Submission from a female reader, aged 20, from the UK.

This post shows the devastating effects sexual assault can have on a person's mental health, but it also shows that recovery is absolutely possible. It's such a powerful message, and one that is important to remember if you're struggling.

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

...

I'm not ashamed of my story. 

My story is not a story of rape but sexual assault and violence.

I'm not scared to speak out about this or ashamed. 3 years ago no-one knew my story and still only a few do who helped me come to terms with what actually happened. I want people to know that you are not a victim, you are still a person. Nothing that has happened to you defines you.

When I was 13 I started going to a youth group, I used to travel once a week for an hour on my own. I had a friend at this group who used to stick with me, a few months later I met his friend who was a few years older than me, we all hung out a few times which started becoming a normal thing and we all got along. He asked me to go out with him, I said no as he was too old for me and he left it at that. The next time I saw him we were stood outside having a cigarette at our group and there was just us two. He started moving closer to me and was then right next to me. I was leaning against a wall and so was he at this point. He spun round and pushed himself onto me. So close I could feel every disgusting inch of him. Practically crushing me to the point where I couldn't say or do anything. I just thought to myself, oh it'll be some sort of joke. Then his hands were on me. It made me feel sick to my stomach. I couldn't speak or move and I was just frozen. The feeling I can't even describe. I was in shock with it. His hands were down my trousers, I was in tears at this point. Silently crying to myself, not knowing what I could do. Then my friend started to walk through the door around the corner and he let me go. I was still stood in shock and felt sick from it all. Every time I met up with my friend and he was there I used to always stay on the other side of the room and with someone. But whenever he did end up alone with me, he always tried to touch me and It was scary knowing he could get away with it.

This was when I went in a self destructive downhill spiral which I couldn't seem to get out of. Still not really coming to terms with what had actually happened and just pushing it out. 

A year or so later, I was drinking, and doing other things I shouldn't be doing at the age of 15. However for me that was really my way of coping with everything that I was going through. I was out in town one weekend with my friend we'll call her Sarah. She wanted to nip to her friends which was only 15 minutes away, so we started walking there, I was fairly tipsy but the walk sobered me up. We got to her friends house and I'd never met these people which was scary for me to deal with. My friend went upstairs to have sex with one of the guys which meant I was left alone with his friend. We started talking and he seemed genuinely nice, just chatting away. Next thing I remember was being crushed with his body on top of mine. I had blacked out with shock. Knowing it was happening again and I still wasn't able to fight back or say anything was soul destroying. His lips were on mine and I was trying to get away, I couldn't move under the pressure of him. My wrists were bruised, my top was over my head and I couldn't move. His hands felt disgusting on top of me and I couldn't move. I was crying, trying to shout. I couldn't do anything. I was hit. I hurt everywhere. I managed to get away when he let my wrists go and I struggled to get out from under him. He kept grabbing me and pulling me back. I managed to get out the house. I had no top on and looked a state. I had nothing left of myself anymore. 

I suddenly had no dignity and everything was gone. I felt no hope after what I had been through and thought that would always be me, I'd always be the victim and never be able to gain control of my life again.

I ended up in a really deep hole that I couldn't get out of and I was killing myself with what I was putting my body through. I went to the doctors after some pushing from a friend. It was the most daunting thing I'd done. But I got help, I had therapy to help me over come my depression and PTSD. 

I finally managed to come to terms with what happened and that I am not to blame for it.

...

When we experience sexual violence, we are never to blame and we should never feel ashamed. These Are Not Our Secrets.

All submissions to the blog can be found here. If you would like to share your story anonymously on this blog, email me: thesearenotmysecrets@gmail.com - I'd really appreciate it if you could include your age, gender, and nationality.

All of the posts and pages can be easily found via the blog's contents page. Have a look.

1988; 2006

I've previously written about a sexual assault that happened to me when I was 11, and about being raped a few months later. Sadly, these are not my only experiences of sexual violence. 

