IT is something I've only gone into detail
about with my journal. A little bit with a few therapists, and a
little bit with my family and select friends. I know
that I have eluded to it through cryptic Instagrams and poems, but that's as
far as I've ever been able to go with it until Oscar night.
Lady Gaga performed her gorgeous and nominated
song, Til It Happens To You, on the Oscars stage. I had
goosebumps on my soul when I heard it for the first time, the music video
playing after I finished watching (the equally chilling) The Hunting Ground. It's a
song that truly applies to every person, in any situation; it's an ode to the
'walk a mile in MY shoes' suggestion. If you
only heard the song and didn't know it's relation to the documentary, anyone
who's ever been bullied, shamed for being gay, suffered from a mental or
physical illness, been cheated on, needed an abortion, been a victim of war
crimes or gang violence, domestic abuse survivors, sexual and physical slave
laborers, anyone who's lost a child or a parent or a best friend...this song
speaks for them to those who feel they have the right to judge.
At the root though, this song is about sexual
assault. And while I have been bullied and I have dealt
with both a physical and mental illness, it's my own sexual assaults that
caused the goosebumpy soul the other night. And while
being stuck sick in the bathroom this morning I watched it again, and was able
to feel it even deeper (since I was alone to cry like a baby over her, and all
of those who joined her on stage) and I realized that I am a ten-years-older
mature and successful (in my own ways) woman with a decent degree of self confidence,
and I should tell my story. Even if no one reads it, no one is inspired by
it, no one is saved by it, and least the haunting words will be outside of my
body.
There is still a huge feeling of 'don't be
ridiculous' when I think about saying something. There is
still a huge feeling of guilt, because compared to others I got off so easy so
do I really deserve to feel so injured by it. The most
overwhelming feeling though, is that no one would believe me. Ten years
later I am a mature and successful woman who is fairly confident in herself
most days, but the thought of him (or someone he knows...or someone I knew from
then) denying it, genuinely terrifies me. And why
wouldn't he deny it? There aren't many honest idiots out there. Of course
he'd deny it, and I just picture myself breaking.
Then I see her and her white suite on stage,
joined by real survivors and I realized the breaking is already done and the
healing comes from standing up and admitting 'me too'.
My me too began as my grade 12 year began. There was
a new boy at school and I still can't deny the fact that he was attractive. He
quickly made friends and I was in no way the only girl with a crush on him. We
chatted randomly, mostly on MSN, and we'd sat at the same lunch table a few
times. Things escalated very quickly when I got home
from a small party very upset and sat at the computer in search for comfort. His name
was Josh and he said that he was sorry another boy had hurt my feelings. He wasn't
really doing anything (I later learned he was at another party, with a friend
of mine who also had a thing for him. They made
out that night.) He so kindly offered to come over, just to
hang out. Apparently
he was great at shoulder rubs, and was down to binge on The OC. And I was
elated because this was literally all I'd wanted from a boy up to this point. I had
never craved a boyfriend that came with sex and dates and a title. I wanted
cuddles (and maybe cheesy kisses) and reassurance that I was special and meant
something extra to someone else. So I
agreed, told him to park down the street a bit so my parents wouldn't notice
and I snuck him in through the sliding door in the basement where I slept.
We sat on my bed (there weren't many other
places to sit) and talked for a few minutes, he held my hand and I complained
about this other guy with this other girl. I
realized that he'd been drinking because he reeked like beer, but I let that
slide for some reason even though my mind was racing over the fact that he'd
driven to my place.
If I had the energy to root through my boxes
of journals I could very likely find real details of what happened next, but
whether it's because I've blocked it out or too much time has passed, I
couldn't tell you how it started. We made
out, and I was ok with that despite being able to taste his beers, because I
had a crush on him. I know I would have been thinking 'all the
guys think he's so cool and all the girls think he's so hot, and he's making
out with ME?!' Making out was ok. I had in
fact made out with other boys before. I got
anxious as soon as he got handsy though. At first
I giggled and tried to play it off by being cute and moving his hands from my
thighs to my chest (because boob groping seemed safer). He was a
big guy though, a well built basketball and football player. I tried
convincing myself that it was fine he got my pants off (I can't remember if I
was still in my party clothes wanting to impress him, or if I'd gotten into my
PJs by the time he arrived), but when he moved his hands inside my underwear, I
panicked.
