Getting Help

As much as I'm sure you're all capable of using Google, I thought I'd round up information on a few organisations which might be helpful if you've experienced sexual violence, or if you're supporting someone who has.

Rape Crisis support women who have experienced sexual violence: www.rapecrisis.org.uk

Survivors UK support men who have experienced sexual violence: www.survivorsuk.org

NAPAC support adults who were sexually abused as children: www.napac.org.uk

The Survivors Trust is an umbrella organisation - you may be able to find support near you: www.thesurvivorstrust.org/find-support

MOSAC support parents and carers of abused children: www.mosac.org.uk

Samaritans are available 24/7, if you need someone to talk to: http://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help-you/contact-us

Not an organisation, but Dr Nina Burrowes's book "The Courage to be Me" is available to read online at her webiste: www.ninaburrowes.com/books/the-courage-to-be-me/preface/ It's a great way to start thinking about your recovery.

If you want to get tested for sexually transmitted infections, you can find a clinic via the Family Planning Association website: www.fpa.org.uk/find-a-clinic
I've been tested for everything - it was much less horrible than I expected, and the peace of mind is invaluable. STIs can cause infertility, or shorten your life, but most are treatable. Either way, it's better to know.

This NHS page isn't a pleasant read, but in case it's helpful: www.nhs.uk/Livewell/Sexualhealth/Pages/Sexualassault.aspx

These are UK organisations, as they're the ones I know about. Based on where the blog's mostly being read, here are a few international pointers:

USA: www.rainn.org

Australia: www.1800respect.org.au

Ireland: www.rcni.ie

Rape Crisis Network Europe: www.rcne.com

Please comment if there's an organisation you think should be added to this list - especially if you're from a country I've missed out! 

However you choose to get help, I hope that you do it. Don't let the shame and silence hold you back. You deserve recovery, health, and happiness. These are not your secrets.

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.

Submission from a female reader, aged mid-thirties, from the UK.

This story - about minimising sexual violence in one's life, ignoring its impact, and coping - sounded so familiar to me. It seems that so many people who experience sexual violence assume that their story isn't bad enough to be worth telling, that they didn't suffer enough to be worthy of others' understanding. 

Sometimes it's only when looking back, years later, that we can see the truth.

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

...

Once upon a silent time

Once upon a time – isn’t that how childhood stories go? I was 6 and my babysitter’s teenage son put his penis in my face. It may sound odd, but apart from telling my vastly over-worked mum I did not want to go back to that babysitter and did not like her son, I did not think to tell anyone for decades. I think I have told three people in my life, including my husband. It struck me that in my telling of my story I was quick to state it really was not a big thing, (no penetration etc.), that others suffered more than me, and it was not such a big deal in comparison.

I was wrong. It was part of an unseen web that has criss-crossed my life. My mother, who is beautiful, wise and giving, had not had the best of fortune in the men department. Father figures in my life included an abuser, a lovely man with schizophrenia who was paranoid and aggressive when he did not take his medicine, and a gentle, troubled man who later took his own life. My mother, with the untimely death of her own father, had not seen what to expect from a healthy relationship. It’s not about gender, but about experience. No one is ever responsible for being abused, but it can be hard to tell if your positive experiences have been limited. It is possible though.

My road was rocky for a while. I have been sexually misused by a partner and was later raped by someone who I had called family for years.  I realise in retrospect that I did not name it rape at the time because he told me it wasn’t. Then I saw the little girl in me, with the babysitter’s son’s penis in my face and all those years of putting it to the back of my mind, filed under ‘could have been worse’. The worst silence is the one we hold inside ourselves so not even we can hear our own stories.

The ‘friend’ hurt me during a hard time in my relationship where sexual intimacy had been long lacking. When he had asked me if I was happy I had said “Not yet, but I am working on it.” I had trusted this person who I had known since my late teens and shared many life experiences with. We were affectionate friends who had not seen one another in a while due to him living abroad. I don’t really know why I still trusted him because one 1^st of May, when I was 18 and he in his twenties, he had held a knife to my throat while off his head on a cocktail of drugs.  Somehow, my frightened child’s voice had hushed that memory and brought a million others to the fore, refiling that unsafe moment in my past (along with the penis in my 6 year old face) under ‘could have been worse.’

