NOTE: I’ll be talking about my own rape, in specific but not intimate detail; warning for if that is a trigger subject for you.
An artist friend who was putting together a collaborative art show on rape culture asked me to contribute. I said I would try to write something, maybe a spoken word piece, but then never did.
I simply couldn’t do it.
It is, in fact, easier to write about rape in a blog post, where there is pretense of distance and objectivity, even in first person. I can say, “I was raped” and then move on clinically to the aftermath, the social constructs of rape culture, and where my experience fits into my sexual awakening over the years.
But to write emotionally about it, to reflect on that experience by tapping into my reactions and self-perception…no, I could not do that. That surprised me, although I wonder at the fact I was surprised.
My rape was rather low-key, and although all rape is about power and not sex, it was a situation where I felt I had “put myself” in the way of sex. It was not quite a date rape. I was crashing with a friend for a few days, and he decided that since we had dated once for a couple of weeks in the past, having sex was on the menu. I said no, we went to bed separately, and then he showed up in my bed later that night. I felt obligated – he was putting me up when I needed a place to stay, after all.
I did not go to his bed. I never said “yes”, in fact I explicitly said “no” when he asked. But did not I shove him out of bed either. I did not enjoy myself; we did not talk about it afterwards. He thanked me and went back to bed. I went to sleep.
The result of this uncomfortable violation was that I did not know I had been raped. It took me years of reading about rape, rape culture, and rape victims to realize that I had, in fact, actually been raped. For those not familiar with how rape is marginalized in our society, that probably makes me sound like an idiot. In fact, I kind of felt like an idiot when the realization hit me, for a lot of reasons; an idiot for not realizing it sooner, mostly.
I felt more like I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, which if you read between the lines on that translates to “it was my fault.” Part of me still feels that way, despite arguing with myself about it for years now. I felt violated and disappointed, but not like a victim, if that makes sense? “I was standing on the beach and the wave knocked me down” is more how I viewed it at the time.
The wave, in this case, being a fully self-aware, sober man who had the choice to just stay the hell out of my bed as I had requested but instead, as it were, knocked me down.
I was not traumatized by the event as some rape victims are, and it is hard for me to weigh my rather plebian experience against those who have been physically beaten and/or restrained. So, I did not think that it would be difficult to write how I feel about my rape.
I was wrong.
There is no emotional breakdown or breakthrough for me to illuminate here, just dawning awareness. I couldn’t force myself to write on the subject, and as most of you know, forcing myself to write is pretty much my stock in trade. I do it every day. But in this one instance, that failed, and I stalled. That, I think, was the weirdest part for me.
I wondered if perhaps I have nothing to say on the subject on the emotional level. It happened a long time ago, and while it took years to understand that I was raped, there has never been much of an emotional pitch to that turmoil – surprise, more than anything. “I was raped? Really? Well…yeah, I was, wasn’t I? No wonder I hated it so much, no wonder I stopped being close friends with him.”
Even if, to this day, we are “Facebook friends.”
Such, I suppose, is rape culture. It puts the burden of the rape on the victim, and then convinces us that nothing untoward ever happened, and let’s our rapist think they did nothing wrong.
I’m sure I feel something about that, but I’m not sure what.