"Date Rape" - a Working Title.

My friends know that I have a dark sense of humour; I am constantly repressing a stream of nonsense which could very seriously offend the uninitiated. For instance, when I hear the term "date rape", my brain - my pitch black brain - chimes in with: "Well, at least she got a free dinner!"

I'm sorry if that offends you. What offends me is the term "date rape", and the associations we unthinkingly hold, which inform our thoughts, words, and actions.

Putting "date rape" (used interchangeably with the, in my mind, equally redundant "acquaintance rape") aside for a moment, what then is this other rape, this... real rape? I have asked people for their thoughts: they talk about hooded men in the dark, jumping out of bushes, or in alleyways, armed and violent; they talk about a struggle. Sometimes called "stranger rape", this is seen as indubitably a crime, committed against an innocent victim who could not have prevented it. Victims of "stranger rape" are expected to go to the police, their stories are largely believed, and they receive society's sympathy.

This is not the case for victims of "date rape".

Judging by some of 2014's news, to many people, "date rape" is not real rape, not real rapists, not real victims. Society's message to the "date raped" is: "Why did you let that happen?!"

Possibly the most poisonous, victim-blaming trope here is that of The Drunk Slag Who Takes Her Knickers Off, Jumps Into Bed, And Then Screams Rape. In November, this was executed exquisitely by Nick Conrad, BBC Radio Norfolk's real life Alan Partridge, who actually suggested that, to avoid rape, women should "keep your knickers on and not get into bed" - OH, IF ONLY WE'D KNOWN IT WAS SO SIMPLE! This convenient piece of fiction allows society at large to not engage with the concept of "date rape", lays the fault with the victim, and excuses the rapists as Normal, Red-Blooded Males.

An article by Kevin Shoesmith, for local paper the Hull Daily Mail in July (tellingly, this story did not make the national news), gave a horrifying example of the judiciary's failure to properly recognise the realities of rape. Lee Setford, who raped an unconscious woman, was told by Judge Michael Mettyear: "I do not regard you as a classic rapist. I do not think you are a general danger to strangers. You are not the type who goes searching for a woman to rape... This was a case where you just lost control of normal restraint." Despite being legislatively bound to sentence Setford to five years in prison, Mettyear made his sympathies very clear: "She was a pretty girl who you fancied. You simply could not resist. You had sex* with her." Judge Michael Mettyear, it seems, believes in the Bogeyman Rapist, lurking in alleys.

An Overview of Sexual Offending in England and Wales collates government statistics on rape, and other crimes of sexual violence: 

"Around 90 per cent of victims... knew the perpetrator"

 - in other words, 90% of rape is "date rape".

So, why do we persist in using this false dichotomy?

Calling these rapes "date rape" suggests that this is something that happens at the end of a date, whereas, in reality, the term is used to describe any rape in which the perpetrator is known to the victim. According to this classification, then, I was "date raped", as was the courageous 18 year old reader who shared their story with this blog. Both of us were raped. By rapists. Neither of us could have stopped it. It was not our fault. I see no further classification as being required.

To me, this language of "date rape" is tied up with the idea of** male/female relationships as being inherently transactional: the man's material possessions traded for the woman's body, with neither party wanting to yield. If, then, we couch rape in "date" terminology, surely it is only fair? The Man sat through a tedious evening of spending money and listening to Her talk, now it is time for The Woman to let Him get on with the real business of the evening. And how dare She object? Doesn't She realise that's all He turned up for?

I don't think many people today would actively argue the case for male entitlement over the female body, but it is precisely that argument we are supporting if we do not take "date rape" seriously.

July was a busy month for rape apologists, as Richard Dawkins tried to play a logic game with Twitter, using rape as the ball: "Date rape is bad. Stranger rape at knifepoint is worse. If you think that's an endorsement of date rape, go away and learn how to think."***

Now, I understand the game. I understand that Dawkins considers himself to be the most objective and logical of all humans, and perhaps feels that he is doing a service to Twitter's hard-of-thinking hordes. I just disagree with him.

Dawkins seems almost to have a mental continuum in mind, with rape which leaves one dead at one end, and rape which is merely a slight inconvenience (as you were hoping to get to the bank before it shut) at the other. 

