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I was sexually assaulted for the first time at fourteen. Thirteen years later, this is not the most significant detail of my life, but I cannot imagine a version of my story without beginning here. I was raised in a single-parent household where the in-house parent neglected me and showered attention on my younger sibling and the out-of-house parent was controlling and manipulative--the reason for the divorce and cross-country move. I was subjected to regular criticism of my choices, frequent gaslighting, and being told the people around me would all betray me.
Pt. I
I felt incredibly isolated after moving across the country, then to a new school. I struggled to build genuine friendships, and to this day, the majority of my relationships are superficial at best. When I was assaulted, it was by an older boyfriend. We were in an empty movie theater. We kissed, and he kept trying to put his hand down my pants. I pushed him away, but he kept trying and trying. It went on for fifteen minutes or so before I started crying, but he would not stop. I panicked. I could not get up; I could not speak. I had no idea what to do. Eventually, I stopped fighting, figuring it would be the fastest way to get it to stop. I stayed with him another three weeks, allowing him to continue doing this, figuring consenting the next time made up for the first.
Afterward, I had no one to talk to about it and was unable to form normal sexual relationships. I eventually entered a four-year relationship with someone who helped me learn to talk about it, but I still had no interest in sex.
Pt. II
Fast forward eight years, the four-relationship ended, and I was building, for the first time, friendships. I was old enough to consume alcohol, graduating from college, and living in one of the most beautiful cities. My new friends were older--eight to fifteen years older than me. I was charismatic, social, engaging, and developed a risque dynamic with the male who was fifteen years older than me, characterized by inappropriate jokes, sexual innuendos, and insincere plans to engage in a sexual relationship. I had no real interest in him, but my intentions were misinterpreted by him and his younger friend, who we will call Brian--who was nine years older than me.
This new group and I, three of us who were graduating with various degrees--a bachelor's, master's, and a phd, insisted on having "the best summer ever." We would finish up working on the university campus, run home to clean up, then go out for drinks. This happened every night for two weeks before we started to feel the financial burden of these activities. So the night before my twenty-second birthday, the guy's younger friend, Brian, offered to host all of us at his house so we could continue our social activities.
We started with drinking, then eventually got into drinking games. I forgot to pace myself, because I was still inexperienced with responsible alcohol consumption, and started with whiskey. I was drunk very quickly. In keeping up with this risque persona I generated for myself, and my general dislike of wearing pants, I offered to take off my pants instead of continuing drinking because I was that drunk. Which was excepted--which eventually spiraled into everyone taking off their clothes and all of us dancing in just our underwear. As the night progressed, drinking stopped, dancing continued, and Brian kept approaching me and trying to touch me sexually. I kept walking away from him and pushing his hands away from me.
Finally, as the night ended his friend offered to drive me home and he counteroffered by suggesting I sleep at his house. I went with the friend, got a safe ride home, and went to bed before everyone would come over to my house for my actual birthday to repeat the prior night's madness. The friend left early, everyone got really drunk; I spent part of the night unconscious and awoke to Brian on top of me. My house, my bed, my birthday. I remember him saying to me after he was done that he knew I had a thing for his friend--which I didn't. I just liked the inappropriate nature of our jokes. Like before, I dated him for a month. I went from zero interest in him, to being his victim, to his girlfriend.
I recognize that I initiated the removal of clothing, I got outrageously and unsafely drunk, I made inappropriate jokes and sexual innuendos with one person in this group, I entered a relationship with him after the fact. None of this means I was asking for this to happen to me. However, I recognize that my behavior will be called into question whenever this story is told outside of certain environments because, for whatever reason, it is easier to blame women than men for bad things happening to them.
I eventually confronted him, telling him that waking up next to him after that night was traumatizing. He apologized, and life went on.
Eleven months later, I did eventually hook up with his friend after a whole lot of other people since I never really addressed the problem. Brian suspected. He was jealous. He called me, outrageously and unsafely drunk, one night, and I walked him home, having to hold his arm to keep him upright. He joked about how "This is rape, this is rape." And eventually followed it up with, "I should kill you and cut up your body" then leave the pieces in people's trash bins or the beds of their trucks. We spent the rest of the night fighting, talking, and then I still had consensual sex with him the next morning after he sobered up because parts of my brain are/were still traumatized and feel like I do not deserve to be treated better than this.
Pt. III
This whole group dissolved over time and I developed new friendships, with incredible women--some with stories like my own--and some of the male friends they hung around with. I was comfortable talking about my background and how even though it was painful, I was stronger because of it. I entered into a semi-healthy relationship with a guy I was not too serious about but lived with for about a year with three or four other male friends. WThe boyfriend and one of them went on a trip to South America for about ten days so I spent this whole time with one of the other roommates, who we will call Kevin, since I would have spent it with the boyfriend, and he would have spent it with the other guy who went. Six months later, while at a house party with this entire group, again getting outrageously and unsafely drunk, the boyfriend went home and I stayed out. Eventually, both Kevin and another male friend--both of whom were two of the boyfriend's best friends--separately kissed me and professed their love for me. I pushed each of them away from me and calmly let them know I did not reciprocate their feelings. I told the boyfriend, and we dealt with it. But the relationship was on its last leg anyways. Eventually, we split but maintained the same friends.
We all went out to an event, then I got tired and wanted to go home. Kevin also had to go home to get a change of clothes. Since his new house was on the way to my new house, we split a ride. He told me he saved my bottle of whiskey from the last time I was at his house and asked if I wanted to come in to get it. It turned out he did not have the bottle, but he offered me shots of tequila instead. Again, I got outrageously and unsafely drunk while we talked about what had happened the last time I was at his house. I do not remember a lot beyond talking upstairs, he threw me on his bed, grabbed the back of my legs so hard he left bruises. He was mad at me for telling the ex-boyfriend since it affected their friendship. The next thing I remember, we were downstairs from his room and he repeatedly slammed me into the wall and choked me. I tried to tell him to stop, but I could not breathe. I could not speak. I was actually afraid he was going to kill me.
At some point, everything stopped and the whole group of our friends arrived. I was outside, sobbing, incoherent, and the ex-boyfriend took me home. The next day, I was completely covered in bruises: my neck, the back of my legs, my arms. My spine and the back of my head hurt from hitting the wall. I confronted Kevin about what had happened: he blamed me, said I wanted it, etc. I filed a police report. They took my statement, documented the bruises, spoke with the people who were supposed to be my friends but did not feel it was their place to have an opinion on what happened. I even identified some of our mutual friends who had similar experiences with him but never told anyone because he managed to convince them it was their fault, but they were not questioned by the detective. Ultimately, they felt they "could not prove he intended to harm me."
I have since made significant life changes. I do not drink whiskey anymore because it makes me angry. I cannot take shots of tequila because I have panic attacks, but I no longer drink excessively. I hardly drink at all. I moved away from that environment and stopped all contact with the people who were not strong enough to recognize him for what he is, an abuser who needs help. I know I am not responsible for these men's actions, but I am learning to care about myself and to want more for myself and to stand up for myself when I am being treated poorly. I recognize I do not deserve to be treated this way and anyone who does treat me, or anyone else, like this needs their own help.
