Warning. The following discusses sexual assault, and may trigger or otherwise be uncomfortable for some readers.
So. I was sexually assaulted. It was in primary school. And in high school. And for some reason it’s been coming up again for me in a big way.
Healing is totally a journey. A convoluted, backwards-mostly, hopefully-forwards-at-some-point, journey.
What a fucking joke!
So I was just trying to research how much sexual assault happens. There were statistics with the age brackets “0 – 5” ‘5-12’ “12 – 15″… fuck off. That is disgusting!
Why is sexual violence even a thing?
And now that it is a thing… what are we doing about it?
I went to different therapists throughout my healing journey. Mostly because of the disbelief and control of a narcissistic mother [NM]; which meant treatment I sought for a long time had to be “underground” which meant – free, physically accessible, and within hours that would not denote suspicion.
Ms C; SARC; M; A;
I’m not sure who I first told about the primary school incident.
Oh wait. I told my best friend, and together we told his mum.
The mum went hard on him.
Yay for for female empowerment.
But something had changed – perhaps my innocence. I’m not sure.
I went to see SARC. Sexual Assault Resource Centre.
I wanted to process a string of sexual type things that had been a bit borderline from a range of experiences.
This was without my mothers permission. I had told mum I was going to youth group. I had used the computer labs at school to track my journey on the public transport website.
They were helpful and supportive.
They believed me. And it was the first time this had happened. Me being believed.
Whilst seeing SARC I had my next encounter.
Ironic. I know.
I tried to get to SARC to get evidence etc. But I couldn’t get there. I couldn’t find a friend who would say we’re having a sleepover. I couldn’t find any money to pay for transport.
I remember standing in the shower. Just standing there. Too ashamed to even wash myself. How could I touch such a broken, discarded, dirty thing.
I told SARC what happened. The counsellor was extremely worried about my safety. I was seeing him again the next day. The counsellor rang me to see if I was still safe on that next day. I said I was. I had worn tighter jeans. That would keep me safe.
I took a pamphlet from SARC and showed it to him. I told him what he did was sexual assault. Whilst in bed with him. As I’m writing this I’m so heartbroken at the levels of disfunction!
I entered a relationship with this person. It lasted for 7 weeks. Well the “girlfriend / boyfriend” aspect of it did. Other stuff didn’t. But that’s for later. The 7 weeks stopped the flashbacks.
I remember I had told my best friend [a dude] at the time. He used to threaten to bash him up. At first I couldn’t see that I deserved protecting or defending. And I certainly didn’t want people to know. I was so confused about what had actually even happened.
As the ‘relationship’ continued, my friend used it as a playful threat, ‘come to this party or i’ll bash up your ‘boyfriend”. I remember saying, ‘whatever, I don’t care’. Because I didn’t.
After the ‘relationship’ ended, the flashbacks and pain became worse.
I remember going to see Ms C.
I couldn’t get to SARC; Narcissistic Mother was closing the hatches. There were changes in my behaviour, so her reaction was to tighten her grip. So they had to close my file.
Ms C was the school counsellor.
I asked her if she believed me. She said she knew that I wouldn’t lie about something as serious as this. But she did question why SARC hadn’t had done more – why hadn’t they sent a taxi out? Why hadn’t they collected physical evidence? I. don’t. fucking. know. Could this be an indicator that my perception needed to be challenged on this experience?
I remember being wrapped up in my school tracksuit. Trying to be swallowed up by the zipper and material. Desperately trying to ask for help.
Despite Ms C’s questioning me, she still sent my rape-victim friends to me to have my counsel. What the fuck! Really.
She asked me why I didn’t yell, or scream. I told her I cried. I froze. I hung onto his arm and begged him to stop. Someone I knew was in the cinema as well. I didn’t know them that well. Someone from history class. And I certainly didn’t want them to see me with my pants down like this. I don’t know why I didn’t scream. In my mind I want to walk out – but I can’t even do that.
He is still around. I just Facebook googled him. His ugly face. With that stare.
She also referred me to a male [are you freaking kidding me?!] psychologist. To you know, challenge my perceptions.
This was after she had convinced me to tell NM. What a fucking nightmare that was. Talk about trauma on top of layers of trauma. NM took me, in the middle of the night, down to a beach I hadn’t been to… to “talk”. She would let me leave until I told her exactly what happened. In her neurotic brain, not knowing what happened to her possession was an exposed wire. She couldn’t handle it. She told me a story about a guy sweeping her up in his arms against her will.
Just because you have a story doesn’t entitle you to my story.
I was tired, scared, and going back through it. Cue darkness. Fear. No escape. I told her. Most of it. She linked the ‘boyfriend’ stage to the assault stage. They were two distinctly different events. But she had her information. She was fine. And that was the end of that. But she did agree to send me to this male psychologist. Because someone else had asked her. And not sending me would be quantifiable evidence against her. So I went.
I remember telling Ms C that I didn’t like this psychologist. She asked me if it was because I was being challenged. I said no, it’s because I’m not being listened to.
It was also because he spoke really slow. So. freaking. slow.
And it was more money per 45 minutes than I had ever held in my hands.
That money I had to get from NM.
That money became a weapon.
And because all of the therapy around NM magically stopped when NM went in to “explain some real things that happen” – a session I’ll never know of. But I do know that psychologist didn’t believe me any more.
I didn’t speak to Ms C about him after that. Except when he got into a massive school fight, and she needed info about his home life. Single mother. State housing. Poor. Church going. Religious ?
Once I left home I began to speak to a counsellor at uni. M. She was the one who first introduced the word ‘rape’ into it. And that changed it for me. Somehow sexual assault was one thing, but rape was another thing. A worse thing. And that brought home some pretty intense pain.
But I was coming to the end of my “10 free” counselling sessions at uni, so M advised me that she might be instructed not to see me any more. I had to find someone else.
I asked someone I trusted, and came to work with A. Twice as much as the other dude.
I remember the session that I told A. A said that she didn’t think it was sexual assault. Nope. It was experimentation gone too far. …
Look, I totally get that couples can experiment and it can go too far. And after it can be yuk and intense. Anal. Yep, that was anal for me.
But this is not about that.
This is about a person using force, against my body, for sexual gratification or power or both, against my explicit will.
Whether he ejaculated or not. Whether he had planned it or not. Motherfucking irrelevant.
This was not a loving relationship where we spoke about trying something new with giggles and a safe word. This was a “You will really like this. Now like this. And do this to me. Whilst I do this to you” Except with less talking. And more force. And more darkness. And absolutely no power or control.
That is sexual assault. Or rape. Or some other word that labels it as wrong and violent and dangerous. And so fucking damaging.
Why didn’t I tell the police?
Oh yeah, because police have such a great track record of believing the victim and then prosecuting the perpetrator. And if that is still a question, then you my dear have not lived with a narcissist. You’re first response is disbelief. In yourself. In your experience. In life. Because you have been programmed that way.
Would I like him to have been persecuted?
I wanted support. I would like more bloody support for victims. It is not your fault. You are not a bad person. You are not broken. You are not dirty. You are a victim.
I don’t think a charge or jail or such would have been the right thing.
Maybe some heavy intervention. This is how you treat women. No means no. I would have liked support and a standing that this was wrong. Not me. I wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t my fault. Rape is wrong. Sexual assault is wrong. Abuse and manipulation is wrong.
“Going out” with him was my way of surviving. It didn’t prove that I was “fine”. It proved that the trauma ran deeper than I knew of.
What I want to say is; No A, it wasn’t experimentation gone too far. It was sexual assault. And it is wrong.
That is all.