Call it by name
I was raped when I was 21.
It took me many years to call it that. I was drunk. He was drunk. I was passed out. What did I say before I passed out? Did I ask for it? I don’t remember. He was my friend. He was a nice guy.
I had sex with him again after that. And again. I wasn’t drunk. I had a boyfriend. I didn’t want him to think that I was upset about the first time. I didn’t want to lose one of my only friends in this town.
Even longer to call it rape was what happened when I was 16. We were in a relationship. We had sex all the time. But sometimes it wasn’t what I wanted to do. Sometimes it was forced. But I already said yes before. And he was my boyfriend. And I loved him. And it didn’t hurt and I didn’t say no.
It took me the longest to say I was raped at 15. He was 23. It was consensual. I wanted it. But why did I want it? Why did he want it? When I said yes, did I understand what I was saying yes to? He did.
Calling rape rape takes practice. It feels foreign, wrong. Like when you can’t come up with the right word so you use it as a placeholder until it comes to you. But it is the right word.
I learned about rape from movies. Used constantly as a device to move the plot along, raise stakes, sexualize an actress without taking away her character’s purity / desirability. It was violent, clearly wrong. No grey areas.
In my quarter semester of sexual education, a woman talked to us about the two times she had been raped. Both were by strangers, in a parking lot or alleyway. Both were violent. In both, she was clearly the victim. As I’ve grown and learned and experienced more, I’ve wondered whether she’s really only ever been raped twice.
Men don’t like to talk about rape. But how many of those men have raped? The first person to call what happened to me at 21 rape was a man. Is that what it took for me to call it rape? A man accepted it as such, so I could finally? Would that man classify my other experiences as rape?
We do not give our permission to be assaulted, but we are conditioned to seek permission to call it by name. Is there proof? It’s his word against hers. Was she an acceptable rape victim? Would this have happened at some point regardless because of her actions? Is my rape(s) accepted?
Being 15 and having a 23 year old bassist attracted to you is cool. I am desirable. By an older man. Thus, I am a desirable woman. No, I was a child desired by a pedophile.
Too harsh a term? Did you clench at the word? Our society is conditioned for pedophilia. Women: do not age. Do not grow hair on your genitals. Do not have sexual history or desires. Otherwise, men will not want you. Why do men want women whose bodies are childish? Why do we accept these terms? Why do we say it’s okay as long as they’re 18 or as long as the age gap isn’t too wide?
A 23 year old knows far more than a 15 year old. And he definitely knows that he can take advantage. And that’s what he did. I had sex with him. I had unprotected sex with him because he didn’t like condoms. I showed his brother my boobs because he told me if I didn’t, then I didn’t care about him. And then he punished me by not talking to me for days. And then I begged him to forgive me.
That was rape.
He told me to tell my mom that he was 19. Still illegal, but better; and she didn’t know we were having sex. He knew it was wrong. He knew she would not approve. He told me his name was Brett. It wasn’t. He protected himself with no consideration to me. He knew I would listen and do what he asked because I was 15 and he was 23 and that is the dynamic. So of course I had sex with him in any form he wanted. In public. In front of his friends. Because he was 23 and he liked me and a woman’s value is being desired by men. And I had a head start at 15.
We stopped talking abruptly. A girl from school later started dating his brother (the one who saw my boobs). She cornered me in the hall and asked if I knew him. And then started to talk about it all like I was in on the joke. I wasn’t. But I couldn’t tell her that. She said, “do you know his real name?” as I walked away. I did, but only after we stopped talking via MySpace sleuthing. She didn’t need to know any of this.
He worked at a mall kiosk when we were together. A few months later, I was at the mall with my friends and I saw him before he saw me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him see me and I saw him hide. He did not see me see him. He knew it was wrong. I bet someone thought he was a good guy.
I was an ugly child who grew into her own at 14-15, so boys’ attention was new to me and I was desperate for it. But I was also terrified of it. I only liked boys who I knew wouldn’t like me back so that I could pine from a distance and not get hurt. Already knew they would reject me so it didn’t hurt like an actual rejection would. And somehow that would keep my reputation clean because I wasn’t doing anything that could be talked about negatively. Just crushes.
A boy from another school liked me. And I liked him back. No one at school knew him, so it seemed safe and I became mysterious because my boyfriends were never from our school. He was so nice. And that’s what I needed. He was cute, and a football player, and he was nice.
