Thoughts On the Stanford Rape Case

Like many of you, I’ve been following the Stanford Rape case very closely. To say that as a human being I am disgusted by the end result would be an understatement.

Brock Turner, after unanimously being convicted of rape, has been sentenced to 6 months in jail and expected to be out in as little as 3 months for good behavior and positive character references. Because, in the words of the judge, a longer sentence would have a severe impact on him. Why Why WHY are we concerned with the impact punishment will have on the RAPIST???? What about the severe impact that young woman has endured and will continue to endure? Trust me, no matter how hard you try, you can never make the pain, humiliation, and traumatic feeling of being raped disappear. You can’t bury it. It will always be with you. Over time you learn to cope with it. You learn to accept it as part of you and move forward. But it never goes away.

Even in today’s article on theguardian.com regarding Turner’s father’s statement that his son should not go to jail for “20 minutes of action,” introduces Brock Turner as “a former swimmer at Stanford University.” The media is still painting Turner in a soft light when the only description that should be attached to his name is rapist. It doesn’t matter if he was a collegiate swimmer, a ballerina, or an expert mathematician. His swim times do not matter. His character before that night does not matter. How long he raped that woman does not matter. What matters is he did it. What matters is he was unanimously convicted. What matters is this young woman was continuously revictimized and had to relive that trauma over and over in court while being picked apart for being intoxicated and making poor decisions. But she didn’t decide to be raped behind a dumpster. Brock Turner decided that.

And instead of the judge and the probation officer looking at the facts and the evidence and the witness statements. They look at Brock Turner. And the promising future he once had. And the swimming scholarship that got taken away. And how his life will never be the same labeled as a sex offender. His father stating to the court that his son “will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile. His every waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear, and depression.” He went on to defend his statement saying college students needed to be educated about the dangers of alcohol and binge drinking and its “unfortunate results.”

Unfortunate results? Is that what we’re calling this? Brock Turner raped that woman. Alcohol didn’t rape that woman. Brock Turner did. There are millions of college aged students binge drinking on any given night that don’t rape women. This is not an issue of alcohol awareness. This is an issue of sexual assault. This is an issue of a privileged young man who isn’t used to ever having to take responsibility for his actions. This is a societal issue of rape culture. This is a huge flaw in the system that does not hold everyone accountable to the same standards. This is an issue that spreads far beyond this one case plastered all over the media.

Unfortunately, this young woman isn’t alone. She just happens to be at the center of this widely publicized case. And I think it’s noteworthy that we continue to praise her for her bravery and the eloquent way in which she addressed the court in her victim impact letter. It was so incredibly brave of her to do. She could have gone about it a million different ways but she chose to make herself vulnerable yet again, and courageously talk through everything she felt and experienced from her rape all the way through the trial. And she did it with poise. She could have been vulgar. She could have been disrespectful. She could have stooped to his level. But she did not. To go through that trial day after day and relive that trauma must have been excruciating. To see her attacker every day. To face him in court. To share all those private details. To have her character degraded and slandered unnecessarily. To hear the ridiculous sentence be handed out and still have the courage to stand up and address him and the court is awe inspiring. That is true bravery.

As a rape survivor, I’m boiling with rage, sadness, and an overwhelming disappointment in the justice system. Will a case like this deter others from coming forward after they’re assaulted? Will more people look to play the victim as the attacker? What is going on in our society that we are making excuses for those who commit crimes? Why does the victim in this case seem to matter less than the attacker, who over and over again is portrayed as this upper white class citizen with a promising future. What about the young woman’s future? Hasn’t anyone in the media stopped to think about her promising future before she was so terribly traumatized that she couldn’t even get out of bed to go to work anymore? I’m enraged. I’m saddened. And I feel for this young woman. I really do. Because unless you have been a victim of rape, you cannot fully understand the impact it has. You can read about it in text books. You can listen to survivor stories. You can make educational assumptions based on basic psychology. But you can never truly know. But I know. I know all too well about the nightmares. The panic attacks. The anxiety that suffocates you when you’re alone. Or in crowds. Or smell the same smells. Or see the same sights. It doesn’t just last 20 minutes. I can’t decide that I’ve been haunted enough by it for it to all go away now. It’s there. Always. Somewhere in the back of my mind. But I’ve been fortunate enough to learn to take control of it. To twist the pain and hardship it has caused and use it. To empower me, and to empower others. I admire this young woman because she found that courage a lot sooner than I ever did. I admire her strength and the way she took back her dignity. I admire her for being the voice many girls needed to hear. To the young woman at the center of all this, I hope you know that you are a hero to many.

