You look just like a martyr; you act just like a thief.

 Yeah I know I said I was going to try and focus on the positive/happy/funny things in life, but after a conversation I had with someone today, I really really just need to vent about this. And it's something that needs to be said.

Violence against women has thankfully over the last odd years become a topic that actually gets addressed, and we’ve made some small strides in acknowledging how pervasive it is. But it’s still not acknowledged enough.

Let’s talk about how much sexual violence the average modern woman has to endure.

My parents used to throw some wild parties. It was the 1980s—wild coke fueled parties were the norm. Dad moved out of the house when I was 2, but mum continued to throw said parties.

I remember these parties. Me and the small children of mum’s friends would be left to just wander around until it was decided we should be put to bed. The other kids would be settled down in Older Sis#1’s room, as by that point she had fecked off back to England and never looked back.

I asked mum about this many years back, but when I described the man and said I thought his name was “Vinny,” mum claimed to know of no such person at her parties back then.

I remember him. Or at least, I remember his face. This man would come into my bedroom late at night during these parties. I remember him being there, and I remember dreading him being there. I remember other things I really don’t want to put to words, but beyond that the memories get fuzzy. My brain just doing its job in erasing the most traumatic parts I guess. Mum still denies any such person existed, but when I first gave her a detailed description of him while describing to her what he did, her face betrayed her—she definitely knew who I was talking about.

In high school, I spent as many weekends as I could at friends’ houses. I feel like I should have known better than to go to this one party, but I was 14, my life at home was hell, I was doing a lot of mind altering drugs, and really just wanted to party with my friends (anything that did not involve enduring my home was fun as far as I was concerned). Clem’s dad was a cop, but for some reason had no problem letting his daughter throw parties in the lower level of their split-level home.

At one point late into the party I needed the loo, but someone was puking in the downstairs bathroom. So I went upstairs to use that bathroom instead. When I left the bathroom to head back downstairs, he grabbed me from behind, lifted me off the ground, and dragged me into a dark upstairs room.

I was still off my face on acid at that point, so while it made my level of fear amplified 500x, it also dulled my perception of what was happening. My memories of the actual rape itself are fuzzy, almost like the memories of a vivid dream—something horrible was happening, but my brain could not focus on exactly what it was. Honestly I am forever thankful for that.

[Remember my Kevin Bacon phobia? This is the source, Resemblance was uncanny.]

Obviously I couldn’t report it. I was a delinquent teenager and had been on drugs. Who the fuck would believe me if I accused a cop of rape? Even if anyone did believe me, my status as a delinquent kid made it a certainty that no one would support me. So I did nothing, other than never go to a party there again.

In my mid-20s, Big Sis#2 set me up with her co-worker. As a result we became friends, though we never actually dated (Paul #2, mentioned a few times here over the years). One time I was at a party at his house, and one of his friends started aggressively hitting on me. I made it known I was not interested, but dude did not take the hint. He kept bringing me beers, making sure I never was without a beverage.

I had a pretty solid tolerance for beer at that point in my life. But after my third Bud Light, (*I know, I’m not proud of that) I started to feel absolutely FUCKING WASTED. And nauseous. Dude stayed with me the whole time, even held my hair when, about 20 minute later, I was vomiting into the shrubbery in the back garden. The last thing I remember is dude holding my arm while we walked back into the house. Everything goes black after that.

Just before dawn the next morning, I woke up on the floor of the empty room that Paul#2 and his roommates were currently attempting to rent.

Awoke on a hard wood floor. Cold. Completely alone. And completely naked. Physically, I felt as if I had been hit by a truck. Mentally? I didn’t know what to think.

So many people—some of whom I had thought of as friends—saw me in the obviously fecked condition i was in and never stopped and checked that I was ok. I never spoke to Paul#2 again, nor to any of his friends. And he never reached out to me after that. He knew exactly what his dude friend did, and he chose to both not stop it, but also not call him out on it.

So many women I know have multiple stories like mine. SO MANY. Why does that not cause absolute outrage??!??

You want to know why most of us would choose the bear? I would LITERALLY RATHER DIE than go through rape again. It is the worst thing that one human can do to another. It is worse than torture or death.

This is why the #notallmen crowd piss me off so much. We’re not fucking morons - we all know it’s not all men. But it’s enough of you that we have to assume it’s all men just to survive. If you immediately jump on the not all men defense, you’re just as bad as the people who blame the victims of sexual assault. You’re part of the problem, because you’re refusing to acknowledge the problem and instead focus on how it negatively affects men. 

ugh I need a xanax