"Date rape" - that is, being raped by a person one knows - can be every bit as terrifying and painful as when the perpetrator is unknown. In fact, approximately 45% of women raped by a current or former partner suffer additional injuries, whereas for women raped by a stranger the figure is 24% (Maria Eriksson, Defining Rape, 2011). However, I find the fixation on injuries bizarre, personally: to me, rape itself - physically breaching the boundary of a person's body - is the most violent act there is.

If the perpetrator is a friend, colleague, partner, or relative, there are additional layers of confusion and betrayal. Why are they doing this? Have they been planning this all along? Did I do something to cause this?

A stranger with a knife (although, known rapists use weapons to ensure compliance, too) will run away after they have raped you. You will not have to work with them, live with them, see them socially, leave your children in their care. For a victim of "date rape", the person who raped them is likely to remain in their lives, unless the rapist is successfully prosecuted. I personally know many strong, intelligent women who were raped by somebody they knew; none of them has sought prosecution.

Without Consent, an HM Crown Prosecution Service Inspectorate report on rape, states that an estimated 75-95% of rapes are never reported to the police: "Studies show that the decision not to report is often based on a combination of factors and that many of these are connected to the notion of ‘real rape’ – that is, committed by a stranger, in a public place or in the context of a break-in, and involving force and injury." Not talking about one's experience of sexual violence means depriving oneself of the opportunity to recover, potentially living with a lifetime of mental and physical health repercussions. This is so often the fate of the "date rape" victim.

Rape is rape. Every person's experience will be different, and will be difficult in different ways. For Richard Dawkins to proclaim one kind of rape as "worse" than another is not only a gross oversimplification, it is devoid of logic. In the words of the wonderful Ash Beckham: "There is no harder, there is just hard."

...

So, how about for 2015 (along with getting enough sleep and remembering which is bin day), we all resolve to stop talking about "date rape", and instead start talking about rape. Let's talk openly and frankly with those we trust, and challenge the rape apologists when they wheel out the Knickerless Slag nonsense. Let's let those we love share their stories if they wish, and listen without judgement. And let's remember: these are not our secrets.

...

* I've taught my son (now 13) that rape is to sex as a punch in the face is to a handshake. If only Mother Mettyear had done the same.

** Hetronormativity ahoy! The statistics show that the overwhelming majority of rapes are committed by men against women, hence the wording here. This is not meant to erase anyone's experiences.

*** He then went on to talk about "mild paedophilia", which is off topic, and frankly more than I have the energy to unpack at present. Perhaps another day!

Submission from a reader, aged 18 from the UK

This post is a submission from an incredibly strong person, who emailed me with their story of experiencing sexual violence. I feel so honoured to be trusted with this. 

The author's words are exactly as I received them. 

...

I thank this blog for giving me the courage to speak out and put this down in writing for the first time.

This is not my secret and I am not ashamed anymore.

It was June 2011 and I was 15 years young and I was still a virgin.

It comes back to me in broken pieces, all the bits I tried so hard to forget, all the bits I blanked out, it makes it quite jumbled in my head, so forgive me if this is hard to read.

I was a silly teenager, always getting into trouble with my parents, and I'd just run away from home for the first time.
I'd been at a friends house, let's call him John, for a few days and we'd had a great party the night before, we were still buzzing and decided to see if anyone wanted to come over for a drink or two even though it was quite late, nothing major, just chilling. 

We only got one reply that night, a friend that I'd known for only a month or so, but because I was still on a good vibe from the night before and I was with John, who is to be quite honest is a strapping big lad, we decided that it'd be fine and we went to the park near John's house to chill and have a beer. 

It all started very quickly to me and as we sat on the bench taking in the moonlight and looking up at the stars, this friend, whom I shall call Sam, decided to show us what he was carrying with us in his backpack. 

This is where it starts to get fuzzy and that doesn't mean at all that I was drunk at the time, and I didn't take drugs at this point, neither does it mean that any of this is any less true. It was just my way of coping for so long. Try and forget. Never mention it. Pretend it didn't happen. But it did happen and I never forgot and now this is my time to talk about it, so I shall carry on.

