On a (much) lighter note...

One of my friends texted me last week and asked if I'd be interested in playing with some baby bears and a baby lion.

UM. YES PLEASE.

Here goes.

One night, about four years ago, I was at a bar in my hometown, having a quiet night with a dollar pint and a good friend. The bar was filling up, and since it was holiday break, there were a lot of people back from college. I was starting to see lots of faces that I hadn't seen since summertime. And suddenly, I caught a glimpse of the most unwelcome of them all: I saw the guy who raped me.

I ran outside (having been paying my tab as I went), mildly hyperventilating, and begged my friend for a ride home. I kept repeating, "I can't be in there. He's in there." My friend had no idea what I was talking about, but he could see how upset I was. So he drove me home and let me finish my freakout. I didn't tell him the details, but I did tell him that I'd just seen the one who did it. I was shaking from the cold and from the knowledge that that guy was back in town, that I wouldn't set foot outside my house or job until after the holidays, and that he could still affect me so greatly, four years after he'd taken me on a date, held my hand, driven me home, kissed me, been invited in....and didn't stop when I said, "No."

I started remembering how he pushed my legs apart, pushed my underwear to the side. He didn't hold me down, but I was too drunk to do much except say words. He didn't listen to those words. I'm sure he heard them. I know he did. I remembered the party we'd gone to, playing beer pong, and knowing I couldn't drive myself the three miles home. I started feeling sick again, like I do right now thinking about it. I couldn't say any of this. I could barely get the words out to tell my friend why I needed to leave.

This guy. That guy. The one who was so charming, so trustworthy, so cute, so polite. The one who was best friends with a lifelong friend of mine, that was the son of well-regarded people in our very small town. The guy who didn't drink too much on our first date (being responsible enough to drive home, I thought). The guy who had a nice car, soft hands...

And, I found out later, the guy who'd taken my friend's virginity by fucking her from behind against her will, without using protection. The guy who even the adults in town knew was trouble. The guy that no one ever reported, because he made sure to date a lot and build himself a reputation as a womanizer. The guy who wasn't violent, who never left a mark physically, and who I'm sure did it all on purpose.

That guy. The guy who remains unnamed to the few friends of mine that know the details. The guy who's been the only person to tempt me toward vandalism (I've said that while I wouldn't press charges, I'd be more than happy to spray-paint his parents' cars and house with the words "We raised a rapist"), the one whose home and family business I have to drive past every time I drive from my mother's house into town. The only people who know his identity are my ex-fiance and, oddly, my mom's best friend (her son, who I was raised with, is that guy's best friend). And she only knows because of an oblique conversation that we had years after the fact.

The very few people who know what happened have been incredibly supportive and wonderful. One of them messaged me on Facebook after I wrote my last entry here and said this (T, I hope you don't mind my making this available for the public):

Even tho you didn't have to change my mind about it, because i already agreed with you, I hope that more will soon. rape is one thing I don't joke about ever...and part of the reason for that is from my friendship with you, and knowing how much it affects you. Just wanted you to know that.

That kind of support from the few people I've confided in has been gratifying. It's helped me move from a place of fear to one of... well, acceptance, I guess. I've tried not to let my rape affect me, and luckily I've had some amazing relationships that have helped me remember that not all men are scary, conniving, and able to take advantage without remorse. I've been able to regain control (and I really did lose it for a while).

I'm glad that I don't live in the same town as that guy anymore. I'm glad that the odds of running into him are slim to none. Even though it's been eight years, I don't know what kind of reaction I'd have to him. I don't know whether I'd find myself in another alley in the middle of winter, and I'm not sure whether I'd be with a friend to put his hand on my shoulder and get me home.

But it's equally likely that I'd be able to sit at the bar if he walked in, turn away, and ignore him.

Not too many people read my blog, and that's just fine by me. But for those of you who do, I'd like you to know the inspiration for this post: Solidarity, by Britni. It's been eight years since I was raped, and virtually no one knew.

Until now.

In honor of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, well, I'm making you aware of my sexual assault.

postscript: this has been, hands down, the most difficult piece I've ever written. Thank you so much for reading it, and I want to offer particular thanks to Travis, Britni, and Joe for being so supportive in the process, as well as Jim and Jerry for being amazing friends and listening, comforting, driving, and occasionally offering to find that guy and teach him a lesson ;) I love you all.

Victim....blaming?

I really would like to write about the dude I ran into last week that told me that women who get raped are to blame for it.... but for some reason, I cannot bring myself to do it. Not in any way that would actually matter, anyway. Because I got so furious at his comment that I couldn't complete a sentence afterward other than to tell him that I had nothing to say to him.

If I wear a short skirt, that's not an invitation.

If I drink a beer, that's not granting permission.

If I kiss you, that's not a cover-all consent.

If I'm on a date with you, it's not a guarantee of sex.

If I dance with you, it doesn't mean I'm going home with you.

If I invite you over, that's not to be taken as granting access to anything except my kitchen. And possibly my bottle of bourbon.

If I tell you to stop, it needs to stop. And if it doesn't, that's rape.

I'm so tired of people assuming that rapes happen at night, in dark alleys; that they're committed by strangers that break into homes or assault you on your way home. That's the stereotype, and it's not accurate. Something like 80% of rapes are committed by acquaintances, and I think that's what ticked me off the most: in discussing this issue with others, the image of rape is almost exclusively tied to the stranger-in-a-dark-alley concept. Date rape, acquaintance rape, so-called "gray rape" isn't even considered. And that's a serious problem.

Changing the mental picture of rape is crucial to changing the victim-blaming mindset. If we only consider stranger rape to be rape, that negates the experiences of women (myself included) who have been taken advantage of by their friends, boyfriends, lovers, husbands, and partners. It's becoming more apparent to me that for the most part, the men I know don't consider my rape to actually be rape. Because I'd been on a date; because I'd invited him in; because we'd kissed; because of a thousand things. Fact is, I told him to stop, and he didn't. That's it. I wasn't in a dark alley. There wasn't a knife or a gun. And you know what? It wasn't my fault.

I'm sick of people thinking that it was.

If I can change one person's mind, that's all I ask.