A Testimonial of Gratitude to my “Family”

Every person has their own story to tell. Whether we share that story with others or not is entirely up to the individual. I am choosing to share. Not because I believe my story is more important than anybody else’s, but because maybe in sharing my story I can inspire someone else to share theirs.

Contrary to popular belief I haven’t always been the strong, confident young woman most of you know today. The journey to be the best me I can be has been a long road of ups and downs and twists and turns and I’m not even at the end. I won’t bore you all with the details of my childhood but I do want to share an excerpt of my life that has helped me become the person I am today.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” I can personally attest that that is one of the truest statements ever made. I was once a big proponent of silence. Not too long ago in fact I made it a goal of mine to maintain a level of invisibility to achieve going it alone with greater ease. I didn’t want anyone to know my business, my past, my feelings, my thoughts. Nothing. I wanted nothing more than to get up, go to work, keep my head down, and hope that no one made eye contact with me so I wouldn’t have to make conversation. Why? Because I was afraid people would judge me. But in reality the only one judging me was myself.

When I was sixteen years old I was sexually assaulted at a party. Instead of reaching out for help I internalized the issue. I was convinced it was my own fault and I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I turned to food not only to cope but also as a mechanism to make myself fat so I would become so unattractive and gross no guy would ever want to touch me again. I was drowning in self disgust, self loathing, and was teetering on the edge of suicide. One day I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to take back control of my life before it was too late. Finally coming forward about being sexually assaulted was not easy, and I was not met with the support that I was desperately in need of. But as I stood in front of the mirror one day and didn’t recognize the person staring back at me, hollow eyed, pushing 200 pounds, I knew I had to do something. So I joined a gym. Where I met the most obnoxious, loud, cocky, abrasive, Jillian Michaels wannabe personal trainer named Christina, who called me every time I missed a session, texted me to make sure I ate breakfast, and never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself. With hard work, and lots of failure before my successes I began to make strides in the right direction. It was an ugly process filled with sweat, tears, set backs, and endless frustrating gym sessions. But I’ve continued to push forward and plug away at my goals as I slowly learned and re-learned, and re-learned again, the meaning and value of self-respect and the importance of surrounding myself with people who are going to support me and not tear me down. In learning to love myself, and put in the work for myself, I have overcome many obstacles to transform into the person I am today. I followed Christina from gym to gym and have settled in nicely with my new “family” at Get In Shape for Women Danvers. With the never ending support of Linda, the manager, and the incredible mentoring from Michael, another trainer, and of course the tough love from Christina, I have a new found love for working out, absorbing physiological knowledge, and working towards helping others achieve their own personal fitness goals. With their love and support I have gained confidence in myself that has enabled me to be proud to share my story, and the courage to volunteer to share that story.

I walk into that gym no matter what kind of day I’ve been having, or what kind of mood I am in, and I can’t help but smile. I walk in and I just light up. Whether it’s hearing Linda shout my name at the top of her lungs, attempting to perfect but never quite getting the secret handshake right with Michael, or walking into a workout from hell (that I love) with Christina, I am eternally grateful to have them in my life. Not to mention all the women stopping to shout, “hi Kate!” or to tell me how great they feel after last workout, or just to tease me about one thing or another, I can’t help but feel like I have become apart of something special. I have a team of people behind me 100% and I have never been happier.

#yesallwomen

I thought twice about writing this. Then I thought three times before posting this. But in the end I decided I’m prepared to deal with the consequences…

Once again I find myself a woman in a man’s world. Back at a job where typically men have us outnumbered but us women are catching up. Working at the bakery surrounded by mostly females, I had forgotten what it was like to hear the shop talk that often circulates between the boys. And I call them boys, not men, because real men respect women and don’t shout degrading comments to each other about female customers. Haven’t we all seen the twitter campaigns and the celebrities endorsing women’s rights? And after that horrific incident in California the hashtag #yesallwomen that took the internet by storm? I have a few to add. #yesallwomen are people too. #yesallwomen have feelings. #yesallwomen feel uncomfortable because of idiots like you.

