We grow up hearing that a rapist is a scary man in a mask who jumps out from behind a bush, drags you to his car, and rapes you violently. We grow up hearing men are studs and women are sluts when they sleep around with strangers. We grow up hearing if you dress like that, act like that, or walk like that, you deserved it. SHE deserved it.
But you see, that’s not really how it is.
'Til it happens to you, you don't know
How it feels
How it feels
'Til it happens to you, you won't know
It won't be real
No it won't be real
Won't know how it feels
-Til It Happens To You, Lady Gaga
My rapist wasn’t someone I knew well. We’d talked prior, but I mean like maybe only a couple hours prior. You see, we had both been drinking at a party. (Here’s where society tells me I went wrong – You, a girl, were drinking? At a party? Okay.) I’d lost my two friends in the crowd and didn’t recognize anyone else except for this man that I had just recently met. He clung to my side and pinned me up against a wall. We kissed, fine. It was nothing. (Part 2 in which society says I had it coming – I had consented to this, so why not more?) But as I continued to drink, I started to – well, I’m actually not sure how to describe this – I blacked out. Somehow, I came to as we were walking down a street. It was the big city of Madison, Wisconsin and I had no clue where I was. I didn’t know where the party was or where we were headed. And I blacked out again. The last time I came to, he was on top of me. I punched, I tried to move away, but he was a fairly tall guy and seemed to enjoy me hitting him like that. So I just laid there until he was finished and fell asleep. I grabbed my shoes, called my friend, and gave her my location through pinning it on Google Maps (thank the lord for that). Soon enough, she texted me she was there and we left. We didn’t say much, we just left.
Now, I wasn’t in a relationship, but I had been casually going on dates with another guy at the time. The next time I saw him, I told him everything. He was devastated and asked if I was okay. I said yeah, it could’ve been worse (such as, let’s say, the violent rape society says is basically the only legit form of rape). Then he asked if I was going to press charges. I sat there for a second thinking of my options –
- 1) I could charge the man who assaulted me, but have to confront him in court, deal with the backlash from people who would claim I deserved it (refer back to the drinking and meaningless kissing), and relive the moment as I sat there hoping he would be convicted. And then realize he’d only serve maybe a couple days or weeks in jail, MAYBE, and be registered as a sexual predator. Maybe.
OR
- 2) Sit there and try to forget what happened.
I chose the second. And the man I’d been seeing at the time blew up. He called me a whore. He said I probably deserved it. And I cried harder than I did after the attack itself.
You know, unfortunately, a lot of people face this same conflict. And you’re honestly damned if you do and damned if you don’t. If you press charges and your rape doesn’t fit a certain stereotyped standard, it’s disregarded as an assault and you suddenly become a horrible whore who tried to ruin someone else’s life. If you don’t press charges, you’re still a whore who deserved it and deal with the backlash from those who claim “well, it’s your fault if he rapes another person.”
I can promise you, it’s not easy.
And you will NEVER understand how it feels.
Until it happens to you.
