Category — fs

Photo: The Great Survivor by algo. Please click for larger view after you read the whole post.

Today, I feel like posting my “ground zero” sexual assault story. By this I mean the moment of my actual, physical rape. More on why I’m choosing to call it a “ground zero” story in another post, but right now, I don’t feel like adding any side explanations, facts, or disclaimers. I just want to type it out.

The story is below. If you feel reading this will upset you or bring up unpleasant memories, please don’t read on. If you read it and find after the fact that you are experiencing emotional or physical upset, please do talk to someone about it who can be sympathetic and supportive. I’ve included some numbers you can call for support at the bottom of the post.

A while back, a blogger friend of mine told his own rape story and his strength in and style of doing so were a true inspiration to me back before I could do what I’m doing today. Following his example, I am going to keep this simple and straightforward.

I was raped by a family doctor, a gynecologist. I was in high school. I was still a virgin.

It was my first real “woman’s checkup.” The doctor had been my mother’s gynecologist for years. I suspect that he probably suggested to my mother that she bring me in for an appointment now that I was a teenager and approaching the age when I might become sexually active. I am not certain if he was the one who suggested it or my mother thought it up on her own; I have yet to ask about this.

The original plan my mother and I had decided on before we went was that, as it was my first exam and I was nervous, she would be in the room with me, for support. This was something I wanted.

When we got there, the doctor convinced my mother that she should leave the exam room. I believe she was already in the exam room, waiting with me for the appointment to start when this discussion took place, but I remember the discussion better than I remember the physical location of it. In any case, the doctor came in while we were both there and said that when girls got to be my age, he didn’t like to examine them with their mothers present. He basically implied not very subtly that I might be sexually active and not telling my mother, and if she stayed in the room, she’d be a bad parent, because I might not ask questions I needed to get answered. Questions a teenager might feel intimidated to ask in front of her mother, which would cause me harm later, if I didn’t get answers to them.

My mother and I did not have the kind of a relationship where I would have felt intimidated to ask questions in front of her. I pretty much told her everything, and we’d already agreed that if I ever thought about having sex, I would let her know, so she could help me get appropriate birth control. We had this understanding. But the doctor was very adamant. I still remember the overwhelming feeling of pressure in the situation–it was tense and uncomfortable. He was condescending, and insistent. He made it feel like our hesitation was foolish and we were wasting his time. He used a lot of guilt-inducing language. As he went on, I could see he was planting seeds of doubt in my mother’s mind. He even planted them in mind–maybe there were things he might ask me I wouldn’t want my mother to know. I remember actually thinking this, though I had no idea what those things would have been, and even though somewhere deep down I knew I didn’t want her to leave. Anyway, in the end, we both broke our own resolution we’d made to ourselves and each other, and we did what he wanted.

My mother left the exam room, and he examined me by himself. He never called in a female nurse to attend, as is the common safety rule when a male gynecologist examines a woman. As it was my first appointment, I didn’t know that was supposed to happen, so I didn’t know it was odd for him to be in there alone with me.

Many small details of the exam are blurred for me now. Only the worst things stand out. But I can say that it was not a constant battery of worst things. It was a back and forth. He’d do something that made me nervous and seemed inappropriate, then he’d do something that seemed very “doctorly” and appropriate. Each time I started to worry something was wrong, he’d switch tracks, and I’d calm down and think I’d been mistaken, until the next scary thing happened. And that pattern repeated itself throughout the appointment. It was very disconcerting, and in a way, hypnotic. It kept me from ever being able to build my panic level high enough to get me to that “fight or flight” stage where one realizes one has no chance for safety except by forcibly fighting to get the hell out of there.

So, I can’t give you a blow by blow of the back and forth behavior, but that is how it progressed, in this back and forth way. Of the scary things I remember, here is a list. Also keep in mind that during all of this, I was laying on a table with paper gown on that opened to expose my entire front, and that my legs were up in stirrups so my entire genital region was entirely exposed and spread open. Remember that as this was going on, he was touching and staring at parts of the body that don’t get touched or looked at in most medical examinations, or in life in general. Imagine yourself as a teenager in that position, as your doctor did these type of things to you, and you will understand how I felt.