Writing about the child sexual abuse I experienced has taken me longer, because it is a more difficult story to tell. By which I don't mean more emotional, but that the narrative is less clear. More like a jigsaw puzzle than a book. You will see.

...

At the beginning of 2006 I was 21. I was working a very draining job, and doing an Open University degree; I had a four year old son, and I was unhappily married. Life was busy, stressful, hard.

My mental health (although never good) had been steadily worsening over the previous months. Since my son was born, I had worked so hard at coping: as though I could just box up all of my mental health issues, and hide them under the bed for 18 years. Being a good mother, wife, person, being normal was all that mattered. But the box full of crazy was starting to leak. My self-harming was getting out of control, my eating was more disordered than ever. Anxiety and agoraphobia were starting to make leaving the house difficult.

One evening that January, my husband and I were at home, and our son was tucked up, asleep. We had probably been drinking alcohol, or smoking cannabis. Both were usual means of self-medicating at this time, as we had both struggled with mental health issues for years. I tended to take it gently, though, as I had a busy life to keep on top of. 

I don't remember anything triggering it, but suddenly my head was full of pictures. I had experienced "visuals" while using drugs before, but this was different. My field of vision was full of layers of images, liquid and merging into each other - when I tried to focus on one corner, that part changed to something else: a wooden dining chair; my favourite fork from when I was small; a door; the BBC test card; a stamp, with the Queen in profile; a wooden gate; a cloudy blue sky. But the image which swam in and out the most clearly was a serifed number: 134. I couldn't stop seeing these images. Eyes open or closed, they would not go away, and I was terrified. My husband convinced me to get into bed, and he sat with me, calming me down, until I fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, my eyes were my own again, but I could not stop thinking about number 134.

Over the next week, more images came - less confusing, but more worrying. I had been so frightened by what had happened, that I had sworn myself to sobriety, but even without intoxication, they kept coming. The way in which the images appeared changed, over time, and I realised that most of the images were of a house. A familiar house. From the street I grew up on. The house over the road? What was the neighbour's name - Jill?* I had no memories of ever having been inside that house - but these pictures, flashes of memory: walking up the drive, my small hand in a bigger hand; standing at the door, head craned up; walking up the stairs; sitting in the bathroom, hearing adult laughter - could these be real? And 134... a door number? Jill's house couldn't possibly be number 134: it was three doors down from our friends at 124. What was my brain doing?

Without giving anything away, I asked my mum whether I'd ever been in the house over the road. Her response surprised me: "I don't think so... but Jill used to babysit you, at our house, while I was at work." When was this? It was when another neighbour, Monica, had ceased to be available on the right days. Jill stepped in. 

This confused me. I had so many memories of being babysat by Monica: playing with the duplo with Monica; eating lunch with Monica; watching Monica fold towels; being in the garden with Monica; hearing stories about Monica's older and very exciting son; Monica helping me to write a letter to the fairies. How could I have retained these older memories of Monica, but remember nothing at all about Jill - a woman who had apparently been a regular fixture in my life for quite some time?

I didn't understand.

...

This next part is hard to write: I cannot remember a time before I was sexualised. I cannot remember not having an awareness of sexuality. And not having guilt and shame about my body. I didn't know what sex was until I was ten, but I can remember, with absolute clarity, being five years old and knowing things that I should not have known. It never occurred to me that somebody might have shown me these things.

This is harder still: despite having been potty trained precociously early, I suddenly became incontinent aged four. My parents assumed that it was in protest against the birth of my brother, and that it would soon stop. I learned to hide it, manage it, but I was a teenager before I regained full control of my pelvic floor. I cannot tell you how much I disgusted myself. It never occurred to me that somebody might have caused me an internal injury. 

...

One day, I was at home, alone, and suddenly all of the fragments of memory - sights, sounds, feelings, physical sensations - slammed together. It was violent, intense. I threw up. 