I never used to be afraid of knives, as someone who is most comfortable in a kitchen even back then they never used to bother me, until then. He pulled out a knife pouch (I don't know what they are called, the things you put knives into and then roll up and tie?) and then carefully, removed several knives, I remember seeing his initials engraved into them, I remember seeing that a lot that night. 

John started laughing, joking that at least we wouldn't get mugged and walked off to put his bottle in the bin. 

That's when Sam stuck his hand down my pants. 

I didn't know what to do, I didn't want to cause a scene as he was balancing the knives in his hand right next to me, staring me down until John came back. 

So I left it, thought I'd tell John once Sam was gone, I was scared. 

Nothing else happened for an hour and we decided to call it a night. And then Sam asked if he could stay and John said yes even though I protested. 

I had been on the sofa and there were two, so me and Sam ended up sharing the living room. I pretended to go to sleep. 

He came over and he lay in front of me, I got up and moved, this happened maybe three, maybe four times.

Until he brought his backpack over and he took his knives out of it and placed one beside him as he lay down next to me again with one hand still on it. 

I've never been so terrified, I thought I was going to die right there on John's sofa.

It's strange how numb I feel talking about this now, no more tears, just empty, and now I've started thinking about it I'm remembering things I didn't remember before. It's become clear. 

I'm not going to go into all of the details, but I will say this, I always thought I'd be a fighter, it's horrible that as a young woman I'd had to think about such things before, I'd kick him in the groin, elbow up his jaw, that's what I'd prepared for in case I got into a situation walking home late one night or something. But I never thought it'd be like this. I never thought it'd be someone I knew and I never thought I wouldn't fight. 

I just lay there and I took every last jab of his disgusting pencil thin penis and every last touch of his revolting hands and all I could see was the knives in his backpack and the knife he had laying down next to him. 

Because I was scared. And I wasn't even thinking about myself anymore, I was scared for John and for what would happen if I screamed, what would happen if I called for help or fought back. 

And then I had cried myself into morning and he was still lying next to me and I cried myself into every morning after then until recently. 

I didn't tell John what had happened for a long time, I didn't tell anyone, because I was ashamed, I thought it was my fault, that I could have stopped it, that people wouldn't understand, because for a long time I didn't understand either. 

I didn't lose my virginity that night, for that was for me to lose later on with someone who cared about me and loved me, but I did lose a bit of my soul, my confidence and my trust, things that even now I'm still working on getting back. 

I saw Sam nearly every day for a year after that happened, we hung in the same circles, and he never spoke about it and although he tried talking to me again, I always ran away. 

I have spoken to people about it since, but never properly, never talked about it all and even then every time it has been painful and this shouldn't be something that I should have to live with, this isn't something I should be ashamed of. It's something that he should be ashamed of, something that should haunt him for the rest of his life. 

He raped me. 

Three words it took me so long to understand, three words it took me even longer to say. Three words that people who meet him should hear, that I hope nobody else who meets him will have to say. 

It might not be my secret, but it has affected and will still affect my life forever, I can't change that now, but I can choose to speak out about it. 

Around 90% of rapes on women are committed by known men* 

This was not my fault. 

This is not my secret. 

*http://www.rapecrisis.org.uk/commonmyths2.php

...

I have so much love and respect for this person, and I am so grateful to them for sharing their story.

If you've come to the blog especially to read this submission, thank you. While you're here, please click here to have a look at the Contents page and read the other entries on (for example) child sexual abuse, "date rape", and sexual violence in the media.

If you would like to share your story anonymously on this blog, email me: thesearenotmysecrets@gmail.com. Remember: these are not our secrets.

TMI

Don't you hate those weird, over-sharey people? You know the ones: you're minding your own business, at the bus stop or the supermarket, and you exchange words or a smile with a stranger. Suddenly, without warning, you're getting their life story. And it is grim. Always. No stranger has ever, uninvited, regaled me with tales of their blissfully happy marriage, or idyllic childhood. And it is awkward. What do you say? What do you do with this information? It is too much. Too much information.