The incident in question happened a week ago, possibly even more than a week ago but it has really stuck with me. And I’ve stewed over it. And the more it pops back into my head the angrier I get. You better believe I stood up and said something when it happened. But the response I was met with was not at all any form of apology or shame. It was anger. Defiance. Not a sliver of understanding about hurt, feelings, or right or wrong. The bad effect it could have on business. The ill reputation that could follow this person through this small community where the store is like walking into an episode of cheers where everyone knows your name. It was all about how they do this all the time. Why is it different now? Why am I getting yelled at? I just didn’t understand how this was rocket science. Women are human beings. They possess feelings. They aren’t objects to be rated then given a number on a fuckable scale. I get boys will be boys. And to do it quietly is one thing, even though I still don’t agree with it. But to shout across the store with other customers, other WOMEN customers, was embarrassing, appalling, and incredibly wrong on so many levels I still can’t wrap my head around it.

It concerns me how boys are growing up these days. My cousin jokes that his wife hugs their two little boys too much. That they need to toughen up. But incidents like this make me want to hug them ten times more. And teach them from a young age about love and respect and treating everyone the same. I want to trap them in this bubble where they give spontaneous hugs and tell you that they love you for no reason other than you opened their yogurt in the morning or you colored in the right ice cream truck on the Friendly’s placemat. I want them stuck in this phase where they think I’m a superhero and the coolest person to take them to school because I’m “not an adult.” I don’t want them to know the evil in the world. And I know that’s impossible. That they’re going to grow up, and one day I’ll just be a boring cousin to them, but I can’t help but try to calculate in my head how much time I have to teach them all the things I want to teach them and I’m not even their parent. And they have great parents! I just don’t want to leave anything to chance. Because somewhere there is a gap in our society and culture where men learn to dominate, demean, and hurt women for no other reason than they feel like it.

My staff knows nothing of my past. They don’t know that I am a sexual assault survivor. They don’t know that every time they joke about rape in any context my blood boils. And I don’t really think it’s their business. And I didn’t think I needed a reason to call someone out for being disrespectful. I guess that makes me naive to assume that most men are reasonable, mature and respectful human beings. But it still shouldn’t matter. I didn’t, and shouldn’t have to, tell them what they say makes me uncomfortable and angry because of my past. It should be enough to take someone aside and tell them that as a female I feel disrespected by their actions and comments. And it still doesn’t sit well with me that to avoid further escalation it had to end in an “agree to disagree” screaming match to avoid causing any more of a scene. But I really don’t know who I’m more mad at, the boys…or myself. Did I handle it correctly? Should I be holding a staff meeting on sexual harassment and mutual respect? Do I need to print off booklets on how to treat women? Should I just be chalking this up to being a woman in a man’s world? I don’t know. What I do know is, #yesallwomen deserve to feel safe and respected no matter what.

April Awareness brings May Memories

April, as you may or may not know, is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. A whole month dedicated to educating people about the many forms of sexual assault with a focus on prevention. Prevention. I cringe at the word. Because April’s awareness initiative thrusts us into May, where my mind seems to continuously want to flash back to the memory of my assault on that summer like May night. And with the education lingering I often start to think about what I could have done to prevent my assault. The internal debate is brutal. And every year I tell myself I’m not going to go there. But I always find myself circling back. Welcome to victim blaming; where victims (survivors) are the biggest culprits for blaming themselves for their assaults. And who’s to blame them?