Jill, who lived over the road, sexually abused me.

I still lived in the town I'd grown up in. I made my way, shakily, across town, to the street I had lived on from a few months to 15 years of age. I stood outside Jill's house, the house over the road from my childhood home. And there, on the gate: 134.

Maybe this seems like nothing to you, but to me, seeing the number nailed to the gate, serifed exactly as it had been in my mind, at a small child's eye level... it gave me permission to believe myself: Jill, who lived over the road, sexually abused me.

...

The next few weeks were horrendous. My head was so full, I thought it would explode. I desperately wanted to talk to my mum about this. Maybe she could shed some light on things. I wanted her to know. But I felt certain she wouldn't believe me. I didn't know what to do.

I spoke to a dear friend. I told him all about the images, the memories, number 134. I told him about the sexual assault, about the rape. I told him that I wanted to tell my mum, but that every time I imagined telling her, I imagined her getting angry and throwing something. My friend listened to everything I said. I had never experienced empathy like it. After I'd finished talking and crying, my friend told me that he was going to pray for me, and he was going to fast. Religious beliefs entirely aside, that is an incredible show of support for someone. I was overwhelmed by his love and solidarity. 

It gave me the strength to talk to my mum.

My relationship with my mum has never been straightforward. Now, in 2015, it is better than it has ever been. She even reads my blog. (Hello, Maman!) But in 2006, we barely spoke. So, it was foreign territory for both of us when I sat her down and told her everything. Everything. About the sexual assault, about the rape, and - somehow - about all of the memories that had recently resurfaced. And she didn't throw anything.

Instead, she believed me. And she told what she remembered. Coming home from work one day, and three year old me telling her "Mummy, we went to Jill's house!", and the shock on Jill's face, the hasty explanation, it not quite adding up. I never mentioned going to Jil's house again, but I know that we didn't stop going. Bumping into Jill at the shops, stopping to chat, and Jill asking my mum about me - only me - I am one of four, but Jill never asked about my brothers. Lots of little things - each meaningless in isolation - all knitted together now. 

...

By this point, my under-the-bed-box-of-crazy had burst open. Dealing with these memories, dealing with the truth, was too much for me, and my carefully constructed attempt at normal had fallen apart. By March, I was in a full-on meltdown. 

I went to the GP, and told her as much of the story as I could get out, shaking and hyperventilating. She referred me to a consultant psychiatrist, and I had to do it all again. Finally, I was referred to a therapist for cognitive analytic therapy. Bit by bit, I told her everything. Being believed, being understood, was amazing.

Through therapy, I started to learn to trust myself. I learned that memories of early trauma resurfacing in adulthood is not that unusual. The concept of dissociation - which the brain uses to protect one's ongoing functioning - means that memories can be inaccessible for years, decades even. It doesn't make the memories not real.

Should you like a bit of evidence (I do!), this paper is from a 1999 study into memories of childhood abuse.

It's the same mechanism that causes some adults who experience car crashes to have a "blank" in between buckling their seatbelt and waking up in hospital. It was suggested that my memories may have been "triggered" by my son reaching the same kind of age as I was at the time of the abuse.

...

It's now nine years since the memories resurfaced, and - as far as I can tell - 27 years since Jill sexually abused me. 

I'm still learning about the impact of the sexual abuse, and my other experiences of sexual violence. Over the past year, I've been coming to terms with the idea that all of the apparently discrete issues I've been struggling with (for almost two decades) are in fact symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). 

In a recent post, Broken, and also in my account of being raped, I talked about the impact that experiencing sexual violence had on my mental health, particularly in my teens and early twenties. I plan to write about the continuing effects of PTSD, soon.

 ...

This post has been added to the My Story page, along with other posts about my own experiences. Please have a look, to get the full picture. 

*All names used are pseudonyms.

