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Twitter hashtags sprouted like mushrooms: #BeenRapedNeverReported, #YesAllWomen, #BelieveWomen. Suddenly, the term “trigger warning” was everywhere. News reports catalogued reporting rates and rape kit statistics.
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It coincided with the phrase “rape culture” breaking free from women’s studies classes and into mainstream conversation. The Ghomeshi case was a turning point in the new politics of sexual assault. Why couldn’t I remember all the details? Why didn’t I tell anyone? Why did I act like nothing had happened? I could imagine more: Why didn’t I fight harder? Had I led him on? Did I deserve it? I listened to Ghomeshi’s lawyer, Marie Henein, scrape away the credibility of his accusers, and realized her questions were ones I’d asked myself a thousand times. Last winter, during the Jian Ghomeshi trial, I felt like I was the one being interrogated. Eventually, my secret became as destructive as the rape itself. My rapist’s threats created this silence, but I was the one who kept feeding it. I was afraid of how my loved ones would react-that they’d confirm it was my fault or refuse to believe it happened in the first place. It was a shameful secret lodged in my throat, ready to choke me every time I contemplated telling. I didn’t account for the hollowing out of my mind, my sense of self.įor half my life, I kept silent about my rape. I thought that once the bruises on my thighs and arms faded, I would be healed. I had assumed rape was a physical injury. It took me hours to fall asleep, and the nightmares kicked me awake. But at night, all my pain floated to the surface. I graduated at the top of my class, got a boyfriend, went to kick-boxing six times a week. I kept busy volunteering and working as a camp counsellor for kids with disabilities. Too scared to tell my parents what had happened, I learned to sob soundlessly into my pillow. I’d be one of those girls who lied.Īt night, I huddled under my stars-and-moon comforter and wished I could die. If I told anybody what had happened, he’d tell a different story-a louder one.
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You’re not a virgin anymore.” When I pleaded with him to stop, he called me a bitch and a slut. The next day at school, he followed me through the halls softly chanting, “I popped your cherry. So was that unquantifiable hurt: the slow break on the inside that nobody could see. A tight pain in a place I never knew could hurt. I was in such a fog that I don’t remember how I got home. More than anything else, I wanted him to be right. His face was a kaleidoscope through my tears. What he’d done wasn’t rape, he said-so don’t tell anybody that it was. That he’d just wanted me so badly he couldn’t help himself. He told me that he had gotten carried away. His hands crunched my wrist bones, pinning me down-he desperately wanted to stop me from telling the adults upstairs. His clothes were back on and he was no longer interested in sex. When I kicked free, he followed me into the hallway, tackling me to the ground before I made it to the first stair. I made my body into a flopping fish, struggling against the air. His sudden invasion tore me from my body. No when he bore down on me, his weight and movement burning the rough carpet against my skin, turning it bloody and raw. No when they bunched into an accordion at my feet. As if he’d magically stop if he knew how badly I didn’t want to do it. I kept saying no, as if it could save me.
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Then he unzipped my jeans, his arm a crowbar against my chest. He pushed down his pants anyway and put on the condom. He said, “I know you really want to because of the way you’re kissing me right now.”Īgain I said no. Once we were on the floor, he asked me to have sex. He was the first boy I allowed below the waistband of my Bluenotes, and underneath my fluorescent padded bra. I liked the curved bow of his lips, the way his body made a question mark over his guitar, how his toes turned in like a pigeon’s when he walked. It reminded me of the way I held Pop Rocks underneath my tongue when I was a kid, pressing hard against the candy’s zing. When he kissed me, he tasted like beer, hamburgers and barbecue potato chips. Harder still when I told him to put the condom back in his pocket. He tried to charm me into a sip of his beer, grinning hard even as I said no. He shut the door, retrieved some beer he’d swiped from the party and took a purple condom out of his pocket. They were having a party upstairs-a drunken din of Springsteen and raucous conversation. When I was 16, a friend raped me in his parents’ basement.