Yes, he was hot! Yes, I
had a crush on him! Yes, I thought I was so lucky that he was
hanging out with me over every other girl who thought he was hot and had a
crush on him! But we'd met only a few weeks ago, and this
was the first time we were spending any actual time together. I was 17
but I was still naive and romantic enough to assume everyone understood that
the first 'date' was just kissing, and maybe some boob touching.
At first I pleaded with 'I don't do this kind
of thing' and 'I haven't done this kind of thing before'. I didn't
say NO until he got his fingers inside of me. I said
'no' and I clamped my knees together to the point that my leg muscles were
stiff the next morning from the strain. But he
was already in there, and his muscles were naturally far bigger then mine. I
couldn't tell you how long it lasted, but my legs gave out eventually and I
gave up. He got frustrated at one point because I
wasn't enjoying myself (I wasn't moaning or begging for more like I'm sure all
of his other lucky ladies do) and so he 'worked' harder, determined to convince
me of how good he was. And that's when I said I was done. That's
when it started to really hurt (vs just feeling awkward and anxious) so I told
him I was done. He could have been in there for hours and I
would have never climaxed (not before throwing up first), but that's what he
wants so I gave him that. He wanted validation that he was great and
that I wanted it, so I gave him that in hopes that then it could end.
And it did end there. Well, not
before he took his penis out of his pants and informed me that it was 'my turn'
now. He held me by the wrist, I was still laying
there awkwardly trying to get my pants from my ankles to my hips, and put my
hand ontop of his penis. He made a joke about how my mouth work work
way faster then just my hands. I grabbed
my hand back and said that wasn't happening. He got
angry which made me nervous because my parents were only a few floors away from
us, he called me selfish, still under the belief that he'd just provided me
with a wonderful orgasm. He put his jacket on, and he just left.
I am utterly embarrassed to admit this but the
fact that after all we'd just went through, he left without even a goodbye. I was 17
but naive and romantic enough to have hoped for a good night kiss. Even
though I hated him. I thought a good night kiss would have meant
that what I'd just been through WAS romantic, or normal.
I crept upstairs and sat in the our bathtub
with the shower on as hot as I could bare. I sat
there and I cried until I was wrinkly and the hot water was gone. I think
my parents questioned me the next day, about the middle of the night shower,
and I said I hadn't been feeling very well. I slept
on our couch in the basement living room that night, avoiding my bed.
The next day was Sunday (I think) and I got a
few MSN messages from him. First he was relaying how pissed he was that
he'd gotten a ticket for parking on my street overnight. Then he
semi-gently suggested that we NOT tell ANYONE about what we'd done last night. He
rationalized it by promising me other people would be jealous, and wouldn't
understand. And that made sense to me. One of my
best friends also had a thing for Josh, and I didn't want her hating me for
'fooling around' with him. So I kept my end of the promise (mostly), and
I avoided him at school on Monday. By the end of the day however I did feel like
I needed to be honest with my friend, though by honest I mean I told her that
he and I 'fooled around', not that he'd forced it on me. That's
when I learned she'd made out with him just a few hours before he came to my
place. She was mad enough, and so I never brought it
up again. Not with her, not with anyone else.
And that was that. For a
while. I avoided him as much as I could. I
remember being at a party a few weeks later, peeing in the powder room in the
front hall, and someone barged in while I was pulling my pants up because I
hadn't locked the door. It was him, and I went out to the driveway and
threw up, brushing it off as having drank too much.