He asked me a lot of inappropriate questions, pretending they were part of the medical examination, and made subtle fun of me if I seemed embarrassed about answering them. He pushed me to admit I was not a virgin, and when I insisted I hadn’t slept with anyone yet, he laughed at me and asked me “why not”–as if I should have by then, and I was stupid. He also showed great, smug enjoyment at my being flustered as to how to answer him, and he wouldn’t move on with the exam until I said something to answer him. This behavior happened repeatedly after every inappropriate question. The exam would not proceed until he got an answer. And he’d pause wherever he was and stare at me and laugh to himself until he got one.

After the virginity interrogation, he asked me if I knew what kinds of men make the best and worst lovers. I remember desperately trying to consider my response as quickly as possible, measuring the outcome, because I knew either answer I gave was a trap. I chose to say no, and he then launched into a list of which kinds of men make the best and worst lovers, by profession (guess which list doctors were on), and why. He asked me if I masturbated, and pushed relentlessly for details as to how I did it, though I refused to give them to him. He made fun of me when I kept giving him vague responses. During all of this, when he was talking to me and asking me these questions, when he was not specifically doing an exam procedure, he’d lean his elbows on my propped up legs or other parts of my body and rest his chin on on his hand, like he was leaning on a desk. Or he would put his hand on bare parts of my body as he talked to me. NOT to examine anything. He’d stop, ask a question, and just put his hand somewhere on me where there was bare skin, and let it rest there.

This kind of behavior continued throughout the exam, until I was very scared and confused. Many things of a physical nature may or may not have happened,–I’ve blocked a lot of the specifics of where and what he touched and how he did so out. The only thing I remember is the last part. He stuck his finger in my vagina, purportedly to “examine” me. And then, under the guise of “checking to make sure I wouldn’t be too small to have sex when I was ready to,” he simulated sex on me with his finger, to “show me what it would feel like.” I am not actually sure how many fingers he had inside during this part. He did this simulation act repeatedly, and I don’t know for how long, because I just kind of…zoned out, the way you do when you’re in shock. I just coudn’t really feel anything. But he was not gentle. I know this because I remember gripping the table beneath me so hard that my fingers hurt, to bear the impact of each time the base of his hand hit me. That is all I remember. The feeling of being so unable to handle the situation that I was entirely dulled out, and the feeling of my body tensed and braced in order to lessen the impact of each hit as it punched into me. Everything else seemed to fade out, except for that and one sound…the sound of the paper on the exam table crinkling under my hands as i was gripping it for dear life.

When I remember it, I remember kind of fading in and out from watching it directly as it happened. It was as if I kept going back and forth, jumping inside and outside of myself in rapid succession, and I couldn’t settle. First, a flash seeing what was happening straight through my eyes, and next, flash, I’m watching it from the outside like I am a ghost in the room, standing next to the table, watching. Or sometimes watching from way up high. Like I was dead. Like I was passively watching a movie–watching something that couldn’t really happen in the real world. Not to me.

While he did this to me, he asked me, “Does this hurt?”

It was hard to talk. I remember my teeth being gritted.

I didn’t answer, so he kept going. He asked again, “Does this hurt you?”

I told him “no.” That was all I said. “No.”

I couldn’t feel anything. How could it hurt?

At some point he stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was entirely reaction-less, and that was no fun for him. Maybe because he’d gotten his rocks off enough. I have no idea. But he stopped.

I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember how he wrapped up the appointment and got himself out of there. I don’t remember getting dressed alone in the exam room, or if I saw or talked to anyone after I left the room. I don’t remember how I reacted when I saw my mother again, though I know it was not any kind of emotional outpouring of any kind. I can’t remember if the doctor talked to my mother and me together after the exam. I don’t remember how I got out of the building. None of it. It’s like a dead zone.

