This is fucking Personal.
***Trigger Warning: Description of Rape and After Events described in moderate detail***
Here’s the thing: there’s so much turmoil in the air right now. The recent elections have reshaped the world again, here we are, staring at Donald Trump as president. Just typing his name here makes me feel sick to my stomach.
Every time I see him on the screen, I don’t just see a politician or a public figure. I see the faces and hear the voices of women who’ve come forward. I hear his own words that have, intentionally or not, encouraged harassment and worse. I think of my own history, my own painful memories, memories I share with so many other women. Experiences of assault, of rape, of violations that have carved permanent marks on my life. To see people shouting his praises, saying he will “root out the evil and bring Christian values back” is pouring salt, maybe even acid on a wound that never fully heals. To me, their cheers, their enthusiasm, feel like an endorsement. Like I’m forced to unearth these memories and the pain that they cause is trivialized by millions.
My first experience with sex outside of consensual kissing, groping and mild oral sex was rape.
I was a teenager
I was at a party.
I lied about where I was going that night.
I went there with a boy who was older than me.
He never called me his girlfriend.
I was naive and I thought he liked me.
The party was just music, talking, video games, and of course some people were drinking.
I was not drinking.
I followed him into a room they called the movie room.
We kissed a little and then he got more handsy.
At first I tried to pull away or direct his hands.
When I said I wanted to stop, he simply didn’t.
His hands squeezed and pinched my body in ways that hurt.
I felt scared, and started crying, pleading for him to stop.
I said no repeatedly.
He held me down.
He laughed in my face.
Told me that I was teasing him.
That it’s what I REALLY wanted.
When I screamed no, he hit me.
Then he roughly pulled down my pants while I tried to twist away.
He pried my legs apart and forcefully took what he wanted.
I vomited over the side of the couch.
The house was full of other people
The door to the room we were in was ajar.
I didn’t quietly take it, at least not at first.
Not one person tried to help.
Not one person asked if I was okay when I left that room sobbing with vomit on my shirt.
I had bruises and scratches on my thighs.
The inside of my mouth was bleeding.
Of course I didn’t say anything to anyone.
But as this experience ate at me.
I decided to tell a youth leader about a month later.
After telling her that I “had sex, but didn’t want to, he made me do it” (I didn’t know the language for sexual assault or rape at the time.)
The first things out of her mouth were “What were you wearing?” and “You shouldn’t have been letting him touch you.”
There is more but that is where this raw wound I have opened for public consumption ends. This is one small blimp of an event where a woman, me, has survived rape. One that is constantly on repeat in my head right now because this despicable human was voted into power.
And it feels like all the meaning has been sucked out of the words. That no words are enough. And trust me, my whole life is about finding the words, and using them. I speak through my art, my teaching, my writing. I help people learn to feel safe in their bodies, to reclaim their space. I’ve spent so much of the past few days doing that for others—supporting past clients, friends, and acquaintances listening, holding space, making sure everyone who reaches out is heard. And out of all the messages, the calls, the words exchanged over these days, only one person asked if I was okay.
And you know what? I’m not okay.
And that’s not to point fingers or blame anyone.
I’m saying it because we all need to remember that everyone deserves support, even the ones who seem to have it all together. Even the people you turn to for strength.
To anyone who doesn’t get it, let me try to explain. Imagine that someone who has faced accusations and even been convicted in civil court of sexual assault—imagine he rises to the highest office, and millions are saying it doesn’t matter. For survivors, this doesn’t just feel like a political loss. It’s the most public, amplified way of telling us that what happened or happens to us doesn’t matter. It’s a public rejection, the loudest possible “I don’t care”, “fuck you” and “I don’t believe you” and I feel it as it’s a gaping knife wound.
It is irrevocably devastating to feel that the pain of women, the violence against us, the betrayal of our bodies, means nothing to so many. It’s disgusting. Know there are others of us struggling with the same betrayal, the same grief. The replaying of our worst memories. And while I am deeply sorry for any person in this country who now feels like half of America just told them their pain doesn’t matter, I hope we can hold on to each other through it.
I just need someone to say
I’m sorry.
I see you.
I hear you.
So here I am saying it to myself, for myself and maybe for you too.