And now, here I am. Sharing the worst things that have happened to me, with people I have never met. Worse, even: with people I have only just met. I began university (as a mature student) six weeks ago, and when I publicly launched this blog, with much Facebook fanfare, it will have popped up in my fellow students' newsfeeds. Some of them even got invites! 

My best friend (Leila, to you), tried to reassure me: "Everyone knows that you're not a rape-obsessed lunatic." Aha. Not everyone.

So, if I know that this behaviour is not normal... why am I doing it? 

Well, as strange as it may sound, this blog is not about me. Or, rather, it is not for me. If I want to talk about (as I refer to it) "grisly stuff", I have wonderfully understanding friends, an endlessly patient and gentle partner, and a mum with whom I can now talk easily, about even the most upsetting topics. I am very lucky. And, thanks to an extremely valuable course of cognitive analytic therapy (no Blob Trees, I promise), I am genuinely pretty much resolved about the whole thing: well, functional, and rarely unhinged. Who could ask for more?

For whom, then, am I writing this horrible blog? Two groups of people. And I'm sure you will fit into one of them...

1) People who have experienced sexual violence.

    One of my brothers understood my reasoning as being "so other people know they're not alone". Yes. Of course. But much more than that. 

    If you are carrying around the secret of a rape, or child sexual abuse, the person who did that to you may have told you "don't tell anyone", even "nobody will believe you". They told you that to protect themselves. 

    I want to tell you: forget that. Talking about what happened is the first step to undoing the damage that was done to you. It will be hard at first, but the right kind of help will make your life immeasurably better. Before I had my therapy, I was so unwell that I could not leave the house, I was so anxious and depressed. A year later, I had a job I loved, I had passed my driving test, and I was making plans for the future. I just had to start talking. I just had to stop keeping the secrets.

2) People who have not experienced sexual violence.

    Sorry, everyone else. The way that society treats victims of sexual violence is appalling. Victims are stigmatised, ignored, disbelieved, and blamed. The fans of footballer and unrepentant convicted rapist Chedwyn Evans have hounded and harassed the woman he raped, subjecting her to "psychologial GBH", as one police detective put it. You probably think that that isn't how you behave, or would behave. Hopefully you're right.

    One in every five women has been raped. The true figure is probably higher. This number does not include men, or people who have experienced child sexual abuse, or other types of sexual violence. You will know people who have experienced sexual violence. You will know lots of them. Have they felt able to tell you, or have they felt too ashamed? We need to change. We need to stop protecting perpetrators, and start protecting victims.

...

On this blog, I have shared my own personal story of experiencing sexual violence. I will be talking about sexual violence in the news. I will be linking to other blogs about sexual violence. I will be signposting websites and services that may be useful to those who have experienced sexual violence. But, most of all, I will be repeatedly reminding you: these are not my secrets. And they're not yours, either.

And if that makes you uncomfortable... I think you need to do some thinking.

August 1996

In my last post, I wrote about a sexual assault that happened in May 1996, when I was 11. Although the assault was not physically violent, it - and the events that surrounded it - left me with enormous feelings of shame and confusion. I did not speak to anyone about what happened, I just buried it inside.

...

When I was five, my maternal grandparents moved away to the Isle of Wight, an island off the south coast of England. Still wanting to see plenty of us, my grandparents bought a static caravan sited on a holiday park. Every summer, my parents, brothers, and I spent the full six week holiday there, plus the fortnight at Easter, and I'm sure I remember at least one freezing week in February! The holiday park was perfect: set in woodland which ran down to a secluded beach, with two swimming pools, a playground, cheesy entertainment and activities, an arcade, and lots of kids to make friends with, some of whom just came for a week, and others who were regulars, like us. I loved our holidays in the caravan, and I felt utterly safe and at home.

In August 1996 we were staying in the caravan as usual, and I was enjoying the increased independence that my parents were allowing me, roaming freely, provided I stayed with friends and kept to a curfew. Most of my time was spent in a group that, at its core, comprised the children of five caravan-owning families. Saturday was the holiday park's change-over day, and as the cleaners whizzed from caravan to caravan, vacuuming and scrubbing, we loitered around, mourning the departure of last week’s friends, and eagerly anticipating a new batch. We gladly welcomed newcomers, accepting them quickly, and promising to be penpals forever when they left.