We got together and had sex for the first time two weeks later in a movie theatre, and then in a Starbucks bathroom. I didn’t want to, I was fighting with my mom about the length of my skirt on the phone, but he kept pushing for it. He already said he loved me so why shouldn’t we do it again? In public. In a bathroom.
That was rape.
He was friends with a boy who I knew as well. I thought he was cute and we had kissed months before I met my boyfriend. One day, a group of us were hanging out and we were having a great time when the kiss was brought up. My boyfriend left the group and walked away without a word. Confused, I followed him. He wouldn’t talk to me.
Another of his friends was getting in their car and my boyfriend got in too. I ran after, asking him to wait, but he wouldn’t. They turned and drove toward me. I thought he was coming to talk to me, but instead I had to jump out of the way to not get run over. I started crying, pleading.
The car stopped and he got out. He made me swear I would never treat him like that again. I honestly didn’t even know what I did, but I swore and cried and begged. He finally took me back.
After that day, he wasn’t nice anymore. And I never could make him happy. But I sure tried. And that usually meant doing sexual things that I wasn’t really into doing.
He was a very spoiled child with his parents. Though he was 17, he did not have his license because his parents would drop everything to drive him. One night, his dad drove me home from their house. We were sitting in the backseat of the truck, with the front seats like a bench, creating a visual wall halfway up between the front and back of the cab. He asked me to give him a blowjob.
I said no. His dad was right there. He insisted. If I loved him, then I would do it. So I did. I leaned over and sucked his dick until he came in my mouth and down my throat. When I lifted my head, no one said a word. He just smirked and put his arm around me.
That was rape.
Did his dad really not know? Was this a power play between them? Was it just too awkward to say anything? At the time, I assumed we just got away with it, but now, I’m positive he knew and didn’t intervene. My boyfriend was not a good guy.
Eventually, his verbal and emotional abuse turned physical, and that’s when people started paying attention to the dangers of our relationship. Emotional manipulation and continual rape are totally okay, but a slap must be stopped!
Not that I’m complaining that people took that seriously, but my life was still completely changed after this experience and the trauma ran deeper from the things that were shrugged off.
Relationships were tricky after that one. I had burned a lot of friendships as my ex demanded all of my time and attention, as most abusers do, so I was incredibly alone and didn’t really know how to interact with people anymore. I wasn’t me anymore. I just did what I thought anyone around me wanted because I didn’t want to bear the consequences of doing the wrong thing.
It would take over a decade to unlearn that behavior. At 27, I had a major breakdown where I realized that I have no individual qualities. Everything about me was based on who I was with or around or trying to impress. Did I actually like something, or was it because a guy I was into preferred it? Are these really my beliefs or am I just agreeable to not make waves? Is there any part of me that exists without dependency on someone else? The answer was no. So I had to build myself up from nothing to what I am now.
When I was raped, I wasn’t just sexually penetrated; I was emotionally and mentally destroyed. But I didn’t know it. And I couldn’t talk about it. But it’s my fault. And I deserve it. And it’s what I wanted. So this destruction just festered within me, eating up anything left that was actually me to avoid being hurt again.
At the end of my senior year in high school, I started a relationship that would last for over three years and span my college experience. We did not attend the same school or live in the same city, so we continually drove 2 hours to see each other every weekend.
College was lonely. I lived off campus with some amazing women, but it lacked the community that you typically get in the dorm life. And because I was either gone or spending every moment in town with my boyfriend, I wasn’t really making any connections outside of the classroom. Once I got halfway into my second year and started taking writing classes and not just GE courses, I began finding real friendships.
One of those friends was my third rapist. He was a San Diego native and in a fraternity so not only was he well versed in the location, he was very social on campus. He brought me to parties, clubs, and interesting events all over the school and county and I was so grateful for his company, especially while I was away from my boyfriend.
I knew he liked me. We talked about it. But I really was in love with my boyfriend. We talked about our future together, me a writer, him a politician; and it included marriage and kids and the whole shebang. And I really wanted it with him.
In my third and final year of college, that dynamic shifted a bit. I was working really hard in my writing classes to hone my skills and to graduate a year early, while my boyfriend was slacking in school and smoking way too much weed. Those plans we had suddenly seemed less appealing and less likely with this version of him. So I was spending more time with my friend and less weekends driving to see my boyfriend.