Regret and Resentment - on Sarah Vine and rape denial

Last week, Sarah Vine* wrote a column for the Daily Mail, which was theoretically about consent. In actual fact, it was a perfect example of rape denial; calling on the old Knickerless Slag trope, Vine created a twisted narrative, in which there is no rape, only lying women.

By talking about women making a "disastrous sexual choice", Vine is ignoring the fact that when a perpetrator rapes a victim, the victim has no choice. The perpetrator takes away the victim's choice, the victim's agency, the victim's personhood. The perpetrator turns the victim into an object to be acted upon.

Again, by referring to women making "stupid mistakes with men" Vine is putting the onus on the victim. But this is some next level victim blaming poison: Vine's argument rests on the premise that instead of rapists choosing to rape, women are choosing to have sex, and then "crying rape". 

This message is so dangerous. It tells victims, "You weren't raped, you're just a whore." It tells rapists, "Don't worry; she wanted it." It tells society, "Rape isn't a problem. Carry on ignoring it."**

Vine seems to be speaking from personal experience, when she describes waking up the morning after what she calls, "non-violent sexual encounters in dodgy circumstances". (The fixation on physical injury being a key indicator of rape! Fancy seeing you here!) Apparently, in her day, such women would have a shower and "a bit of a cry", before boxing the whole thing up, and knuckling down to a lifetime of blaming themselves. 

To me, there's a real whiff of something here: regret and resentment.

Let me explain.

My paternal grandmother, Nonna, is a 93 year old Italian wonderwoman, and I love her very much. After the second world war, Nonna came to the UK, speaking no English whatsoever.*** She met a handsome Pole (with fluent Italian, but no English), they got married, and my dad was born. Nonna has spent almost 70 years in the UK, and still speaks an utterly bonkers Itanglish, full of "badgins" (badgers), "puppets" (puppies), and instructions to "thrumanaway" (throw it away). 

Now, ten years ago, I was working in a primary school with a huge Somali intake; so many of the parents spoke no English. The parallel with my own family background really affected me; I decided to train to teach English to speakers of other languages (ESOL). I told Nonna of my plan, expecting her to be delighted. Her reaction surprised me: "Pah!"

Nonna's opinion was that ESOL was wasted on these "bladdy foreign", and the idea of government funding being used for such a purpose positively enraged her. Nonna herself had just muddled along, why couldn't these people do that? "When I come here, we get nothing!" And if nothing was good enough for Nonna, then it's good enough for everyone else.

Nonna regrets never properly learning English, and she resents others receiving help that she never had. Hence her anger.

So, back to our friend Sarah Vine.

I'm sure you've already joined the dots, but just in case: I believe, with absolute certainty, that Sarah Vine has been a victim of sexual violence. I believe that Sarah Vine woke up one morning, feeling confused, and ashamed, and disgusted. I believe that Sarah Vine could not bring herself to utter the word "rape", even in her own head. I believe that Sarah Vine coped with this the best way she knew how, by retelling the story for herself, recasting herself as the agent, a woman who chose sex, a person who got what she - at the time - wanted.

I believe that Sarah Vine has regretted this decision for years, maybe decades. But, after all this time, she doesn't know how to go back. I believe that Sarah Vine resents the sea change that we are starting to see in attitudes to sexual violence, towards victims of these crimes. Why couldn't it have been this way when she was raped? Why didn't she have the chance to recover, to heal?

Sarah Vine, I am so sorry that somebody took away your personhood. I am sorry that you are still angry. But please, rather than arming yourself with some kind of sexual violence Stockholm syndrome, and denying that any women are ever raped, instead admit to yourself that you  were raped. 

It's not easy, it's not quick, but it is worth it. 

And, Sarah Vine, these are not your secrets.

*Whose husband, incidentally, is former Secretary of State for Education, The Rt Hon Toad of Toad Hall. 
**If you haven't watched it already, Dr Nina Burrowes video "How are sex offenders able to get away with it?" is well worth eight and a half minutes of your time!