One such new friend was Daniel, from Bagshot. At 16 he was older than the rest of us, but that didn't seem to matter, and he was absorbed into our little gang. The week of Daniel's holiday went by uneventfully, but on the Friday - Daniel's last day - he approached me with a serious expression, "There's something I need to talk to you about. Can we meet up later, just us?" I was concerned for my new friend, so I agreed to meet him, at seven o'clock, at the corner of the football pitch.

 

As improbable as it may sound, the sexual assault in May had not really dampened my ability to build a rapport with boys. Rather, I had internalised everything, feeling mistrust towards only my own body.

When I met Daniel that evening, he seemed preoccupied. We walked around the edge of the scrubby field, behind the football pitch, around and around, talking about nothing in particular, as it got dark. Whatever it was that Daniel had needed to talk about, he seemed reluctant to get onto the topic. He suggested we walk down onto the beach, so we took the gravelly path through the hedge, towards the sea.

As we passed out of sight of the playground and football pitch, Daniel changed. He grabbed my arm, tightly, and steered me towards a patch of tall, waist-height grass. I tried to pull my arm free, but Daniel manoeuvred himself behind me, and grabbed my other arm as well. Though his actions had become rough, his words hadn't, "I thought we'd just sit here for a bit." He pushed me onto the ground. 

In fictional rapes, women scream. In fictional rapes, there is clawing, and biting, and primal self-preservation. I simply froze.

Daniel had climbed on top of me, and he was pulling at my clothes, and saying things I didn't understand, "Just let me see - I'll show you." Sitting on top of me, Daniel undid his jeans, and pulled down his pants. I had never seen inside a teenage boy's pants before, but even in my panicked state, I knew that something was strange about what I was seeing. I didn't understand it at the time, but Daniel was wearing a condom. 

Even now, when I think back to what Daniel did, this startles me. Wearing a condom. Not carrying a condom in his pocket, in case he "got lucky". He was not hoping to seduce a girl, he was planning a rape. 

I don't remember how he got my trousers off, but he did. And, holding me down, and with a hand needlessly covering my silent mouth, Daniel raped me. 

It was pain, and fear, and confusion, and nausea, and tears - and then it was over. Daniel stood up, and he walked away. 

As soon as I could, I pulled my clothes back on, and shakily headed back to find my friends. I didn't need to search for long, before I found Ryan and Todd (pseudonyms), brothers from North London, two of my closest friends there. I didn't know what to say. I didn't have the words for what had happened. "Daniel hurt me. He really, really hurt me." The boys could see I'd been crying, and could hear the quavering in my voice. They gathered other boys from our little gang, and they - my very own little vigilante mob - ran off to mete out adolescent boy justice. I walked back to the caravan alone. 

As I approached the caravan, I saw my mum, standing in the doorway, peering out into the dark. I was late; she was furious. I went straight to bed, and cried, and cried.

...

Over the next few weeks, I told a few friends about what Daniel did. (All of the following names are pseudonyms.) The first, Gemma, a friend at the caravan park, told me: "Yeah, that's rape. It happened to a girl at my school. It's not a big deal." The next, Laura, a school friend, absolutely did not believe me, and smirked while I talked about it. My best friend Leila and her older sister Nora were wonderful. They listened to me. They believed me. They comforted me. And, when I asked them to keep it a secret, they promised.

My behaviour started to change. Returning to school in September, I was frequently sent out of the room by my new class teacher, who accused me (as I sat, hunched over my desk) of "displaying aggressive body language", and would stare at me across the classroom, saying, "I know what you're thinking". I stopped making any effort with my school work, and having never had a detention before, they became a regular part of my week. At home, I spent all my time in my bedroom. Often just staring out of the window. My baby brother was the only family member I wanted to spend time with, and my communication with my parents degenerated into grunts. I started to have headaches, stomach aches, nebulous pains all over; I started to miss days of school. I began lying about insignificant things, and became secretive and suspicious. I didn't want my mum anywhere near me. My eating started to become disordered: bingeing and purging without ever having heard of bulimia. I started to self harm, cutting into the skin of my thighs and stomach. 