Eventually though, I started to hang out with
other boys. Who knows why, I magically blossomed I guess. Other
boys were taking notice, and Josh noticed this, and that's when the whole
situation became a replay of the cheesy 80's sex-Ed videos we'd been forced to
watch. Suddenly I was locker room (and house party)
chatter. I had no idea until I was about to spend the
night at a girl friend's after a party she'd thrown, sleeping on the couch with
a guy I was very much into. One of
the reasons I liked him so much was because even though he was a year older
then me and cooler then me, he was also still a virgin. Naturally
I was mortified when he seemed angry with me, and I begged him to tell me what
was wrong. He was hurt because I had lied to him, he
said. Because I wasn't a virgin, Josh had said. Not only
had Josh broken the 'let's not tell anyone about this' rule, he'd also greatly
embellished the story. We had t just fooled around, he was suddenly
the guy who took my virginity. And
everyone (except the guy I was on the couch with, crying and trying to explain
without actually telling him what had happened) was so impressed. Because
somehow is become this hot commodity, and he'd claimed me first.
Of course my rationalization was then, if I
ever tried to tell someone the truth it would be his word (which was spoken
first) against mine. So I just swallowed it. And told
myself it was over, and I'd get over it sooner then later. But
sooner then later, it happened again. And
whether it was society's teachings, or my new LACK of self incidence, I was so
ashamed that I 'let' it happen to me again. It felt
like I had some easy target on my forehead. It was
totally my fault, again.
It was winter and I was spending the weekend
at a favorite family friend's in London, and I was so excited. (She and
I have never discussed this, and it's in no way her fault, so we can call her
Emma, because I like that name.) We were
going to dress up and drink and go out. I always
thought she was cooler then I was, and I was thrilled to get to be part of it
for a few days. And that's what we did! I
borrowed her expensive jeans and wore this amazing top that was her super cool
mom's and one of her friends had a drivers license that looked weirdly like me. I was 18
but it was my first time entering a bar with a fake ID. And it
was awesome. Besides coat check we paid for nothing,
because we were all wearing expensive jeans and amazing tops, and my boobs were
way bigger back then. We all danced until we were disgusting and
sweaty, and ate peroxide at this amazing diner after the bars closed. I was
hooked! The summer before I was still tipping my
coolers out in the grass and pretending to be drunk, and it was fun. It was
also fun being away from anyone who knew me. That
first night we were exhausted and went home to hang out and fall asleep in her
bed, slept way in and woke up ready to do it all over again.
Saturday night was exactly the same, except Emma's older
brother was home to pre-drink with us while we got ready. Along with my Emma I'd known him since the day
I was born, and he was always super easy to look at. I think
the long history made me extra comfy around him, as did the too-many Coronas,
of course. I was wearing new clothes and feeling extra
good about myself, and I was flirting. I was
flirting at least to the point where one of Emma's friends gently took me aside
and let me know that she has had too many issues with girls using her to hang
out with her brother.
It's fairly mortifying, but I have a vivid
memory of considering how ok I'd be to lose my virginity to him. I was one
of two in my big group of high school friends who had yet to have sex, and the
boy that I liked (and ended up dating for almost 2 years afterwards) had JUST
thrown his virginity away because he was the last of his friends. Emma's
brother was a family friend so it wouldn't be awkward, and even if it was I
wouldn't have to face him at school every day afterwards. But after
that heads up from her friend, I avoided him the rest of the night. We ran
into him and his friends at a bar that night and took refuge on the dance floor
until we went elsewhere. By 3am though, Emma announced we were meeting her
brother at a food truck so we could share a cab home. I was
also wasted by 3am. I ordered
handfuls of shredded lettuce on my poutine, and we went back to their house. The three
of us decided to watch a movie in the basement, and with only two couches to
spread out on he so kindly offered to share with me, and I was too drunk to
remember to consider Emma's feelings.
I don't know how much time came between me
passing out while laying beside him, and coming to again. Emma
wasn't on her couch, there was still a pile of lettuce on the coffee table next
to me, my jeans were off my waist, and his fingers were inside me. I jumped up from laying, and ran to the
bathroom. I remember yelling at him to leave me alone
while I puked in his bathroom. He said
'I'm sorry' a few times and brought the duvet from his bed (his room always in
the basement) to the bathroom floor for me. I
remember slugging back up the stairs to Emma's room where she was fast asleep.
