Dear Nick,*
We haven’t spoken in a while. I’m pretty sure I drunk dialed you the last time we did. But that was only because you drunkenly texted me weeks before. That’s pretty much been our pattern of communication since graduation. I used to try and suggest meeting for coffee, but I’m pretty sure you think I’m still in love with you, so coffee never really panned out.
We dated for a few months of our sophomore year of high school. We fell fast and hard, as teenagers often do. You broke up with me during a spring break party, because my constant anxiety and depression was putting pressure on our relationship. I was devastated by the breakup; I felt like the one person I wanted and loved didn’t want me anymore and it was my fault.
I spent the rest of spring break trying to drink my feelings away. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I was sad before it ended and I was even sadder now. I didn’t care how drunk I got or how badly I was breaking my mom’s rules. Nothing mattered. I was miserable.
The one morning, just a few days after we broke up, I went to an older kid’s house with Katie*. We started playing pong and doing shots in broad daylight. I had a dance class later that afternoon, but I didn’t really care. I just wanted to make the pain go away.
There were only about five or six people at the house, an even mix of guys and girls. At some point, we all went into the computer room to watch a stupid video. Drunk, I lay down on the couch and closed my eyes. Will* sat down next to me, innocently enough.
Eventually I noticed that everyone had left the room. When had that happened? I felt Will’s body on top of me. He was kissing me. I didn’t kiss back. He started pulling down my pants. I didn’t move. I couldn’t really process what was happening. It just was.
He took off his own pants and put on a condom. I brushed him off and tried to turn away but he ignored it. He started trying to have sex with me, but he was too drunk and couldn’t get it up. He asked me if I wanted to go outside to his car. I said “No. Please just leave me alone. Stop.” Still, he kept trying to penetrate me until he was successful.
Suddenly, the door to the computer room burst open. There was cheering and laughing and I think someone was trying to take a picture. Will jumped off me and I immediately started crying. I was so embarrassed. They had all seen me naked. They all saw what happened. The only part they didn’t see was when I tried to say no.
I didn’t tell you about it. A rumor went around that week that I had slept with Aaron* (one of your friends) after we broke up. It wasn’t true, but the whole time I was trying to squelch that rumor, I panicked about you finding out about Will.
I confided in your best friend Mark* and told him that I had slept with someone, but not Aaron. I told him I didn’t want to and that it wasn’t my fault. I had said no. I made Mark promise not to tell you. I couldn’t bear having you know what happened.
Eventually you found out through Mark. One Friday night, he made plans to go to the movies with me, but ditched me to go to a party with you instead. I was furious at him and yelled at him for being a terrible friend.
Later that night I got a phone call from you. Before I had a chance to say hello, you asked “Did you have sex with Will?” I felt the brick of anxiety pressing on my chest. My heart pounded in my ears. “Yes,” I replied, through hot tears. “But it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want to. I said no.”
The next words out of your mouth will haunt me forever. “I never want to talk to you again. You’re a slut. I can’t believe you. You’re disgusting,” you said. Before I could plead with you to listen, I heard the phone click.
Sobbing, I called you back over and over again. You wouldn’t pick up. Eventually you answered but said callously, “I don’t want to talk to you. You’re nothing to me anymore. Stop calling me.” You asked if I tried to stop him; I replied only with “I told him no.” That wasn’t enough for you, apparently. I hadn’t physically tried to stop him, so in your eyes, I wanted it.
When we got back to school on Monday, you told all of our friends I had slept with someone three days after we broke up. But you left out the part where I said no. Each time you told your version of the story, I had to go up to that person and tell them what really happened. It was humiliating to share the story with friends and mortifying to relive the incident over and over again.
*****
The whole ordeal has been on my mind a lot lately. April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month and there is a lot of really great programming here at Barnard that deals with sexual assault. It’s wonderful that the community is engaging in these much-needed discussions, but as a survivor, April a month-long reminder of a moment I would rather forget.