I don’t remember anything at all until I was in the car with my mother driving home, and I remember very little of the specifics of that conversation. I remember I told her I didn’t like him, and that she asked me why. I can’t remember how much detail of the exam I told her. I used to tell my mother everything, so my guess is I told her everything, though I don’t know. I’ve blocked it. And since at the time I didn’t know what was and wasn’t appropriate in a gynecological exam, I am not even sure which details I would have presented to her as bad. The doctor had told me that everything he did had been a necessary part of the examination, and I really had no idea.

I need to insert here a part of the story I didn’t know then. I recently found out from my mother that either before or after the exam (I’m not remembering which just now), the doctor took my mother aside when I was not there and told her that because I was a virgin, he was going to examine me in a “special” way, with just his finger, rather than a speculum. He told her this was so he could keep my hymen from breaking (a.k.a., keeping my virginity intact for my future husband). My mother was from a much more conservative time, back when such things still held some value (though it was certainly something that even in her generation was not really “checked for” anymore). Also, she had never gone to the gynecologist until she was married and trying to get pregnant, so she wasn’t sure how virgins should get examined. He was her doctor. She trusted him to know what he was talking about, and to act honorably. She believed his story.

Anyway, I don’t remember how much I did tell her in the car. I think I may have told her most of it. But the only thing I distinctly remember telling her was this phrase, that still sticks in my head: “He leaned on me like a piece of furniture.” That, and that I didn’t like the jokey way that he talked to me about my sexuality.

She told me that was just his personality, to be jokey, and I shouldn’t take it personally. She told me he had helped her out in a very significant medical crisis, and she would always be grateful to him for that. She said that despite his flippant manner, he was a very good and caring doctor, and would never do anything intentional to hurt me or my feelings.

I can not remember how I felt hearing that.

I said that even so I didn’t want to go back to him ever again. She said okay.

And that was the last time I ever spoke of it, or even really allowed myself to think about it, for more than 20 years.

That’s it. That’s my “ground zero” rape story. While I was writing it, I kept trying to go off on tangents, putting in all kinds of context and information about rape, and about how to help survivors, and what I’ve learned about my own story in retrospect. But those can wait for other posts. And I found myself, even now, still trying to put in rationalizations, explanations, or defenses for my and others’ actions and viewpoints, and for why I wanted to tell this story. I kept trying to sneak in sensory details to try to “convince” you that what happened to me really was horrible, that it really was rape, just in case someone might want to argue with me.

But there is no reason for any of that, so I took it all out.

This is my story.

This next statement may sound defensive if you misread the tone, but actually it’s not. It’s celebratory. And I say it, very matter-of-factly, for myself and all other survivors out there reading this.

This is my story. I don’t need any flourishes, or explanations to tell it. I don’t care what anyone thinks about it, and I don’t care if you believe me. I’m not ashamed or afraid to call it rape anymore. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed that it happened to me. It doesn’t say anything about me and who I am as a person. It is just a fact of my life.

These are also facts of my life: It was wrong. It wasn’t my fault. And it was what I think it was. Rape.

It took me decades to be able to understand this, and even longer to believe it, and even longer than that to say it out loud to other people. It was not easy to come to this point, and not simple to figure out how to not just give it lip service, but to really feel it, and believe it. But I do now. Some days I still waver, still have moments of fear and doubt, but each day that I tell it, that wavering gets less and less.

And the pain I experienced to get myself to this point where I could speak this truth? The fear I had to push down to start telling this story? The fear I still combat sometimes in telling it? Well, now that I am at this place, I can promise you this. It is nothing compared to the intense pain of not being able to name it all these years. Of beating yourself up for not being stronger or smarter or more perfect. Of blaming others, but never saying it. Of having your mouth sewn shut when you’re screaming inside, crying and tearing yourself up with grief, letting it eat you up alive.

Telling your story, and believing it independent of anyone else’s belief, frees you from all that pain. It isn’t easy. But it’s possible.