***In fact, because she came from a large, poor, tenant-farming family, Nonna never really learned to read in Italian. To this day, she cannot read her own post.

Submission from a female reader, aged 24, from the UK.

I found this submission really challenging to read. It seems like the woman who wrote it is still struggling to come to terms with her experience. 

Rape is rape; there are no extenuating circumstances, there are no excuses. All stories of experiencing sexual violence are different, but they all share one thing: they are never our fault.

 

Please read this story, and leave a comment for the author. 

 

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

 

...

 

In the early hours of the morning on New Years day last year I was raped by a man who I had met three times before. 

 

The day before, I had come out of a 4 year relationship. I had driven to the other end of the country to try and save my relationship. We lived together for 3 years, but were struggling to survive a few months of long distance. When we finally called it a day, I found myself miles from home, and all alone on new years eve. I climbed back in my car and drove another hundred miles to a friends house, crying the whole way and praying for a lorry or a bus to knock my tiny car off the road and kill me.

 

It didn't. I made the journey.

 

My friend was holding a party. I had met some of the people there a couple of times before and they all helped me to drink my problems into oblivion. Particularly Him. He kept my glass full of drink and let me smoke his cigarettes. 

 

Everyone else went to bed. I had the spare room and he joked that he would have to sleep on the sofa, unless I wanted him to stay with me. I smiled and said no. Very clearly, no.

 

A few minutes later as I sat in bed and cried, I saw his shadow hovering outside the bedroom door. He knocked and asked if I wanted a drink of water. I went to the kitchen and he made the joke again Yet again I replied no.

 

The next time he didn't knock. He just came in. He climbed into the bed and wrapped his arms around me. Told me it would be okay, and that I would get over my ex. I would be better without him. Someone like me would find someone else in no time. He told me to close my eyes and pretend I was my ex. 

 

He raped me. He raped me, and the thing I feel most guilty about was that he manhandled me first and brought me to a dreadful sobbing orgasm. I had stopped saying no by this point as I had realised it wasn't going to stop him and so I just closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. I hate that part. Hate that I gave up and cared so little about myself that I just stopped fighting.

 

I never told the friends whose house I was at. I didn't want to ruin her friendship with Him. I didn't come forward because I was so ashamed. Plus I didn't want to ruin the guys life did I? I rang my ex and told him and he didn't believe me. Called me a slut. Said that he would never touch me again. 

 

I decided my ex must be right. Nobody in the world knew me better than him, or so I thought. I found a thousand ways to blame myself for what had happened. To absolve my rapist and make it my fault and not his.

 

A year later, and I am finally starting to come to terms with what happened. I can't believe how easy it was to punish myself. How everything I read in the press allowed me to resent myself for  being drunk, for wearing a dress and make up and for talking to him that night. For not screaming. I see a cognitive behavioural therapist who tells me that I can still report, but I still am scared of ruining his life. I genuinely don't believe he thinks of himself as being a rapist.  I still haven't cried about what he did. I haven't stopped moving long enough to cry. I just carried on with my life and pushed it down. I know it's there which is why I speak to someone and why I am sharing this but I don't know how to let this out and hurt properly. 

 

He apologised to me the next day. "Sorry about last night. Wasn't the smartest decision I have ever made." The whole group of people from the party went to the pub for food and he offered to pay for my meal to say sorry. 

 

I will keep his secret. I will even keep it from him.

...

Leave the author a comment; tell her what you think. 

 

All submissions to the blog can be found here. If you would like to share your story anonymously on this blog, email me: thesearenotmysecrets@gmail.com -  I'd really appreciate it if you could include your age, gender, and nationality.

Broken

Throughout my teens, I had an inescapable feeling that I was broken. I had no clear idea of how I should have been, but I knew that this wasn't it. There was something wrong with me - everything wrong with me: I was a faulty human being, and it was all my fault.

My body was disgusting, shameful, wrong. All wrong. I wanted to cut it up into tiny pieces, make it disappear. I tried.

