my first encounter with a Midwest cornfield only happens because I'm lost on a highway that runs between two,
and I can't see through the tears I'm crying,
and it's hard to operate heavy machinery when you're busy shaking from your core.
And just when the nightmare is over, I wake up and relive it all over again. Almost 4 years out from the shit show that was that awful night and morning.
I keep telling myself that all you get are my sleepless nights. But here I am, drunk on reality,
and spilling my secrets on paper
because an hour or two of sleep a night
is enough to wreck a person.
And no one wants to hear the details of a rape,
because it's fucking uncomfortable.
So I'm silent.
You know what's more uncomfortable?
Being on the receiving end of your uninvited cock.
Having my thighs ripped apart to accommodate you.
Taking my bruised body, under a cloud of shame, into a clinic for inspection.
And reliving it every night.
I was wrong. You get everything.