So if you have your own story, know that I am with you on it. I believe you. And whether you’re ready to tell it or not (even to yourself), by telling my story, I am saying this to you, as well as myself: It was wrong, what happened to you. It wasn’t your fault. And it was what you think it was.

You deserve to be believed. And even if you’re not believed, it’s your story, not theirs. You know. You’re right. Don’t you doubt your own truth. You don’t have to protect anyone’s feelings or care about anyone’s opinions on this except your own.

And I want to say don’t give up. Keep looking. There are people out there who will believe you and support you, and help you learn to believe yourself if you can’t right now. Sometimes they’re hard to find, but they exist. I promise. My heart is with you if you are struggling–I know how hard it is. But you can make it. I promise.

Don’t give up.

I believe as each woman tells her story for the first time, she breaks the silence, and by doing so breaks her isolation, begins to melt her shame and guilt, making her experience real, lifting her pain….I believe one person’s declaration sparks another and then another…

Naming things, breaking through taboos and denial is the most dangerous, terrifying and crucial work. This has to happen in spite of political climates or coercions, in spite of careers being won or lost, in spite of the fear of being criticized, outcast or disliked. I believe freedom begins with naming things. Humanity is preserved by it.

–Eve Ensler, “The Power and Mystery of Naming Things“, part of NPR’s “This I Believe” series. Full audio/transcript here.

Note from dea: I didn’t want to chop up the quote above with loads of editor’s insertions, but please insert “woman or man” and “her or his” where appropriate above. It’s true for ALL assault survivors, of all genders.

Thanks for listening.

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For those who have survived a sexual assault, or think they may have, and need someone to talk to=–or for those who want to find out how to best support an individual who has been assaulted:

In the US:

National Sexual Assault Hotline - 1.800.656.HOPE. Free, confidential, and open 24/7. For women and men.

To find a local rape crisis center and/or hotline in your area, visit http://tools.rainn.org/counseling-centers/index.html

In the UK:

Rape/Indecent Assault Crisis Counselling - 0800 735 0567

Samaritans - 08457 909090

Man2man (for male victims of abuse) - 0208 698 9649

Victim Supportline (Nationwide lo-call service, 9am–9pm Mon–Fri, 9am–7pm weekends and bank holidays from 9am–5pm; Provides information and support to victims of all reported and unreported crime, including sexual crimes, racial harassment and domestic violence) - 0845 30 30 900

If people would like to share hotline numbers for other countries, please add to the comments on this post and I’ll add them to the list. Thanks.

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This is a post in a continuing series related to my sexual assault experiences. For those interested in reading the other installments:

All That You Can’t Leave Behind

I am She as You Are Me and She is Me and We Are All Together

Maenads’ Mantra

I’m sure all of you have heard at least one news story about a woman who stepped forward years after the fact to accuse some well-known man of having sexually assaulted her. You’ve probably heard more than one such story.

I’m also sure that when those cases come up, you’ve often heard people ask, “If this really happened to her, why did it take her fifteen years to step forward? Why didn’t she report it right away?” If you’re really honest, maybe a few of you will even admit the thought has at least crossed your own minds from time to time.

This is not a statement of blame. Because I thought the same thing about those women.

It wasn’t that I didn’t necessarily believe their stories. I would defend these women publicly, insisting no one would go through the agony of exposing themselves to court proceedings, having her sexual history become public record, and facing public scorn and ridicule just for financial gain, or to “get some attention.” But secretly, I wondered: Why had it taken her so long? And I often got frustrated about how much more of a liability these women were to the getting people to take “real” (read, immediate) sexual assault issues seriously.

Yes, I thought somewhere deep down that an immediate accusation of assault was more “real,” or deserved more merit, than an accusation decades after the fact.

So, again, this is not a statement of blame. It’s an explanation.

Because, I find now that I am one of those women.

I mentioned in this post a few days ago that I was sexually assaulted as a teenager. Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea this was so until almost 20 years later?

It’s true.