 A group reunion, many miles from home had bought many of us together in a familial way, reminiscent of the old days. There were hugs and teasing between us all. These were later reframed for me as flirting when I was told I had wanted it. He blamed me for not cumming because I was frigid. For several days I was so shocked, pained and confused I did not know whether to believe him. When I had said “no, I don’t want this” and he told me I did, should I have pushed him harder away? I was in shock, both during and after as to how or why this was happening. When you love someone as family you can’t quite believe it. That love and shock stopped me punching, scratching, screaming though I was inside. For a long while it delayed me understanding that it had happened.

A week after I got home I found myself taking an overdose, not  consciously trying to kill myself, but just to remove the pain at all costs. It shook me that I could do that. I had been through quite a lot in my life, but tend to be positive.  It was not only that pain but the issues in my life that had lead me to the fragile position which he had abused. He left me with a damaging but not lasting infection. For years he intermittently tried to make contact. His story was it “just had not worked out”. His explanation reminded me of that teenage boy saying to a 6 year old me, “You want to suck it”. 

‘Once upon a time’ is a phrase used for stories that transcend time and change our perceptions of the world and ourselves. Once upon a time something made me feel that abuse was to be expected.  I am now turning my own story into a story with me as my own hero. Beyond surviving, I choose to love and flourish. There is the magic in my story that I found by learning to hear my own voice. 

 ...

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.

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.

Dr Nina Burrowes on "Getting Away With It"

Because we all have only limited time to read and watch an unlimited internet, I haven't previously written a post solely to point out someone else's work. However! When people have emailed me about their experiences of sexual violence, I've often linked them to a video by Dr Nina Burrowes, "The Cartooning Psychologist". And now I want you all to see.

All of Burrowes's work is outstanding: she uses her understanding of the psychology behind sexual offending behaviour, and presents it clearly, and without jargon. 

The video below is about how sexual offenders "get away with it". I would recommend it to everyone, but especially if you've ever been raped or sexually assaulted by somebody known to you - what some might call "date rape".

Burrowes refers to "sexual abuse" whereas I use "sexual violence", but terminology is irrelevant to this vital message.

If you can't see the video, click here to watch it at youtube.com.

...

I'll leave it at that for today, and I'll come back to the excellent Dr Nina Burrowes another time. However, if you've already watched the above video, digested and assimilated it, and are ready for MORE, click these links for: Dr Nina Burrowes's website, and her youtube.

I hope that you'll find watching this video worthwhile, and that it will help you to understand the reality of sexual violence. These Are Not Our Secrets.

Thank you, Dr Nina Burrowes, for your permission to use your videos!

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. 

 

Submission from a female reader, aged 19, from the UK.

This post is the blog's second submission from a reader. I am so grateful to the courageous woman who sent this story of her experiences of sexual violence.

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

...

I was six when I remember it first happening, I was having a bath and my step brother (he is six years older than me) came in. He asked if he could use the toilet and I thought sure why not, there was no problem. But then he came in and locked the door and started telling me how beautiful I was. He started stroking me and telling me I was special. I didn't feel special. It was just a touch here and a touch there, I didn't know it was wrong. Then a few days later it happened again except in my room. 

He didn't penetrate me until I was eight years old. The first time was excruciating.. I couldn't scream as he had placed his hand across my mouth. When it was over I was bleeding, I went to the bathroom and cried. Not long after I started realising it was wrong. 

The rape and sexual abuse carried on until I was eleven until he moved away with his girlfriend. He went on to have children. I worry about them. 

I was fourteen when I spoke out. We never rang the police because it was a family matter. I see him in the streets sometimes and I feel sick, I'm back to being a child again. hurt and scared. 

I have a baby of my own now, he is seven months old and I am loving every second..I still feel the hurt, the pain, I still hear his voice, feel his breath. I am still afraid. I wish he got what he deserved, I hope one day he will. The scars don't fade, the voices don't stop. But when you have your own child you realise you have to be strong no matter what. I find peace in knowing my child will never be put through what I was.

...

I have created a Submissions page (it should be visible on the right hand side, under "Terminology", but I know that this doesn't work on all devices) - click here to get to it. Both  this story and the first submission to the blog will be linked to from there. Future submissions will, of course, be posted individually, but now they will also be collated on the Submissions page.

"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.