I was crazy. Crazy crazy crazy. Deviant. Other people didn't think this way, think these thoughts. Nobody else was broken like this.

I saw the way my friends' parents looked at me. I saw the mistrust and fear. As though I might infect their clean, normal children. Bite into them, and turn them into zombies, vampires, or worse: the same as me.

And maybe they were right.

Everybody else seemed so normal, so complete, so utterly unlike me. Even my friends. Especially my family.

When I was 15, I met Tasha at a gig at an arts centre. She went to school in the next town, but we knew some of the same people. We recognised the same brokenness in each other; the magnetism was immediate: "Hey, dollface."

Tasha knew she was broken, but she didn't feel the shame that I felt. Or, at least, she didn't let on. Tasha was proud to be her. While I was hiding my repulsive body under jeans, t-shirts, jumpers even in the summer, Tasha was going out in a nightie. While I wanted to silently disappear from existence, Tasha wanted to fill the world to bursting. 

Tasha saw the world as divided: the two of us - beautiful, brilliant wrecks - and everyone else - ordinary, envious, dull as ditchwater. I remember Tasha describing another girl: "She's pretty fucked up for a normal person." An enormous compliment, but still, an acknowledgement that this girl was not truly one of us. The friendship with Tasha was too intense, too exclusive, and it only lasted the summer. 

Along with the friendship, I lost Tasha's ability to revel in the brokenness, and I was back to hating myself.

As time went by, the self-loathing got worse. I've mentioned before about the self-harm, disordered eating, and suicide attempts, but it was more complicated than that.

My head was filled with intrusive thoughts, of flaying my flesh off, down to the bones, of digging my nails in and ripping my face from my skull. I itched to tear myself apart. 

But, what if dying wouldn't be the end? What if there was an eternal hereafter? What if I was trapped, being me, forever? The idea that being me was inescapable terrified me. I used to cry at night, feeling the walls of my bedroom closing in, desperately wishing I could simply cease to be.
 

Teenage angst is normal. Believing oneself to be fundamentally unworthy of oxygen is not.

...

This is a blog about sexual violence, so I'm sorry if this post seems off topic. The thing is, I am now able to look back, and see with perfect clarity that everything I've just described to you was a direct result of sexual violence. I was sexually abused aged three to four, I was sexually assaulted aged 11, and then three months later I was raped, shortly before turning 12; OF COURSE these events would have repercussions. No adults knew about any of what had happened. And it didn't occur to me that it was relevant.

It never, never occurred to me that there might be an external reason for feeling the way I did. For being the way I was. That something - something not my fault - might have broken me, rather than me being innately inadequate.

At various points, between 12 and 16, I was made to see different counsellors, psychologists, people who were meant to help. Or, at least, meant to make me normal. I was on anti-depressants, several different types, for the whole time. Not one of the adults in my life - parents, teachers, doctors, educational welfare officers, counsellors, psychologists - nobody asked any questions that could have led to me telling them about what happened to me. So the secrets stayed secret, and I stayed crazy.

...

I believe that there are lots of people who, just like me, were victims of sexual violence. And that they, just like me, will suffer mental health repercussions. Not necessarily in the same way, but repercussions that prevent them from being the person they would have been otherwise: happy, healthy, free.

So, if you have been keeping a secret about experiencing sexual violence, and any of what I have described sounds familiar to you, please understand: there is nothing wrong with you - none of it is your fault. 

Nobody is innately broken, but sometimes people do things which can temporarily break us. 

Recovery is possible. It won't happen overnight, but it is worth it. All of the feelings above, I still feel sometimes. I'm still at war with my body. 

But, I know where the feelings come from, I know it's not my fault, and I know that these are not my secrets.

...

All posts about my experiences are collated here.

If you've ever felt broken - maybe you still do, now - please comment. I know that there are hundreds of you reading this blog, and I would love to hear what you think. 

 

"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!

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.