For years as an adult, I would go to “Take Back the Night” protests. I did it to support other women who had been raped. That’s what I thought. I would read or hear sexual assault statistics in the news. And I would think, with no sense of discomfort or irony, “I’m just so lucky that has never happened to me.”

You might think it was because I had blocked the memory. Not true. I hadn’t forgotten or buried the events of what happened to me in my subconscious. I remembered the entire thing. I just didn’t give it a name. It was a small, gnawing, uneasy spot of memory with no label affixed.

And hence, I was completely, utterly clueless. Even long after I should have known better.

So, now I’m one of those women I wondered about. The one who’s only able to name what happened to her so far after the fact that everyone around her wonders why she’s even bothering. And I now understand who that woman is, and why she waited, and why she’s even bothering.

But this piece today, I’m writing just to tell you and everyone out there that the woman isn’t lying because she brought it up so late in the game. And she isn’t bringing it up “at her convenience” for some kind of dramatic effect or gain.

Like me, she may simply not have realized what happened to her.

Sexual assault is almost never as cut-and-dry as people think. We have our friend Senator Napoli telling us in that now infamous news clip that assault means being “brutally raped, savaged…sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it.” Though we’d prefer to vilify him and call his view an aberration, and though he was certainly disturbingly extreme in his description, in truth, his viewpoint is not so far off the mark from what many people unconsciously define “real” assault as. Because despite what we’re told over and over again, that’s what people usually think makes it “real,” what counts as proof. If there are marks, if there are bruises and scratches. If there’s an alley, and a stranger, and a weapon, and a struggle, and a penis forced into an orifice, then, and only then, it counts as a “real” assault.

And so if you’re assaulted, and none of these things happen to you, often no one will believe you were really assaulted. And more to my point today, often you won’t even believe it yourself.

Of course, real truth is that that list of conditions above is RARELY the case in most sexual assaults. Only a tiny percentage of assault survivors sustain serious physical injuries. Weapons are rarely present. The assaulter is rarely a stranger in an alley. Far more frequently the assaulter is someone the person knows, making the victim less guarded, and more confused about how to respond when things suddenly turn ugly. The situation is rarely 100 percent spontaneous. It’s often deliberately set up ahead of time, so the person who is assaulted is less likely to be believed.

But these details, while not completely unknown, still don’t loom large in the public consciousness. In the end, it’s only the victim who’s been beaten mercilessly by a stranger and reports it immediately that gets our full, unquestioned belief.

And then there are those who are assaulted not only by people they know, but by people in roles that most others have difficulty believing could be capable of perpetrating such an act. A priest, for instance, or a parent, or a lover, husband, or wife. Or, in my case, a well-respected doctor.

If, for instance, a parent tells you what he or she is doing to you is a good thing, that he or she loves you for doing it—well, is it any wonder that the person who’s being assaulted may not be able to put a label on what has happened to her or him until many, many years later? Or let’s use an example of a sexually active adult. Let’s say you’re getting physical with someone you actually like—someone you’ve chosen to be with, maybe even someone you’ve had sex with before–and suddenly a boundary is crossed before you had time to figure out what was going on. Might you not possibly convince yourself what happened to you wasn’t what it actually was? Might you not put a blank spot on the event, the way I did?

In all these cases, might it not take you years before you realized what had really happened? Might it not take even longer for you to get brave enough to stand up and tell it to the world, knowing you are going to face the same doubt, denial, confusion, and even anger that you’ve used against yourself for all this time?

Something to think about the next time those questions at the beginning of this post come up, in any context.

More another day.

(Photo credit: day goes by by Simon Pais)

A number of years back, well before the turn of the current century, I decided to move across the country. I was excited, and brimming with hope. It was a new adventure. I was putting my life as a slave to the New York City publishing world behind me. I was leaving a lot of other things that had grown tiresome or oppressive to me, too. I had a new significant other. I was starting fresh. Everything felt young, exciting, and full of promise–endless possibility lay ahead of me.