I turned 21 in February of my final year. My friend was already 22. In March, he took me to Pacific Beach (PB) for margaritas on taco Tuesday. As a new, legal drinker, I didn’t have a lot of experience with professionally mixed cocktails. I mostly took shots of whatever shitty bottle was around and followed them with some kind of juice. I didn’t realize how quickly you could drink a margarita because it tastes so good and how suddenly the three huge fishbowls would hit your mental state, all at once.
I vaguely recall trying to get into another bar, but the bouncer denied entrance because I was too drunk. But the next bar let us in no problem.
He got me some pink mixed drink from the bar that tasted like shit and we attempted to play pool. I could hardly stand, let alone focus on a cue ball and take aim, so the game ended pretty quickly. Then it was black.
It was dark, and kinda musty. The air felt thick. I knew I was moving but I didn’t want to open my eyes. I realized that someone was on top of me and a penis was going in and out of my vagina. Immediately I thought, “my boyfriend is here?”. I turned my head onto the car seat headrest to look straight and I opened my eyes.
A shirtless back came into view, sliding up and down my chest, where my shirt was lifted over my breasts. The wire from my unhooked bra was digging into my neck as a hand was holding up my clothes and pressing painfully into my collarbone. There was so much sweat.
I looked over to the other side where a layer of steam had clouded the window. I couldn’t make out anything outside other than darkness. Were we parked at the beach?
I heard him grunting. I weighed my options. I could yell and push him off me, but I don’t even know where we are. We’re in his car somewhere. If I walked out, I would be mostly naked, lost, and he could drive away leaving me stranded. Did I make a move? Does he not realize I passed out? His head is down between my arm and breast so maybe he wasn’t aware. He drank a lot too. How did he drive us here? Where are we?
I couldn’t handle making a decision. Nothing seemed like the right call and I was too drunk to think cleverly. I decided my best option was to turn my head back to the original side, close my eyes, and pass out again, letting him finish. Which he did.
That was rape.
I don’t remember if I woke up again, but I know he took us back to my apartment and he walked me inside. I opened my eyes in my room, on my bed, and felt him next to me. He stayed the night.
My head filled with panic. I cheated on my boyfriend. He’s still here, right now, sleeping in my bed. I got so fucked up and I don’t know what happened, but we had sex. I was upset. I was scared. I was confused. I was hurt.
He was my friend, so he must’ve done this because I asked him to. I must’ve made a move and told him it was okay. I’m a shitty fucking girlfriend.
He woke up and touched me. Immediately I wanted to recoil, but I didn’t want to offend him so I leaned back into the little spoon position. He kissed my neck and then started moving his hands down my body. I felt his fingers rub against my clit and I slammed my eyes shut. I think I stopped breathing.
He then moved his hands to his penis, rubbing it into an erection. He flipped me over onto my back, spread my legs, and he was inside of me again.
I was stunned. Were we dating now? What happened last night? I lied there while he thrusted into me, moaning, and sweating profusely once more. I don’t think I made a sound.
He came inside of me and rolled to the side. Finally, I spoke. “Did you not pull out?” “No, I didn’t know I needed to. I thought you were on birth control.” I was, but I was also terrified. Even my boyfriend pulled out when we had sex.
He offered to get me a plan B pill. How kind. He got up, dressed, and told me he’d come back later. I didn’t move. Once he left, I went to the bathroom and felt his ejaculation dribble out of me as I peed. I hated the feeling. I hated the smell. I hated myself.
I went back to my bed and cried. I cried for my boyfriend. I cried for my friendship. I didn’t move until he came back hours later.
He complained about the price of the pills and about having to clean up the vomit that apparently I projectiled onto his car door. I wondered if that was before or after the car sex.
He sat on my bed with me, staring expectantly. I wanted to be away from him but I also didn’t want to lose my friend. He was in many of my writing classes and was the person with whom I have so many fond memories out here. I was upset but didn’t want to upset him, so I leaned in and kissed him. He asked if I had brushed my teeth yet. I hadn’t.
