For a long time, I wouldn't even call it rape.
He was my friend, and we'd drunkenly kissed several times. I'd known him since junior high, and he'd had a crush on me for a year or two.We were both extremely drunk. It's not like he'd been violent about it, right? I hadn't felt as scared as I'd been when I was molested.
Just so ashamed that I felt sick.
I think I agreed to some physical contact beyond kissing, though my memory is very foggy. I was so, so, so drunk. I remember just wanting to pass out, which is why I laid down in the first place. I think I told him to leave me alone. I know I said no when he tried to pull off my panties.
He would stop when I said no, but he would just move on to another body part before trying again.
I had to say no a lot.
Eventually, I just wanted to go to sleep, and I knew he'd stop talking to me and touching me if he got what he wanted. I remember saying "whatever" and then him ripping my panties in his haste, apologizing profusely. I think I passed out after that. I remember opening my eyes and being disappointed that he wasn't done. I just wanted him to go away. I think he kissed me good-bye before he left.
For a long time, I brushed the whole experience aside. I had bigger issues to deal with. And because I'd never felt like he wanted to hurt me, I felt more resentful than scared.
I was sure he couldn't have raped me.
For years, when I mentioned the story at all, I only said that he "took advantage of me." Which wasn't a lie. He definitely took advantage of how drunk I was.
But a crazy thought came to me one day as I was working at banishing my negative self-talk. The book I was reading said, "What if a friend said these things to you? What would you do?" I twisted the concept and imagined a friend telling me the story above. I realized then that if someone else had told me the story, I would have called it rape. As drunk as I was, I couldn't technically consent. And some might argue that a "whatever" after a few "no's" was not much of a consent anyway.
So, eleven years later, I admitted that I was date-raped. Some of the things I did in the past eleven years suddenly made a lot more sense. I wrote about it in my journal. I processed it with a dear friend. I started taking better care of myself and my body. I wrote a letter to him and burned it.
But I still didn't talk about it.
I know that telling the truth makes it easier to let go, so I'm telling the wonderful and beautiful Band my story.
So that I can let it go.
And maybe by letting it soar, my story will help someone else tell their truth.