And I’ve been saying this for decades.

By now, everyone has heard about the r*ape academy, with the Ep/st/ein f!les hovering in the background for a while now (while Cheetoh tries to distract us with a fucking w@r). And the first thing I’m noticing is that people are just tossing around the word “r*pe” like it’s nothing. Just an everyday word, like fuck. (I don’t like how “fuck” has lost a bit of its punch because people just throw them into pop songs like cake. Especially Sabrina Carpenter, who got on my shit list quick when she mocked a fan for their zaghrouta, which is an arabic form of celebration, a kind of ululation.)

Sure, we need to use the word when it’s needed. But do we need to toss it around like you’re talking about the weather? “Bring an umbrella. It’s supposed to r*pe tomorrow.”

A harsh example, I know. But I needed to make a point.

With the spate of stories and awareness of just how big and far the reach is in violence against women, there is no longer any care in how we we have been using our words, particularly when it comes to r*ape and sexual assault. (And if you’re wondering why I’m putting the “*” in the word, it’s because I am using the word with care and with intention.) The information is coming in as a fast flood, which causes people to react and dump care to the wayside.

[An aside: this makes me think about how the popularity of “warnings” actually prevents folks from learning how to regulate their nervous systems. When one sees “warning”, they immediately brace themselves, but sometimes, it’s all for naught (maybe it was something that was innocuous – but who’s to say?). And when something that’s actually activating is read or said without “warning”, one’s nevous system goes into overload because they never learned or practiced how to regulate their nervous systems due to “warnings”. Of course, this is a very oversimplifed argument and I have more thoughts on this —how “warnings” can be useful, for example— but this is not that post. I bring it up to say that with the carelessness of how the media is using r*pe, I can only imagine how many folks are being triggered over and over again.]

As I selectively read different reports, different stories, different accounts of events, I think to myself: I knew I wasn’t alone. I knew I wasn’t the only one. But being alone in my experience was challenging.

I’ve shared my story before. Many times over. It’s been a while since I last shared it, so I’d like to share it again for folks who might not know, for folks who knew but didn’t understand the extent of it, for folks who knew but didn’t want to talk about it, and for folks who knew but didn’t believe me. That said, know that you’ll be reading something that might upset or trigger you. You can decide from here if you’d like to continue. 

If you want to know how it ends without having to continue reading, the tl;dr is this: no one believed me and I fought so hard for myself to process and heal the trauma and I did it alone. And I’m still here, standing, writing, living.

*

Setting: the mid-90s, a small, predominantly white and conservative liberal arts college. Ninety percent of the student body was part of Greek life (aka fraternities and sororities). There were no smartphones and cell phones were not yet a pervasive presence. It was my senior year. Two weeks before graduation. Finals just ended and people were sticking around to party. The following week was Senior Week.

At the time, I was casually seeing this guy who was a year younger than me. Let’s call him Joe. Nothing serious. We’d been hanging out every so often for the past two months or so. I didn’t have time for a boyfriend; I was too busy trying to find a job.

One night, I was hanging out in a common area of his frat house (yeah, I know) with him, a friend of his, and two other girls. There was a dance party downstairs on the first floor. We were just drinking, smoking, and talking about whatever college kids talk about (profound philosophical pontifications, good-old gossip, etc). Eventually, things started to wind down and I was getting tired. The friend left with the two girls, presumably to seek out more drink and smoke. And then it was just me and Joe.

He started kissing me, trying to make out with me, trying to get me “in the mood”. He brought me into his room, which was adjacent to the common area. I was too drunk to be in any kind of mood. I just wanted to sleep. I pushed his face away and told him I just wanted to sleep. But he kept insisting, trying to turn me on. His body was on top of mine. We were still clothed. He kept begging, insisiting. I said No. I am one hundred percent certain that I said NO. And I’m pretty sure I said it more than once.

And then I passed out.

Then something weird happened. (Which, I later understood it as a trauma response.)

I was floating up in a corner of the room, where the walls meet the ceiling. Near the halogen floor lamp. I could hear the buzzing of the lamp. And I was looking down, seeing Joe’s body on top of mine on his bed. At the time, I couldn’t make sense of what was happening or what I was looking at. It wasn’t until later that I realized I was witnessing my own r*pe.

At some point, I woke up, back inside of my body. It was chilly in the room. The window was open a crack. Joe passed out beside me. The halogen lamp making its buzz.

After a moment, I noticed that the lower half of my body was cold. I had no pants or underwear on. I held my breath. I didn’t move. Instead, I glanced around the room, looking for clues as to what happened. And there, on top of an overfilled, desk-sized wastebasket was a used condom and torn-up wrapper.

My body froze. My mind said, over and over: no no no no no no—

The next thoughts: I need to get out of here before he wakes up. What if he wants to do it again? I need to get out of here. How the fuck have I become a statistic? How did I let this happen? (I was also mad at myself for letting this happen. Which, by the way, is classic conditioning AND fucked up that I was even thinking / feeling this way.)

Not breathing, I carefully shifted away from Joe’s passed out body and quickly put on my underwear and pants. I quietly slipped out of the room and quickly down the stairs, past the stragglers of the dance party and out into cold night air that smacked me in the face and got me breathing again. It was a chilly night for May.

What do I do? What do I do? I thought to myself. Who do I tell? Who do I talk to? Who is safe? I knew not to go to the campus police. They would likely not believe me, write it off as some drunk co-ed fighting with her boyfriend. It was 2am — who would I call?

Then I thought about my then-best-friend. She’d know what to do. At the very least, she’d be there for me.

I found her outside another frat house with her boyfriend and a couple of friends. They were headed to the local diner for some food — did I want to come? Hold on, I said.

