Me too.
Me too.
I wasnāt going to write this. I wasnāt going to share it. On Facebook I put up a photo of a quote from Maya Angelou: āEach time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it, without possibly claiming it, she stands up for all women.ā I wrote āMe Tooā above the photo, but I didnāt say why. I didnāt share my story as so many of my friends have bravely done. I didnāt explain why I wrote those two words. I donāt think Iām quite ready for people in my everyday life to see or know or question and ask me why.
But, I feel I have to write it somewhere. I know I donāt owe anybody any kind of story or explanation ā nobody who has been sexually assaulted does. But I also feel that stories and explanations need to be heard, need to be understood, need to be questioned, and need to be answered.
There have been countless times Iāve been wolf-whistled at walking down the street. Countless times Iāve been groped or felt-up or grinded against on a night out. One time a guy even staved my finger because I had to physically grab my hand out of his after explaining I was with my partner - he didnāt believe that I was gay. Iāve been spat at, called a slut, a bitch, a whore, a tease.
In my old job, there was a male employee a year younger than me, who thought it would be funny and a ābit of banterā to send me explicit messages at work. When I ignored him or told him I wasnāt interested, he would make every day absolute hell. He would stand behind my chair and lean over me to tell me how to do my job, touch my shoulders and my hips and whisper what he wanted to do to me. I eventually realized how ridiculous what he was saying was, so I screen-grabbed a couple of the messages he had sent me and showed my boss. She was furious, it got escalated up to the general manager, and he was dismissed that same afternoon.
But I donāt think I would have stood up for myself if I hadnāt learnt from what had happened to me a couple of years previous. When I was 19, on a night out visiting friends in Edinburgh, I was raped. I didnāt admit that was what it had been or what it was called for a long, long time. I didnāt speak up about it, told virtually nobody except my partner, and felt guilty and ashamed for months after, even years. He was the flat-mate of my friend that I was staying with, heād been quite flirty all night, but he was funny and kind and we were getting on well. We went out to a club, and I remember virtually nothing of what happened after that. I donāt know if my drink had been spiked, or if I had just had too much, but suddenly we were back at the flat, in his room, playing guitar and singing. He tried to kiss me and I said no, I have a girlfriend, I canāt and donāt want to do anything. But he kept kissing me, and I was so drunk I let him. It was only a kiss, right? But then it escalated, it turned into more, and I was so unbelievably wasted I had no strength whatsoever to push him away. He told me he couldnāt believe that I was gay, there was no way because āI was so hot and so good.ā The next morning, I woke up bruised, in agony, covered in bites and blood and marks from him. I crept back into my friendās room and lay still for what seemed like hours. There was a knock on the door, and there he was, grinning and asking if I wanted a cup of tea. I nodded, shocked and confused. He was acting normal, like nothing had happened. Later in the day when I was leaving, he hugged me and told me heād had a great night and how lovely it was to meet me. On the train home, I couldnāt even cry, I felt so guilty and numb and like I had cheated on my girlfriend. What made it even worse was a couple of days later, he messaged me on Facebook and told me I should get checked out because the condom had broken, twice. But also what a great night heād had, and that I should message him if I was ever going back through to the city where he lived. I replied agreeing, asking if he would mind not saying anything to anyone. I was so confused. He was acting like it was normal, so it must have been. Iām still so angry with myself for replying like that, and for not remembering anything.
I kept it secret for nearly 2 weeks. I told my girlfriend I was so sorry, I had slept with a guy but I didnāt really remember it and I definitely didnāt want to but it had just sort of happened. She looked at me for a minute, and asked me gently if I had been raped. It didnāt even occur to me until that point that that was what had happened to me.
Gradually, I told some more friends who I trusted, one of whom was so mad he messaged the guy. But he denied everything, said we had both wanted to do things. I blocked him on Facebook, lost my friend along the way, but I realize now I should have spoken up and out about it at the time, and not felt ashamed or guilty for anything.
So, thatās my story. Sadly, there are so many more like it, and so many that are even worse than that. But unless we change this culture, an understanding of sexuality and rape culture, nothing will actually change. Instead of looking at women and stating how many women get raped or sexually assaulted ā surely we should be looking at men and stating how many men are rapists and have sexually assaulted other human beings (men included). Surely we should be going into schools, teaching boys from a young age that violence, including sexual violence, is not ok. That boys will not be boys, they will be held accountable for their fucking actions.