Had anyone asked me why these changes were happening, I would have said that I didn't know. And it would have been true. It didn't occur to me, even for a moment, that there was a link between being raped, and my feelings and behaviour. 

As I was their oldest, my parents had nobody to compare me with, and so they accepted these changes as a natural part of adolescence. As I got older, it got worse. I became angry, and would sometimes lash out at my mum. I went to school less and less, and when I was there I did little to no work. I started to smoke, and drink alcohol. The family GP diagnosed me with depression, and I was given antidepressants. At school's insistence, I was sent to a child psychologist, who asked me, "Do you think you're special? Do you think you're different?" I saw a counsellor, who showed me a Blob Tree, and asked me which blob I was. I was assigned an educational welfare officer, whose job it was to get me to go school, and who I baffled with an outright refusal to engage in cosy little chats. When I was 15, I walked down to the Thames and took 100 paracetamol. I threw up the majority of them in the ambulance, and while semi-conscious, I heard a doctor tell my mum that I had obviously lied to the paramedics about having taken so many.

I hope that you would not consider it hyperbolic if I were to say that being raped destroyed my teenage years.

Yet, still, I allowed the guilt and shame to control me, to silence me. I kept Daniel's secret until I was 21.

...

All posts about my experiences are collated here.

May 1996

In May 1996 I was 11 years old. I was a tall child - 5'3", the same as today - and puberty had already given me full hips and C-cup breasts, which made me feel awkward and fat. I dressed in jeans and t-shirts, and I loved reading science fiction and listening to indie music. I was starting to look like a woman, but I was still a tree-climbing, football-kicking tomboy. 

Along with around 50 classmates, I went on a five day school trip to Beaulieu, in the New Forest national park, staying in a residential centre on a working farm. The staff accompanying us on the trip included Mr Holmes (a pseudonym) who had been my class teacher (meaning he taught me for most subjects) the previous year.

Shortly after we arrived, we were given a brief tour of the farm by a middle aged man we understood to be The Farmer. Trailing along behind the school party was a young man, maybe 19 years old, who also worked on the farm. I'm going to call him Mark. None of my close friends had come to Beaulieu, and I tended be more comfortable with boys; it made perfect sense to chat to Mark. It didn't occur to me for a second that the dynamic would (even could) be any different to that between me and my friends or brothers. 

On the second day, we were taken to get a proper look at some of the animals, and again, Mark tagged along. I spent the whole time talking and laughing with Mark. Because it was muddy, we had been wearing our wellies, and borrowed boiler suits, so when we got back to the centre, we entered by a back door, onto a hallway with shoe racks and coat hooks. I was still chattering away, and clambering out of my boiler suit when everyone else was turning the corner of the L-shaped corridor, filtering past the doors to the girls' bedrooms, and passing through the double doors into the centre's communal area, where we ate our meals. 

It was then, with the rest of the group gone, that Mark suddenly and roughly shoved his hand into my scoop-neck t-shirt, and groped my breast. I had no idea how this had happened, how to react, or what had caused it. I had no context for this. Mark stared at me hard, as if trying to judge my reaction. Tears filled my eyes, and a cry rose in my throat. I turned and ran, round the corner, past the bedrooms, and through the double doors. As I flew into the communal area, panting, tears running down my face, my eyes met those of Mr Holmes. He looked at me, a crying child, and turned to another teacher, "Looks like someone got turned down."

Looks like someone got turned down. Looks like someone got turned down. Looks like someone got turned down. Looks like someone got turned down.

I didn't even really understand what those words meant. But I knew how they made me feel: guilty, ashamed, caught out, dirty.

Instead of any of the words that I could have said, words that could have explained, words that could have told the truth, words that could have put things right, I said nothing. 

I said nothing. I said nothing. I said nothing. I said nothing. 

These moments still spin around in my mind. As though by replaying them, maybe they'll turn out differently. But of course they can't. 

I was so full of emotion, I couldn't speak. Perhaps most of all, I was shocked. I had fallen down a rabbit hole into another world, and I didn't understand anything that was happening there. The way that he looked at me, Mr Holmes' face said "I know you. I know things about you that you don't know." I was confused and scared, and I spent the rest of the day in silence. Mark kept away.