I packed up my car. I wanted to stock it full of everything that had meaning to me, so I would be able to surround myself with the things I loved when I arrived at my new home. Turned out a lot of things had meaning to me. My whole car was filled up, and then I had to attach one of those bubble things to the roof to add more. My family helped me pack. When I was done, I went happily on my way, watching them get smaller and smaller behind me as they waved goodbye.

I drove from daylight into evening, and then when it had been dark for a good number of hours and I’d started to get tired, I pulled into a budget motel for the night, in a place I’d never been before. I’d call it a big town, but the people who live there call it a city. I went to a chain restaurant next door for dinner. I grabbed my travel case and headed in to my room for a good sleep before heading out the next day.

I woke up in the morning, got dressed, and went down to the parking lot. I stood there for a minute, unbelieving. My car was gone. Everything I owned and loved was gone. Everything.

Try to imagine this. You’re standing there in an empty parking lot, and all you now own are about four pieces of clothing, a pair of shoes, and a toothbrush.

ALL your clothes are gone. Your photographs. Your favorite music (hundreds and hundreds of cds), and your stereo to go with it. Your favorite books. Your favorite earrings, rings, or what have you.

I lost that, and more. All my favorite clothing, both the comfortable and the sexy. Letters from old friends and lovers. A stuffed animal I’d had since birth, that my family had chosen specially for me while I was still in the womb. Special gifts from friends that meant everything in the world to me. Keepsakes from family members who had passed on. Every single journal I’d written in from grade school through adulthood, documenting every memory and emotion I’ve ever experienced in my life. Every non-human thing I have ever loved, gone. Things I could never, ever get back or replace.

I couldn’t even process it. I went blank. I started shaking uncontrollably. When I got that somewhat under control, I went to the front desk. I told the hotel manager what happened, and he laughed at me. He laughed. And he said, smirking, that he was sorry, but he had no control over what happened in his parking lot. It became more than evident from his attitude and responses that he was probably involved in some way. I suggested the least he could do was refund my money for my night’s stay, given my inconvenience and my extreme financial loss which had occurred on his premises. It couldn’t have been more than $30. It wouldn’t have broken him. He laughed at me again and refused. When I got angry at his behavior, he called the police and had me forcibly removed from his property. When the police came, I told the them what had happened. They didn’t care. They made me leave, and didn’t say a word to the hotel manager. They protected him, not me. They treated me like I was the criminal.

The police couldn’t have cared less about my theft, but they suggested I wait 24 hours in town after that, just in case the car showed up abandoned somewhere in town. I went to another hotel and sat there, with my four pieces of clothing and a toothbrush. I called home to let them know what had happened. And when I finally got someone, I found out my father had just been rushed to the hospital for an emergency quadruple bypass, and no one was sure whether he was going to make it or not.

What was your reaction when you just read that story? If you were going to say something back to me, what would you have said?

I’ve told this story numerous times over the years. It no longer affects me. It’s just a story that’s happened in my past. But it affects the people I tell it to, every time. Everyone is always instantly horrified. They tell me it’s the worst thing they have ever heard. They tell me they can’t imagine how I got through that day. They ask me how I ever got over it. They ask me if it still bothers me now. They often look like they want to hug me, even though I don’t look upset anymore when I tell the story. Some do hug me. They shake their heads in disbelief and say they can’t figure out how they would ever get over something like that. They spit venom out at whomever the person or people were who stole my belongings, and at that asshole of a hotel manager. They get extreme about it. They call them names, they suggest all kinds of cruel punishment for them. They ask me if I ever got any of my stuff back, if the theives ever got caught. And back when it had just happened, everyone asked me how they could help. They also ask me about my dad’s surgery, if he survived (he did), and how I got through dealing with that when I was all alone, with nothing, in a strange state.

Was your imagined response similar to any of the above?

When I was a teenager, I was sexually assaulted.

What was your response to that?

Because it should have been the same. But I bet for some of you it wasn’t.

