Wolves

When I was a little girl, I used to practice kissing in the shower. I would kiss the glass screen and try to imagine what it would be like to have my first kiss with a boy. Every time I even thought of holding hands with a boy I would get nervous and immediately my palms would sweat. Even writing about this makes my palms sweat, I can feel that twist of nausea in my stomach, that familiar pang of anxiety about the unknown. Would I be good enough? Would I ever even have my first kiss? Am I pretty enough for a boy to ever want to kiss me?  All of these things and more are what I would mull over in the middle of the night, wondering when that magical boy like the ones in the movies I devoured would show up and sweep me off my feet, I am 22 now and that boy never showed up. Instead I found wolves.

 

I was sexually assaulted before I ever had my first kiss, at 14 years old. I can’t even tell you that the assault happened and then I fell in love and had my first kiss after I was healed and it was a special moment, not at all. My first kiss happened a couple of months later, the night I was raped, and not even with my rapist. This was an apparent trend in my life.

 

I have been sexually assaulted once, and raped a couple of months later. I lost my virginity through rape. I wish I could say I had always been as switched on about my own rights, how disgusting men are, how untrustworthy they are, about anything really. I was just another super young teenage girl rebelling against her parents, trying to figure out who I was in the world. Trying to get my first kiss. Trying alcohol for the first time. Doing things that males can do with absolutely no fear of their entire lives being changed forever because they got too drunk and were assaulted by people you trusted and even had a crush on, people you thought liked you and wanted you around because they valued you. To realise all of that was a lie just to be used for one night and then thrown away like fucking garbage is so painful. To go to school and have rumours about you being a slut and all kinds of shit flying around when you yourself barely even know the truth about what happened that night you were so scared and intoxicated. To have the guy who made you go down on him and forced himself on me text me, months later, asking me over to his place again because he himself had forgotten what he did to me. I will never forget that night. I will never forget that betrayal. In some ways it hurts me worse than the rape.

 

That was at least a stranger. Someone I had never met and have never seen since. Someone who lied to me about his name. I honestly can only remember the start of that event, of him coming and laying down beside me while I was passing out on the grass in an empty paddock. I don’t even know how it ended. I don’t even know what really happened to me when I was raped. I don’t know if I blacked out, or have blocked it out of my memory but I remember the start. And I remember finding my friends afterwards and proudly telling them I had lost my virginity. About two days later my younger sister found my sobbing on my bed because it had finally processed in my mind that I think something was very, very wrong about that. I had no previous experiences to base it off though; it was my first time having sex. That wasn’t even sex to me. It was a violation of my humanity, an absolute curse on my name. That dude fucked my entire life up, he has fucked it up completely. I am forever changed and scarred and broken inside because of these two instances in my life, whilst the men who did it to me walk around free of any bad feelings. They have good jobs, are buying their first houses, in long-term relationships. As much as victims would like to believe that we will be treated with respect and will have our friends and family believe our stories it really isn’t the case more often than not. More often than not we are treated as unwanted burdens in peoples lives, nobody wants to learn someone they are friends with is a rapist. Nobody wants to be friends with someone who is dealing with being raped and assaulted, someone who has severe undiagnosed PTSD, constantly having mental breakdowns, cutting, becoming absolutely infuriated at people for little to no reason. That is what I became and who I turned into for years, even after treatment, medicine and hospitalisation. A ball of pure rage is how I would describe myself. If I heard someone I knew was friends with the guy who raped me they were immediately a demon in my eyes. I wanted nothing to do with them. And this made having friends very difficult, considering the guy who raped me was popular and went to a good school with rich white parents. I was just the drunk slut. And then the crazy bitch. I have had and probably still do have a lot of labels slapped on me as a person throughout my life. I have stopped caring about that shit though.

 

So what do I do? Do I shut my mouth to make people more comfortable around me? Or do I go around telling my truth and my story to whoever will listen because it is fucking important. I have never been one to choose to be quiet. At the end of the day, if me speaking about my rape makes you feel more uncomfortable than it makes ME feel… something has gone wrong there.

 

I have had my consent and my basic human rights violated more times than I can count by now, and I am honestly never going to rule it out from happening again. This is the world we live in. Our world doesn’t value women the way it should. If you are too drunk to give consent, too young to give consent, too scared to say no, if someone touches you in your sleep, if someone takes their condom off in the middle of sex without telling you, if someone lies about wearing a condom whatsoever, if someone manipulates you, if someone blackmails you THAT IS RAPE. If consent isn’t given, you are raping someone. I want more than anything to go to the police right now and report these people who did this to me, but I think its too late now. I didn’t at the time because I was scared of what those boys and their friends would do to me. But now I don’t give a single fuck whether I live or die most of the time, I would love nothing more than to see them in jail for the rest of their lives because that is what they deserve. But as I said before, our world doesn’t value women the way it should. It makes me very sad.

 

This has been hard to write and I honestly can’t end it on a positive note. If you read this, thank you for reading my story. I send you love. 

HL BW