Ask a high schooler what they think someone should do to avoid sexual assault and one of the first answers you’ll get is “girls shouldn’t dress provocatively.” Interestingly enough, ask a group of adults and after “don’t walk alone at night,” “choice of clothing” is quick to come up. Advice and suggestions I’m not going to just write off completely, but what about the attacker? You never hear people respond by saying “men should respect women.” We don’t hear people say “men should control themselves.” It’s always about what women should do to prevent or lessen their chances of being assaulted. It’s infuriating! I’m proud of my body. I spend hours at the gym every day to sculpt the muscles that I have. If I want to show that off, I shouldn’t have to worry about being objectified because of my outfit choice. I should be able to show off that I have muscles. For example, last week at work I was waiting on a customer. He reached over the counter and without asking permission gripped my arm to feel my bicep while telling me what great arms I had. It took all self control not to lay him out flat. What made him think that it was ok to touch me? Just because my sleeves fit tightly over my arms isn’t an invitation to feel the muscles underneath. Nothing is an invitation to touch me other than me flat out saying directly, “hey it’s ok to touch me.” I wore long sleeve shirts to work for the rest of the week and sweat my ass off. This week I’m back to short sleeves and a hardened attitude with heightened awareness. I flinch. I dodge. I squirm. Whatever it takes to get out of the way from even an involuntary bump. I shouldn’t be going through my day afraid that everyone is going to hurt me. But I do. Because some asshole 7 years ago thought it was fun to do so. 

I’m told over and over that it wasn’t my fault I was raped. And as much as I understand that it wasn’t, I still analyze that night and what I could have done differently. But the bottom line is I said no. Over and over. I did what was in my power to attempt to prevent my assault. But the pressure and the expectations shouldn’t be on the victims and what we could have or should have done or could do and should do in the future to prevent sexual assault. Perhaps we can all focus on being decent respectful human beings and we won’t have to have entire months dedicated to educating people on sexual violence. Until then the vicious cycle continues. In April we become aware. And in May it’s all a memory…

Back In High School…

Today was the big day. I barely slept last night as I anticipated my first public speaking event without Renee. And it wasn’t just any event. I was going back to my old high school. The school I was attending when I was sexually assaulted. My heart was racing as I watched the senior class file in. At first it seemed like there were thousands of them as they all filed through one door to sit down in the auditorium. But as everything started to calm down and the kids were seated in the darkened auditorium it didn’t seem so bad. My nerves were still keeping me on edge right up to the point where my name was introduced as the guest speaker. But as I began to look out at the crowd and started to tell my story, it was as if a wave of calmness came over me. And once I had started the words just flowed out smoothly. Once it was over, I had the opportunity to speak to some former teachers and coaches in attendance. The conversations were pretty much the same. They focussed on they wish they knew. They wish I had said something. And that mixed emotion of sad that I had to experience what I did but happy to see that I am able to share my experience and hopefully help others. 

I’m proud to say I made it through the whole experience without shedding a tear. Until the end. When all was said and done the first person I looked to call was Renee. And when Mrs. Mooney the director of Melrose Alliance Against Violence who put together the assembly asked me how I felt after the experience…I had to admit that what was hardest was not actually speaking to a group of strangers about something so personal, but not having Renee around for support. And admitting that forced me to choke back tears. As I slowly have begun to continue to fall back into a somewhat normal routine of life, I have come to realize just how much a part of my every day routine Renee was involved in. And it’s ever more apparent why it’s been such a slow and painful grieving process. Renee was my rock. My number one fan. My mother when I needer her to be, and my best friend. And as much as I still stand by that her being with me in spirit just isn’t the same, I know for a fact she was with me this morning in that auditorium as I got up in front of a hundred or so senior class students and let them see the emotional and personal side of Kate I usually save for paper, and shared with them why they can’t go on believing it could never happen to them. Because it can. And it happened to me…

 

Most of you are here just because you have to be. It’s a way to get out of class. You’re sitting there texting your friend three rows behind you. Checking your FaceBook. Listening to your iPod. Hoping to catch up on some sleep you missed last night. Well let me wake you up.

I was you. A few years ago, I was a student here. I walked around the halls here thinking I was invincible. I was the type of kid that noticed no boundaries. I didn’t care if you were a jock or a band geek or dyed your hair blue, I could get along with anyone. Everyone knew my name. You can even go into the main office and my name is on a plaque. I thought I was friggin awesome. And no one could tell me otherwise. But the truth is I’m not invincible. No one is. Everyone thinks, “oh it could never happen to me.” But it can. It happened to me.

My name is Kate, and I’m a sexual assault survivor.