I hate that word. Survivor. I hate using it to describe myself. It means admitting I was raped. I’ve never actually said, “I was raped” out loud. I always dance around the term, saying I was “taken advantage of” or something like that. But never “raped.” Saying that word gives the moment too much weight. Using the term makes it define me and I have never once allowed the incident to define who I am.
I rarely think about the actual rape, but I think about you all the time. How you didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want it. How you told all of your friends I was a slut. How you telling an incomplete story forced me to unwillingly share my version of the encounter. How you still, to this day, believe I wanted it.
After we started talking again, you would occasionally make comments about Will, especially if we were talking about sex. When I would say, “It didn’t count. I didn’t want to,” you would just brush me off. You’ve never once admitted that what happened to me was non-consensual.
You owe it to me to admit I am telling the truth. I want you to say it out loud, to make it real, just like I had to do. Your response to my rape damaged me. I blamed myself for so long because you blamed me. But over time, I’ve come to terms with the incident and I know that it wasn’t my fault. Now it’s time for you to do the same.
I said no. So what if I didn’t kick and scream my way out of it? I said no, and that’s all that matters. Regardless of if consent is given at some point in a sexual encounter, the minute “No” enters the conversation, that’s it. Over. Done. And the minute I told you I said no, that should have been the end of your anger towards me. You should have comforted and consoled me, not attacked me.
Rape isn’t always the stranger-aggravated violent act that is often depicted in movies and TV. More often, it happens in a dark room at a party, with someone she knows. According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), approximately 2/3 of rapes are committed by someone known to the victim. 38% of rapists are a friend or acquaintance. More than 50% of all rape/sexual assault incidents are reported by victims to have occurred within 1 mile of their home or at their home. 2 in 10 take place at the home of a friend, neighbor, or relative.
There was no violence, outside of the actual penetration, during my rape. There was no gun, no punching, no pushing me down. I didn’t fight back, kicking and screaming. I wasn’t attacked in a dark alley by a stranger in a dark hood and sunglasses. But that doesn’t render my story illegitimate. Every day, women are attacked by classmates, coworkers and friends of friends. It happens in dorm rooms, backseats of cars, and bedrooms. But it doesn’t matter where or how it happens – no means no.
I know how much you care about your little sister, your cousin, and your girlfriend. I hope that none of those women, or any other woman in your life, ever has to experience what I did. If one of them does, I hope that when she comes to you, you respond with a strong hug and kind words, or whatever it is that she needs from you. As the keeper of her secret, you have the power to shape her healing process. And having done everything wrong the first time around, I hope you use that chance to get it right.
Don’t ask questions like “What were you wearing?” or “Were you drinking?” Allow her to frame the narrative in her own terms. Ask her questions about how she’s feeling and what kind of self-care she’s been doing. Ask if she needs you to get her anything or if she just needs you to listen. Encourage her to eat, sleep, and seek medical care if necessary. Offer to accompany her to the emergency room if she is injured or to the doctor or campus health clinic if she needs STD testing.
Recognize that she has been through a traumatic event and it is bound to affect her in some way. She might not seem traumatized or broken after the event. She might try to downplay the attack or pretend like it didn’t happen. Remember that there is no right or wrong way to think or feel about the traumatic event, and that any reaction she has is valid.
Try to limit how much and in what ways you share with her your own feelings about the event. You might be angry or sad, but your reactions will impact her healing process. Understand that she may react and cope with the event in ways that are different from yours. You may even find yourself feeling more somber than she feels herself. Allow yourself to cope with the situation in your own way, but always allow her to do the same.
Given that 1 in 6 women has been the victim of attempted or completed rape in her lifetime, the chances of counting another rape victim among the women in your life is high. But you have the ability to help her through this complicated, emotional struggle. The most important thing you can do is just be there for her. The simple act of your supportive presence has more impact than you can imagine.
I hope all is well with you,
Rachel*
*Names have been changed