He laughed and then turned me over and pulled down his pants, and then mine. I guess we were having sex again, but doggy style so he doesn’t have to deal with my vomit breath. After he finished, he quipped that the plan B can now work for another one. He stayed and hung out all night while I died inside and played the doting sexual partner.
We stayed friends as I wanted, but it was always a little off after that. Thankfully, we graduated in June of that year and I moved out of town. Not long after that, I broke up with my boyfriend. I never told him about what happened, but I couldn’t recover from the experience. I didn’t deserve the future we had originally planned. I was dirty and empty.
I moved back to my parents’ house and found a local bar where I could drink for free and escape my trauma. It was there I met my next boyfriend. He was a wonderful man, but not a good match for me or for the time of my life I was in. I associated his love for me to his sexual desire for me; and though we had sex every day, I never felt like it was enough if I ever offered and he declined.
I sank deeper into unrecognized alcoholism, blacking out regularly, dangerously. I didn’t fear anything because I felt nothing.
At the end of that relationship, he told me something his father told him that stung so bad at the time but turned out incredibly poignant.
You two are not a good match because she does not love herself so she will never love you.
Following the end of this relationship, I sank into a deeper alcoholism hole and became a sexual object for anyone who would have me. Some encounters I remember, others I don’t. Some ruined friendships and some remained nameless. I couldn’t get close to anyone and I knew my only value was sex.
This is what rape did to me. It removed my identity. It removed my worth. And I let it happen. Because all of those experiences are my fault. I was just walking through life, alive but not living. Desperate for love but incapable of accepting or giving it.
The first time I thought of my most recent experience as rape was with a mutual friend. In a cross-faded haze, I told him that I slept with our friend and the circumstances. I described it as I believed it at the time: we had sex in college. We went out and I drank WAY too much and then I passed out and woke up to him having sex with me. Ha ha.
He told me that was rape. I said he didn’t understand. He said I didn’t understand. I didn’t say anything else.
I sat on that for a few more years without processing it. It was there in the back of mind, but never to be explored. He was my friend. He isn’t a rapist. I drank more. I had more sex. I felt nothing.
I was lucky and my path led me to sobriety rather than an early death. In my recovery, I had that breakdown that allowed me to rebuild myself. And as I started to unravel everything that was once my identity, I realized how much of it tied back to that event. And then further into my recovery and processing, I realized how much of what led to that event tied back to my relationship at 16, which wouldn’t have happened had I not been with the 23 year old.
I am not saying that the 23 year old is responsible for everything. But now I understand that none of this was my fault, either. I did not deserve the things that happened to me because of something I did or mistakes I made. I was preyed upon by these men and because I did not have the knowledge or the awareness of what happened to me, my mind and body reacted for me in ways that only now I can start to analyze. I told myself that I was in control of my sexuality, but in reality I was amputated from it and subconsciously punishing myself for the immorality that happened to me.
These events changed me. They changed my chemistry; my heart. And each change branched off into a path that led me into the new events that branch and branch until I’m no longer securely connected to my roots. I’m just floating, absent from myself.
I am not who I was. And it is expected that I would change from a 15 year old to an adult. But I didn’t have to change this way. This change was forced upon me, without my consent. Without even consideration. I was 15 years old. A baby. And a man who knew better used me. And that trauma made me desperate for something as simple as a nice boy. And I fell for one who knew that that’s how you reel someone in who is blind to the signs and ignores everything that tells her this isn’t right because she’s been hurt and hasn’t healed. And that closed me off and made me less social to where a single friend in a lonely city is worth holding onto even though he is a bad man. And that was the final blow that tossed me off the edge and I lost myself. And I was okay with that for a very long time.
But I’m not okay with it. I have found parts of myself again, and it is in a new form and it is angry. I have found my voice and I have plenty to say. These experiences happened to me, like they happen to so many others, but we are afraid to call them by their name. I am no longer afraid.
When I was 15, I was raped by a 23 year old.
When I was 16, I was repeatedly raped by my boyfriend.
When I was 21, I was raped by my friend.
Do they think about me? Do they have the slightest inclination of their impact? I have spent two decades detangling this mess, wondering if this new self I built is actually me or simply a byproduct of these experiences. Have they even spared two minutes? Do they consider the hatred I have for my body from it being sexualized so early and critiqued by them? Do they even remember me?
I am not afraid to call it by name, but I am still searching for the end of its reach. And I may never find it.