It was my sophomore year here at MHS. I was 16, and didn’t have the most fantastic home life. It wasn’t terrible by any standard but it also wasn’t ideal. I had lost my dad a few years back and it really took a toll on the family dynamics. My dad was the glue. Without him, we were destine to fall to pieces. My mom’s way of dealing with losing her husband was to not deal with it. There were no discussions. To this day we still have questions about the cancer, why it took him so quickly, and just what the hell happened. I hated being home. So I spent as little time as possible there. I engrossed myself in various activities. If I wasn’t playing a sport I was keeping book for one. I worked as many hours as I could up at the Hilltop and was a fairly popular babysitter in my neighborhood. And when I wasn’t doing any of the above mentioned activities, like most teenagers, I liked to have fun with my friends. The night I was assaulted started out like any other night. It was May, the end of the school year. I had just finished work for the day and the last place I wanted to go was home. So I decided to go look for some fun at a party. I got there and we were all having a good time. I had a few drinks, took a few pills. I felt like I was floating. When I lost track of my friends I didn’t really think much of it. I was too caught up in my high to really care what was going on around me. When I had had enough I went looking for a place to come down. I asked a guy I thought knew my friends if there was anywhere I could chill. He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at me. When I turned away from him he grabbed me and told me he knew a place. I followed him into the basement. Alone. Too much in a stupor to realize all the warning signs. There was a couch in the far corner. I sat down. And the next thing I know this kid is on top of me. And I kept saying no. Over and over. Just no. And trying to get up but I couldn’t. I was frozen. He told me not to fight it, that he knew that I wanted him. And I couldn’t move. Frozen. I couldn’t even cry. I was just laying there. Laying there as he took my pants off. Laying there as he laughed, laughed, when he realized he took my virginity. I kept thinking in my head this isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I tried to scream but he had his hand basically shoved inside my mouth. I just wanted to disappear. When he finished he just casually got up. Like it was nothing. Got dressed, looked back at me, and just walked up the stairs. I don’t know how long I laid there afterwards. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, I don’t know. I just remember that I suddenly snapped, got dressed, and booked it out of there. I didn’t stop to talk to anyone. I just ran. I just wanted to disappear. And I just wanted the night to be over so I could get on with pretending it didn’t happen.

And that’s what I did. I pretended it didn’t happen. Because that’s the coping mechanism I had learned. When something bad happens, ignore it. Burry it. So I pushed it aside, and buried it so deep I actually thought I could get away with it. I essentially went on living a double life. To everyone around me I was still this kinda crazy, loud, super obnoxious kid bouncing around in different social settings. But inside I was a complete train wreck. And it was starting to haunt me. The nightmares were constant. The inability to be in a relationship. Fear of being touched. But I was so afraid to face the truth I just kept hiding from it. Too full of myself to want to admit that I was not invincible. But in acting that way I let my attacker steal more than just my virginity. He stole my life. And that is no way to live.

For a long time I blamed myself for what happened to me. It was hard for me to grasp that just because I was under the influence didn’t mean that I deserved to be raped. And like you, I had sat through assemblies about sexual assault but never really paid too much attention. Instead of using them as opportunities to reach out for help I just focused more of my energy on pretending it never happened. I spent so much time making sure I was never caught in a vulnerable state that I had rendered myself emotionless out of fear of becoming vulnerable again. I retreated further into myself and spent so much time and effort hiding, I lost who I was for a while. I became more consumed in drugs and I lost respect for myself. I didn’t take care of my body or my health and slowly I dropped off the social scene all together. It wasn’t until I was in college and away from my usual surroundings did I start to come to terms with my reality. I was sitting in a 3 hour lecture for one of my Criminal Justice classes. The topic was defining assaults and sexual assaults. All around the room students were slinging jokes across to each other about rape. It made me sick. I still hadn’t told anyone about my own experience with sexual assault, so I was too afraid to speak up. But I went home that night and and decided ready or not, I needed to be honest with myself. I was scared, I’m not going to lie. But I was just so tired of running and hiding I needed to let the truth come out. I remember looking in the mirror and I didn’t even recognize the person staring back at me. I was pushing 200 pounds, my eyes were hollow. If there was someone inside that body, it wasn’t me. I had spiraled out of control but I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to be ashamed. Most important, I didn’t want to be ashamed anymore.

