In light of recent events (ie. Brock Turner's release), I am continually reminded of the harsh reality of rape culture, and the sick world that we as women are subjected to every day. I am reminded of how real rape is for so many women in this country (statistics say one in every four women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime). I am also reminded of how many males think that rape is nothing but a joke. My rapist was one of those people.
I am going to tell you a story that I have tried incredibly hard to keep a secret. This is a story about a friend of mine I had known for seven years who somehow thought that "no" meant "yes".
When I was 21 years old, I was visiting a friend I'd had former "relations" with. We were friends for six years before those "relations" had even begun. I trusted him. I stayed with him more times than I could count. I had eaten meals with him. I went to the movies with him. I talked about my far off dreams and deepest aspirations with him. I vented about my family problems with him. I trusted him. Until that one night when I was 21.
I had just arrived at his place after attending a friend's funeral that afternoon. I was upset. I needed comfort, and I talked about that on the phone with him the whole way there. I just wanted to be. I wanted to sit, watch a movie, relax, ponder my newly deceased friend, and just be. And I honestly couldn't think of anything more relaxing than being with my friend, being with him.
When I arrived, I sat on the bed like I always did. I normally don't wear jeans (because I'm a legging addict), but I was wearing jeans that day because we were planning to go to a movie and I wanted to look nice. I remember him inquiring about me wearing jeans, and making a comment under his breath about them being "hard to take off". I shrugged, knowing he had a warped sense of humor.
When he started to come onto me, I immediately said "no". I told him that I just wanted to head to the movie, and get there early. He continued his pursuit. I kept making excuses. I told him that I "didn't want to mess up my hair since we were going out." He continued his pursuit. I told him I "wasn't in the mood". He continued his pursuit. No matter what I said or did, or how I tried to push him away, he continued his pursuit.
He ripped off my jeans with authority, pinned me down aggressively, told me I was being a "bad girl", and eventually I stopped fighting. I knew if I were to fight harder, that he would too. And it wasn't worth it. I did not want things to get violent because that scared me even more. So I laid there, lifeless, staring at the tan wall beside me just waiting for it to end.
To be honest with you, I did not even know it was rape for the next eight months. After I left his place that day, I somehow subconsciously pushed the entire event out of my mind. When I looked back to that day, it was like it never happened, I remembered what happened before and what happened after, but the main event was wiped from my memory. It was as if my brain or sub-conscience or something was protecting me from feeling it and processing it fully. I still don't understand how that happened. But one day, I was driving down the road, and I saw a car that looked like his, and it all came flooding back. I was raped, and I didn't even know it. I thought that being raped meant being violated by a stranger in a parking garage or a public bathroom. I had no idea that being raped could mean being coerced into sexual intercourse against my will by a friend and former partner. Rape never looked like that in my mind, and the problem is that rape didn't look like that in his mind either or in the mind's of any other typical guy out there.
I just wish I could tell him how wrong he was, and how that day will stick with me for the rest of my life. I wish I could tell him that I wake up in the middle of the night crying hysterically more than I care to admit. I wish I could tell him how every time I have to walk by myself in the dark, it's a challenge for me. Even if it's just from the parking lot to my front door, I get absolutely terrified. Sometimes I run because I am so certain that someone is behind me. I wish I could tell him that I look over my shoulder almost every time I am alone, even when I'm in my own house. I wish I could explain to him that my boyfriend, who has done NOTHING wrong has had to suffer and pay the price for ANOTHER man's actions. I wish I had the nerve to tell him about the night that my boyfriend had to hold me in the fetal position for hours, all because my boyfriend looked at me the wrong way, and I saw my rapist's face show up instead. I wish I could tell him how men with blue eyes still scare me and give me severe anxiety. I wish I could explain to him how even the most subtle things like the sound of a zipper or a loud engine sends me into shock and pulls me back to that day. Most of all, I wish I could tell him that he raped me because I know that he thinks he did nothing wrong.
It just makes me think, how many men have raped, and either didn't care or didn't think that it was wrong? And how many women live months or even years suppressing memories or convincing themselves that their rape "didn't count" because it doesn't look like what the movies tell you it should? Every rape is different. Every rapist is different. And every survivor is different. We all process things differently, and that's okay. But if you have been a victim of sexual assault, I encourage you to speak out. Do not let the chains that he put on you continue to control your mind, body, and spirit. Speak out, because your story matters. Your assault matters. You matter. And living in that bondage will eat you alive. Living in secrecy, in shame, and embarrassment from what happened to you will only cause more damage. Those chains break a little bit more each time you talk about your story and speak in boldness about your assault and your recovery.
My name is Amanda, and I was raped. I have been a victim of one of the most horrendous things that could ever happen to a woman in her lifetime, but I am no longer a victim, I am a survivor. This does not mean that the war is over, though; I fight battles in my mind almost every single day. Surviving sexual assault will always be apart of my story, but it will never be my identity. Shame will never be my identity. God has delivered me from that lie that the enemy keeps trying to feed me. God has given me a spirit of courage, joyfulness, and boldness. He has given me a purpose far beyond my rape. And while I probably won't ever be able to forget it entirely, God can use my rape to help me speak to people and inspire them. He can use ANYTHING to do just about everything. All we have to do is ask.