When I tell random people about my car, they react as described above. When I tell people about my assault, they generally act nothing like this. They most often try to run away, or make me shut up about it. It’s “too much information”–it’s stepping out of the comfort zone. It’s letting a dirty secret out into the light. You get the sense the person wants to say, “Why would you tell me this? What can I do about it now? What do you want from me, telling me this?”

I’m going to say this now for myself. And maybe I’ll take a little liberty and assume I can say it for all sexual assault survivors. I’m saying it to any of you out there who have had or will have someone tell you they were sexually assaulted.

What do we assault survivors want from you when we tell you this information? Read carefully:

All I want is to be able to talk about my assault openly, the way I can about my car story. All I want is for you to respond to me about it the same way you would about my car story. Show sympathy for me. Show outrage for the crime committed. Ask if I’m okay, and if the crime has been very recent, ask if there’s anything you can do to help. Ask how I managed to recover. Ask any of the things I listed above for the car story.

With the car story, people believe me right away. No one ever even stops for a second to wonder if I’ve possibly made it up. No one asks me pointedly why I stopped at the motel for the night in the first place. No one suggests I’m tellng the story to tarnish the reputation of the motel chain I stayed at. They never suggest that the fact that I walked into that motel of my own choice meant that I was asking to get robbed. They don’t ask why I didn’t yell a little louder at the hotel manager or the police officer. They don’t ask me if I am sure my car was stolen, rather than merely misplaced. They don’t ask for in-depth explanations of every item that was stolen and then question whether my theft “counted” as much as other thefts where more expensive cars and belongings had been taken. They don’t ask if I had done something to deliberately piss the theives off, so that they stole my car over someone else’s. They never push me to describe exactly what inflection the hotel manager used when speaking to me, or exactly how tightly the policeman put his hand around my arm when he escorted me off the property–it doesn’t even occur to them that those details were necessary–it’s simply enough for them to hear that it happened. They don’t wonder if the way the car looked made it my fault that it got stolen. They’d never think to tell me that because I only got robbed once, it wasn’t such a big deal, and that I shouldn’t make such a big case out of it. They never say because it happened years ago that it shouldn’t affect me anymore and I should just get over it and forget about it. They don’t suggest that because I wasn’t held at gun point when the car was stolen that it didn’t count as a theft.

And certainly, whenever I walk up to someone and say, “A while back my car was stolen with all my stuff in it,” they never look freaked out and don’t want to talk about it. They never say or act like, “Whoa, too much information, there!” They’re not at a loss for how to respond. They’re not afraid it’s something that’s “too sensitive” to talk about.

So, again, when I tell you I’ve been sexually assaulted, let me. And just treat me the same as you would if I told you about the car.

Because when boiled down, they are both the same, you know. Some fucker took advantage of me, and committed a crime while doing so. Period.

So why is it my car story considered appropriate and acceptable to tell any time, anywhere, while my assault story is not? Why should the loss of my car receive more spontaneous expressions of sympathy than my assault? Why should it be so difficult for people to treat both the same way?

***April is National Sexual Assault Awareness Month.

In recognition of that, I’m going to (probably) do a number of posts on the topic this month. I know it’s not your standard sex talk, but it’s relevant and it’s important. I’m only just learning myself how relevant and important it is to have a voice on this issue.

So, despite it not being a “sexy” sex-related topic, I’m going to be talking about it. If that’s not your thing, there’s plenty of other good reading on my links lists on the right. But I hope some of you will stick around and read it.

If not, well, if it helps just one person who’s been assaulted to deal with their own experience, or helps even one person learn how to step up when someone who has been assaulted confides in them, then that’s all I care about.

And if you read any of these posts and find it brings up any upsetting memories of your own, please don’t struggle with those alone. Go talk to someone–preferably a professional in your local area with expertise in working with assault survivors, but if not, call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE. It’s free, confidential, and open 24/7. (Sorry, that number is in the US only. I wish I knew ones for other countries, but maybe readers can share hotline numbers for their own countries.)***