For me, writing has always been a powerful outlet. So instead of actually going to someone and talking, I decided to blog about my experience. It just felt safer to be protected from the world by my computer screen. Especially where I wasn’t sure exactly how to start a conversation with someone that involved something so personal. Even in writing my blog I wasn’t sure where to start, but as soon as I put my fingertips to the keyboard the words just flowed out. It brought back a lot of anxiety and fear, but at the same time it was freeing. And I remember emailing Mrs. Mooney with the link to the blog and hovering over the send button and finally closed my eyes and poof. The burden was no longer mine and mine alone. What a huge weight lifted off my shoulders that was.

Writing that blog post was probably one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. But I won’t sugarcoat it. Healing has been a long process. A wise woman once told me the only way to get through something is to go through it. That it would be painful, but I would come out on the other side. And it’s true. I didn’t think it was possible. But here I am. Through strength and perseverance I have survived. It hasn’t been easy. I was in a dark place for a long time. Doing anything and everything possible to push the memory of my assault as far out of my head as possible. And like any recovery I’ve had my relapses. Some days I’m completely comfortable without a care in the world and then there are days where I question everyones motives and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder or flinching at the slightest touch. But instead of running away from the uncomfortableness or trying to numb myself to my emotions I continued to work through them by writing in my blog for a while. Then Mrs. Mooney finally convinced me to seek counseling at the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center. Everything I felt I couldn’t possibly feel if I admitted to being raped, I felt. After working with my counselor at BARCC I felt empowered. I felt strong. I felt courageous. For the first time, I really felt that I was going to be okay. Yes, I was raped. Yes, it was a terrible experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But it was one night of my life. It doesn’t define me. I am strong. And I am successful. And I will continue to grow and heal.

One thing I want to emphasize today to all of you is simply….don’t be me. If you or someone you know is affected by sexual assault, don’t push it aside. Don’t do what I did. There are great resources out there to help you process through it. I lost years of my life in a fog that I didn’t have to. Help was at my fingertips but I was too ashamed. So I guess my message is simple. You don’t have to feel ashamed. It is not your fault. No one asks to be raped just as no one asks to be mugged or robbed. It is not your fault.

The reason why we refer to ourselves as rape survivors and not victims is because through it all, we have survived. Just because I was raped does not make me weak. It does not make me disgusting. And it does not define me as a person. I am more than just a girl who was raped at a party. I am someone’s sister, daughter, cousin, friend, colleague. I am a fitness enthusiast. I am an amateur blogger. The other day my cousin was convinced I was Batman. I can be anything I want to be. Because I am a survivor.

 

Me speaking at MHS senior assembly sharing my story of sexual assault.

Be Aware

April is National Sexual Assault Awareness month. Thirty days where various organizations overload us with facts and advice on sexual assault prevention and bombard us with statistics that are just terrible and embarrassing for mankind. I spoke to the director of MAAV today, and as we were talking about recent high profile cases of sexual assault in the news she touched on how heartbreaking stories like Steubenville are. Which led into a brief discussion on how she loves her job and how rewarding it is, but at the same time it’s kind of sad that she knows she will never be un-employeed. Her focus goes beyond the month of April to every day of the year. A constant effort to educate men and women on sexual assault prevention. And provide continuous resources for those affected by sexual assault and its aftermath. It never ends. Until we as humans learn to be decent and respectable beings, it will never end.

The focus on sexual assault prevention statistically is focused on providing women with the knowledge and skills to defend themselves. Walk in pairs at night. Know your surroundings. Don’t take drinks from strangers. Learn self defense. So the question that was brought up today was, what about men? Why can’t we just teach men to respect women. If anyone can answer that for me, please step forward.

Victim blaming is a HUGE issue in sexual assault cases. She was drunk. She dressed provocatively. She was alone at night. Seriously? Those actions are invitations for rape? So why would one man walk past a drunken female walking home alone at night and keep going, and another attack? It’s not the victim’s fault. We never “ask” for it. It is taken without our permission, by someone who lacks decency and respect for a fellow human being. But how do we teach respect? How do we teach people to do the right thing? And that’s an issue that goes beyond sexual assault. It applies to all crime. And unfortunately that’s an issue that seems to only be getting worse not better.

My message is clear. April may be the month designated for sexual assault awareness, but we should be aware always. Aware of our surroundings. Aware of our actions. Aware of how we want to be seen as human beings.