The rest of the trip is fairly blurry in my memory. But I do remember one occasion when Mark somehow isolated me from the rest of the group, and forced me to repeatedly touch an electric fence. I remember being so scared. But I didn't challenge him, and again I didn't tell anyone.

The best thing about the trip was receiving a short letter from my mum, which she'd "dashed off" while breastfeeding my baby brother. This little snippet of familiarity and safety kept me going until I got home.

I didn't tell my mum about what happened in Beaulieu for ten years.

The confused, shameful feelings about what happened, and a certainty that it had been my fault, grew in me over time. It felt so important to keep that secret.

...

Three months after this sexual assault, I was raped. Read about it here.

All posts about my experiences are collated here.

Terminology

I love words. I have a two volume dictionary in my living room, along with various key texts of linguistic pedantry. But, I don't love all words. Some words I positively despise: fresh, portion, and prepare all make my skin crawl, for no obvious reason. Perhaps it goes back to a particularly stern home economics teacher...

Of course there are other words that I dislike, and for rather more valid reasons. Unfortunately, in beginning this blog, I have run smack into terminology that I usually avoid using. In a conversation about sexual violence, I am able to skate (wafflingly) around these words, or say them with "air quotes" and eye-rolling, to distance myself from them. Not so online.

So, I want to discuss some of the terminology I'm using (and not using) in this blog. I'll alphabetise the list, and add to it when more come to mind.

Child abuse: This term is appropriate when talking, in general terms, about maltreatment of children. It is inappropriate when it is used as a euphemism for the rape of a child. In the words of Christopher Hitchens, "'Child abuse' is really a silly and pathetic euphemism for what has been going on: we are talking about the systematic rape and torture of children" (God is Not Great, 2007).

Date rape: To me, this term trivialises an act of violence. Rape is rape. An estimated 90% of rapes and sexual assaults are committed by a perpetrator known to the victim. So, it could be said that most rape is "date rape". I could write an entire post on this, and I fully intend to! I'll put a link to it here, as soon as there is one... Edit: Tada! Here it is!

"My" rapist/abuser/etc: I personally prefer not to talk about the people who committed crimes against me in a way that implies relationship. I would not refer to "my burglar", and so I talk about "the woman who abused me", not "my abuser". Clunky, yes. But it feels better to me.

Survivor: When used by individuals who have experienced sexual violence, I completely respect their right to describe themselves in this way. However, to me it seems glib when used by others as a blanket term. For the decade after I was raped, survival was a pretty precarious business. Telling, for instance, an individual suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, "You are a survivor! You have survived!" strikes me as rather missing the point.

Victim: I hate using this word; I have enormous issues with it. The mindset of "victimhood" has been written about by many people, with the emphasis on ceasing to see oneself as a victim, and reclaiming control over one's life. The reality of crimes of sexual violence, however, is that the perpetrator took control. While it is important to feel in control of life, day to day, I think that recognising that temporary, non-consensual loss of control is an important part of coming to terms with one's experience of sexual violence. So, I would not say, "I am a victim of sexual violence" but, when talking about the crimes that were committed against me, I might say, "I was a victim of sexual violence". 

However, far more important than the words we use when talking about sexual violence is whether we talk about it at all. Because talking about sexual violence, and drowning out the silence, is of vital importance. Because these are not our secrets.

And! A word on gender.

I am a cis woman. I absolutely understand that crimes of sexual violence are committed against people of all genders. According to current statistics, rape is predominantly a crime committed by men, against women: a 2012 datasheet from the USA's Center for Disease Control estimates that 18.3% of women and 1.4% men have experienced rape. This is not to say that all men are rapists, or that all rapists are men. I was sexually abused by a woman, sexually assaulted by a man, and raped by a teenage boy. 

If I talk about sexual violence in a way that seems exclusionary, please forgive me. My perspective comes from my experiences, but I am very open to discussion on the topic.

What do you think of these words? Are there words that you avoid when talking about sexual violence? Please comment below (anonymously, if you'd like) - I'd love to know.