The guy had hit on me before. He had made it clear that despite our years-long friendship, that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to bed me, as they say, and I consistently fought it. He even went so far as to suggest that we call his friend, who at the time I thought was the one for me, and say hello. To this day I am so glad I put the kibosh on that idea, even though I realize now he was using that as leverage. It gave him something to hold over me; a connection to the man who had been so fun, respectful, and kind.
For some reason I agreed to meet with him AGAIN with no one else around. We drank a lot of beer and had a good talk, the kind friends have when they haven’t hung out for a while. Towards the end of the evening he suggested we walk to my apartment – my cute, cozy, safe apartment – and smoke some pot. I didn’t hesitate to go along with the plan. I knew and kept in the back of my mind his obvious intentions. “This time,” I thought, “I’ll do what I always do and deny him. It’s worked so far.”
I caved. Not because I wanted to hook up with him but because I didn’t have the strength to fight him off. I was tired, and honestly it would have been the culmination of so many weird moments that had taken place over the preceding few years. I truly thought, “What’s the worst that can happen?”
I remember making out with him but only after he borderline begged me. I remember letting him go down on me, if for no other reason than I knew how good it felt, how long it had been. Thinking of that now disgusts me.
On most occasions involving big life changes one has time to prepare and predetermine. Being raped totally robs you of that time to prepare for one of the biggest changes a person can ever go through. There’s no anticipation. Being assaulted changed so much for me.
Not only did it rob me of my virginity, but the act absconded with so much of who I was. It stole my self-respect, my confidence, my trust, and my respect for sex and the beauty it is supposed to represent. The man who raped me didn’t shower me with compliments or whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Instead when he had finished he asked, “What are you, a virgin?”
I was. I knew the first time would be awkward at best but I never thought that it would make such a profound impact on me.
Almost immediately I broke out in genital sores so painful it hurt to walk. Actually it hurt to walk, sit, stand, bathe, and just be.
A former employer and dear friend heard my complaints and encouraged me to visit Planned Parenthood to be checked out. Within a few days I was in the waiting room reading an issue of Real Simple.
On the intake form one of the many questions was, “Have you been sexually assaulted or had non-consensual intercourse?” After my shaking hand hovered over the paper, I rapidly thought of all the consequences of my checking the “yes” box. Predictably, I marked “no”.
In retrospect, I don’t think I even really knew I had been assaulted. I mean, I did, but it just didn’t seem real. I kept trying to somehow justify it in my head and when talking to the few friends I told, I made it sound like a wild night of inebriated sex. I was in complete denial.
When Planned Parenthood sent me the results of my tests, they basically confirmed what was so undeniably true: I had contracted HSV-2. Unlike its close friend HSV-1, HSV-2 does its damage “down there”; it is incurable and if a woman has it, it is recommended she only give birth via cesarean section so as not to infect her newborn child. Even though I didn’t want to be a mother, I remember the weight of this fact settling into me. It made it real, and reminded me that my life would never be the same.
For as long as I lived, I would have to share my status with potential partners and hope for the best.
It took me a number of weeks and some hushed conversations with trusted friends before I realized what had really occurred. Somehow I had crossed a weird and unforeseeable threshold, crossing into “assault survivor” territory.
One friend in particular was the director of a local women’s crisis line; I felt somewhat comfortable telling her what had happened. From her, it carried even more weight hearing the words from her mouth: “Sperp, you were assaulted!” It’s her job to know what defines rape, and she had just spelled it out loud and clear to me.
I remember talking to her and thinking of the color grey; I felt like I was in a grey area. I had consented – albeit drunkenly – to some of the things that happened. I did not consent to being taken from behind in my closet, pushed over at the waist, and violated by surprise. The muted, flat color of clouds and concrete filled my mind as I wondered what would happen if I told everyone. The guy and I had a lot of mutual friends; how would they react? I decided to keep it to myself.
And I never did tell my crisis line friend that the guy who assaulted me was her sister’s ex-boyfriend.
Certain friends who knew my truth encouraged me to speak out, at the very least for the past and future partners of the guy who may be clueless. Considering men show far fewer symptoms of Herpes than women do, I continue to wonder if this guy even knows he has it. I think he does, but that’s just my gut talking.
I knew that speaking out would be the right thing to do, and I recall thinking it over as I ran through my beautiful SE Portland neighborhood. Like so many before and after me, I chose to remain silent. I just couldn’t bear the thought of the inevitable shitstorm it would have spun into motion.
As I mentioned, one of the worst parts was the total disregard I had for sex following this event. That’s not to say I didn’t like sex; on the contrary, it lost all meaning so I was more than willing to engage with whoever I could whenever I could. It was hard to believe that something could really be that beautiful if someone was so desperate to get it he’d commit such a violating act. Being a slut caused more problems for me – none of them permanent – but I was reacting the only way I knew how.
Many therapists and pleasant loving experiences later, all of this seems so much more clear to me. Still foggy; but like, San Francisco in October versus San Francisco in February level of clarity. I will never forgive the person who assaulted me, and without getting into detail, the night of this event was not the last time I ever saw him.
I wish. I ended up seeing him all around town, wondering if he knew my discomfort. Wondering if he knew he had done something wrong. Wondering if he knew he had drastically changed my life. I can’t believe he wouldn’t be aware, but then again any preconceived notions I had about him had long ago flew out the window.
Ten years later, it is all so clear to me. I still worry that people won’t believe me but honestly, until I wrote this all out I hadn’t told anyone in years aside from a few awesome therapists. I’ve been in a very loving relationship for almost six years, and was honest about my condition from the get.
My unlikely hero Judge Judy occasionally says: “The best part of telling the truth is that you don’t have to keep track of anything. The truth is the truth.” I hear that, and second it with every fiber of my being. I have nothing to hide for I have told the truth.