Consent; permission for something to happen or agreement to do something

The definition of consent seems pretty straight forward. You either give permission for someone to do something, or you don’t. That’s it. Black and white, right? Wrong. Apparently in regards to sexual activity consent falls into a large grey area. There are external factors to consider such as alcohol and drugs. And therefore consent is left up for interpretation. It’s an unfortunate reality, especially for young women. It should be as simple as black and white. It should be that if you say no, that’s what you mean. It shouldn’t be left up for debate or deliberation whether or not the fact you were drinking or under the influence of drugs could make it difficult to determine if it were really understood you weren’t consenting to sexual activity.

I’m sure that most of you watch the news or read the newspaper or headlines on the internet. So I’m sure that most of you are at least somewhat familiar with the ongoing trial in Steubenville, Ohio. Where a young girl was out drinking at a party and was allegedly raped by two star football players. I use the term allegedly loosely. There are several pictures, text messages, and eye witnesses testifying that two teenage boys took advantage of a female severely intoxicated. The defense claims that because none of these witnesses stepped in to stop the activities, that therefore it must have been consensual. Honestly, that argument makes me sick. The fact that no one stepped in when a girl was openly being used as a sex doll in front of people, unable to even walk on her own let alone make a conscious decision such as consent to sexual activity is sickening. What is wrong with our society? Seriously. What happened to make people think that this is acceptable behavior? Forget just how wrong it was for those boys to violate that girl regardless of her state. Forget that. What about all the people who stood by and watched, filmed, and cheered on those two boys? No consequences? What example does that set? That as long as you were not actively participating in the rape your slate is clean? That girl suffered a great deal of humiliation at the hands of not just those who violated her, but for EVERYONE who stood by and did nothing. It’s terrible. Just terrible. 

As is the fact that these boys, age 16 and 17, are being tried as juveniles. So even if they are convicted of rape, they can only be incarcerated until they turn 21. A few years hardly seems punishment enough for humiliating someone and putting them through such a terrible ordeal that will effect them for the rest of their lives. 

Reading about this case obviously brings back horrible memories for me. It’s just numbing that these things happen constantly and continuously. A common misconception about rape is that it is incredibly violent. But that’s not always the case. It all circles back to consent. Rape is any sexual act involving penetration without permission or consent. That means unless the word yes is used, there is no consent. No means no. And if you have any questions about that, click here. 

For the longest time I had trouble believing that being raped wasn’t my fault because I had been drinking and using drugs. But I was lucid enough to remember specifically saying no. And it’s not my fault that he refused to listen. It’s not my fault I was too powerless to stop him. It was his fault for ignoring me. For thinking that I would be too drunk to remember. It was his fault for being so arrogant in thinking that no one would ever want to turn down sex with him. But it’s never as simple as placing blame and moving on. It doesn’t end when the accused are convicted, or when the accused walk free. It’s been nearly six years since the night I was raped at a party and it still haunts me. I still have nightmares. I still cringe when reading about cases such as Steubenville in the news. Or look behind me constantly when I walk down the street. I’m still triggered by TV shows depicting rape. I don’t like being touched and I tend to back myself into a corner when people get too close.

Remember that when all this is over. When you stop reading about Steubenville in the news. That just because it is not a part of your daily life anymore, doesn’t mean that that poor girl doesn’t relive that night every single day of her life. It’s an ongoing healing process. And it’s not all so clear cut. Some days I wake up and everything is fine. I can go through my day and nothing triggers me. It might be a really good day, it might be a not so good day, but I can go the whole day without having a flashback. And then there are other days where my anxiety takes over. I’m constantly watching my back, I can’t get the image of that night out of my head, I’m distracted. And it’s frustrating. I want to push it all aside and just have a normal life but I keep getting told it doesn’t work like that. That I have to have patience. That there’s no switch to flip to make it all better. It’s always going to be a day to day thing. But it’s learning to take those days full of triggers and  face them head on. Easier said than done, trust me. But it was put into a language that makes sense to me. I’m very competitive by nature. So I was told to look at it as a competition. The night I was raped he won. He overpowered me, and he won. But that was one night. Now it’s in my control whether I let him keep winning or if I dust myself off and get back in the ring. Again, moving on is much easier said than done. And so far, it’s been an uphill battle. But I can only hope that it gets easier. Because honestly, I don’t see how it could get much worse than it’s been.