I pulled her aside —literally took her arm and pulled her away from the group— and quickly told her what happened.

“Oh, he would never do that. He’s not an animal. He’s a nice guy.”

And that’s when I realized that she really wasn’t my friend. That she was only pretending to be my friend. 

In that moment, the world went WHOOOOSH like those scenes in the movies where the main character’s world gets pulled away and they are left standing alone in the middle of a black hole.

The group piled into a car and drove away.

Now what?

I ended up walking back to my on-campus apartment, alone. It was quiet except for the remnants of parties in the far off distance. The campus looked like a place I had never been, shrouded in a black drape with pinpricks of light from the streetlamps. A row of trees in front of the building where I spent most of my time as an English major seemed to curve their branches over me as I walked by. As if they were extending some care, some comfort, some protection.

I went home, took a shower to wash off the ick*, got under the covers and willed myself to sleep. 

(*I had no intention to report or press charges because if my then-best-friend didn’t believe me, who would? Did I want to do this fight alone? No. Especially when I had strict immigrant parents who would have died from the shame alone. I really would have fought this alone-alone. And for what? What would I gain? Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.)

The next morning, I went straight to the health center to talk to someone about what happened. At the very least, I wanted to file a complaint or report or something to have a record. At least that. A record. To add to the statistics.

The so-called health professional —a white man in a white lab coat— heard me out and then said: If you file a formal complaint, it will be your word against his. There will be a whole hearing and no one really wants that. It’s the end of the school year – no one wants to be bothered by a hearing. And to be honest, nothing really comes of these hearings. Nothing happens. And then what will people think of you? Why not just leave this place and start fresh? You’re graduating. Forget about this place and just start new. A new chapter.

What he was really saying was: this happens all the time and you girls need to just stop putting yourselves in these positions and don’t make me do paperwork because that’s the worst.

Gobsmacked, but also unsurprised, I left his office not knowing what to do next. Something needed to happen. Consequences needed to happen. He needed to pay.

I decided to confront Joe myself. Since no one believed me or was willing to do anything to help me or support me, I might as well try to get justice for myself. (Because this is the kind of person I am. This is how I’m built. Taurus sun, Sag rising, Leo moon. You better not fuck with me!)

We met in the student center food court because I thought I would feel safer in a public space. I sat across from him at a 2-top. I steeled myself and told him in no uncertain terms: you r*ped me.

He said: “No, it’s not like that. It wasn’t like that.” He said it in a pleading voice. His eyes started to tear up. There was panic under the tears. “I’m not a monster.”

I threw darts with my words and gritted my teeth. “I said NO more than once. I kept saying NO.” I said it low, like a growl.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— I’m so sorry— Are you going to tell?”

I didn’t answer him. Instead I said: “Don’t ever fucking come near me again.” I got up from the table and left, my body shaking.

The next afternoon, I was at a cocktail party at a frat house. It was so crowded and I got split up from my friends. I see a friend, Ed, cutting through the crowd toward me, smiling and waving. As he got closer, who is behind him but Joe.

“Hey,” Ed said. “I heard you guys had a lover’s quarrel. I’m here to help you guys kiss and make up.”

“Is THAT what he told you?” I spat. I threw daggers at both of them and cut through the crowd to get away from them. What in the actual fuck??

The rest of those days leading up to graduation have been blocked out of my memory. I think I showed up for daytime events and pretended everything was fine. Totally normal. I stayed in at night. Or if I did go out, I made sure I was never alone. I might told another friend after the conversation with the health center dude, but her reaction was likely a non-response. Otherwise, I would have remembered it.

After that? My twenties were comprised of harmful habits that I’d rather not get into here, but a few of them appeared to be “normal” for that stage of life, heavy drinking being one.

And no one knew.

Unless they were paying attention to my poetry.

For the first couple of years, I started to second-guess myself. I knew what happened with certainty, but was it considered r*pe? It wasn’t in an alley. I wasn’t held at gun- or knife-point. It wasn’t a stranger but someone I was casually dating (and when I say “casual” I mean, super-casual). I wasn’t wearing anything “sexy” or revealing that was “asking” for it. I was completely passed out (I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt). Did these things invalidate the label of r*pe to describe what happened to me?

Remember: this was the 90s when we were just starting to talk about r*pe and sexual assault in more mainstream public spaces. This was when Take Back the Night really started to gain traction on college campuses.

Deep down in my gut, I knew. Yes, I was r*ped.

Even if people didn’t believe me, even if people didn’t understand what that meant, I held fast to this statement. This was an unwavering truth I was unwilling to compromise. Stubborn as a bull. Because: Taurus.

*

Fast forward to now, after decades on a powerful healing journey, I listen to everyone talking about r*pe and sexual assault and I’m wondering: are folks caring for the survivors as they talk about these things? Is there care in their words? In the way they communicate? Do they check in on their friends? Do they even know if their friends or loved ones have survived such traumas?

As a survivor myself who has done a tremendous amount of healing, my sympathetic nervous system doesn’t get activated, and yet… there is still a low, quiet rumble. A disturbance in the Force, if you will. An echo of an old wound from a very long time ago.

I am glad that women are coming forward with their stories. It’s time for a reckoning with the harm and damage that the patriarchy has caused since its inception. 

At the same time, I am wondering where the stories are from women of color. Much of what I’ve been reading in mainstream media are accounts from white women. This does not surprise me, but I still want to ask the question: where are the stories from women of color? I want to bring attention to the absence of voices of color.

With this reckoning, it must include women of color in order for true, actual change to happen. And if it doesn’t, then the oppressive systems will still remain. All oppressive systems are interconnected. Liberation for one means liberation for all. 

[And for the record, if you’re concerned: I’m good. For real. Pinky swear. 😉 ]