I slept on her floor with his stupid duvet,
and that's where I stayed the whole next day. She had
to go to work at lunch time and hid on her floor, flipping through the books on
her shelf, I goring hunger pains knowing he could be in the kitchen. I packed
my things and didn't make my way down the stairs until I knew my dad was there
to pick me up. Sadly,
that was the last time we ever really spent time together, her and I. Even
after he moved to the other side of the world and found a girlfriend (and
married her). I was embarrassed, and ashamed to think her
feelings would be hurt if she ever found out, and I was far too scared.
Being scared was weird. Josh was
one thing, Emma's brother was possibly a smaller situation but pushed me over
the edge. After that I got nervous sweats sitting in my
male optometrist's office on my own, I passed up a cab one night because I
didn't want to be alone in the car with a male driver, and I started double and
triple checking that the sliding door in my basement bedroom was locked before
going to sleep. I remember my eventual boyfriend looking at me
like I was crazy, because I had a panic attack one night when we started to
make out on my bed and I had Josh flashbacks.
I knew they were bad situations, but they
weren't violent which made me embarrassed to think I was sexually assaulted,
never mind say it out loud. I'd seen sexual assaults on TV, watched
victims on Oprah and that's not what I'd endured. These women were trapped in a dark ally, or
tied up, or slapped around, or had a gun to their heads. These
women had a penis forced inside of them and faced unwanted pregnancies or STDs. These
women rightfully suffered from PTSD and never had a successful romantic or
sexual relationship with a man ever again. How dare
I complain or feel sorry for myself, compared to all of that. I'd put
myself in those situations, and now I was being a big baby about it.
It was years later before I Googled 'sexual
assault'. It is defined as (but is not limited to) any
unwanted kissing, touching, oral, and/or penetration of any sort. It was
there in black and white and I still questioned myself. Sometimes
I'd work myself up thinking about these young men doing the same thing to other
young women, and that it'd be my fault for it reporting them sooner. Then I'd picture myself walking into a police
station and crying and being told 'oh, that's not REALLY sexual assault.' So I
never did. Eventually I told myself too much time has
passed. I know there will be women out there reading
this, shaking their finger at me for still not taking legal action. But it
still makes me nauseous to consider.
When I told my husband (steady boyfriend at
the time), though not in too much detail, I rested much easier. He
reacted the way I'd hoped someone would react. I'd barely started trying to tell my last boyfriend when he brushed it off and said that talking about my sex life with other guys would just make things awkward. But my husband was angry at them and concerned for
me. I don't remember why it came into conversation
but he said he was sorry I'd had to deal with that, and I felt validated for
once. And in most ways that just felt good enough. About a
year and a half ago I was suddenly involved in a completely separate sexual
assault case, and that became another big outlet. A family friend (a different family friend)
who we'd met through the Guelph Little Theater was arrested one morning, facing
multiple counts of sexually assaulting minors. In hind
sight this man had spent a lot of time 'grooming' my little sister and I, but
had never done anything to us. Who knows
why we got so lucky, because he needed our family's love so badly and didn't
want to fuck that up, or because we were too old by the time he came into our
lives, but he'd slept at our house and babysat us over long weekends and taken
us on trips out of the city...all the while preying on other young kids. I spoke
with detectives, they kept my very detailed journals in their evidence locker,
and I felt better about keeping my own assaults to myself by helping put this
man in jail. His lengthy case also became the icebreaker I
needed, to talk to my parents about my own sexual assaults. And
again, I felt lighter. And until all of those victims walked on stage
with Lady Gaga, that felt good enough for me.
I haven't told the police, I haven't told the
vast majority of my high school friends, I haven't told those family friends,
but now in a way I am telling the whole world. I
understand that I am still hiding behind my little cell phone screen and not on
stage I front of millions of viewers, but for now, again, this is good enough
for me.
