I often see people putting it on women to protect themselves from rapists. Don't dress "slutty." Don't drink too much. Don't walk alone. But the fact is, women can't protect themselves all the time. Women can get raped while wearing a parka and ski pants. Or when on a date with someone they trust. The night that I was taken advantage of, I did a lot of things "wrong." But I'm not taking the blame. Here's my story, under the jump (long, and potential triggers).
I first met this guy when I was a college sophomore and he was a senior. We were involved in many of the same extracurricular activities and had a relatively close friendship and were occasionally flirty. I found him very attractive, but he had a girlfriend for the whole of his senior year, so nothing ever came of it, and once he graduated he disappeared.
Two years later I ran into him while walking past a restaurant patio where he was talking with some friends. We chatted and I, feeling bold, asked him out for a drink with me. (Victim blaming card #1: I initiated interest and proposed the date.) He agreed. A week or so later, he texted me to tell me he was out with some friends at a restaurant/bar and asked me to join him. I drove to the restaurant, where I had one beer as well as a glass of water. His group was starting to break up for the night, so I offered that we could go to my "regular" bar that I usually went to every weekend. I chose this bar in particular because it was one of my favorites and it was only three blocks from my house, so I could safely walk home if I drank too much.
Important side note about this bar: When I say this is my favorite bar, I mean it. My friends and I went there a lot, because it was often filled with the same people, the same waitresses, and the same bartender. It was a little comfort zone for all of us. I'm also noting this because I was at the time very aware of how much I could drink at this particular bar because the pours were so consistent. My best friend and I used to joke that we always drank at the exact same pace (not intentionally). So one night we went up against each other, drink for drink (him drinking rum & Coke, me drinking gin & tonic) to compare our respective alcohol tolerances. We were very scientific, ha. Because of this, I was very, very aware of how much I could drink and how drunk I would be at various numbers of drinks.
So we arrived at the bar, where I had three gin & tonics in the space of approximately two and a half hours. (Victim blaming card #2: I was drinking). The same bartender and the same waitress as usual were serving me. This would normally be enough to get me slightly tipsy, but not drunk. Halfway through my third drink, however, I noticed that something was off. I was way drunker than I should have been. I felt weird and out of it, so I stepped away to the bathroom for a moment. When I came back, he had ordered me a fourth drink without asking and kind of pressured me to drink it. "I bought this for you, at least drink a little." I sipped at it slightly to be polite, probably because women are conditioned not to be confrontational. Eventually I told him that even though it was mostly full it was just "melted ice." At this point, the bar started to close for the night. I told him I could walk myself home, but he insisted on driving me. (Victim blaming card #3: I went with him totally willingly.) Instead of driving me home, he drove to a 24 hour pharmacy, where he bought a 2 liter of Coke.
Once at my house, he pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels out of the trunk of his car and brought it in with us. I sat on the couch in my basement while he mixed a Jack & Coke, which he then tried to get me to drink. He kept sticking it right in my face. I took a couple of teeny tiny sips just so he would get off my case. To this day, if I smell Jack Daniels, I want to puke. At that point, I ran to the half bathroom to throw up. I mention that it was a half bathroom, because if you were sitting in the basement den, you could hear everything in the bathroom, so there's no way he didn't hear me throwing up. When I came back, he was watching The Grudge (weird what the brain remembers). We watched the movie for a while, me mostly passed out/asleep. I went upstairs to the full bathroom to throw up again. When I came back down, he had turned off the TV and kissed me. After I had thrown up twice! He told me he would help me get into bed, so we went upstairs. I threw up one more time before I got into bed and fell asleep while he went to the bathroom.
Next thing I knew, he had climbed into bed on top of me. I was confused at first and not really sure of what was going for a second. I just felt so tired and weak and I told him something along the lines of, "I'm really drunk" and "I don't know if this is a good idea." I pushed at him once or twice, but I felt very ineffective. (Victim blaming card #4: I never specifically said, "no.") Eventually I just gave up and decided it would be easier to have sex with him because I figured it would be over with faster than trying to argue with him. So I laid there, more or less totally unmoving, until he was finished. I do not remember if he used a condom or not. I fell asleep immediately, and when I woke up in the morning, he was still there. He actually asked me to walk him out, which I did because I was too hungover/groggy/tired to argue. I took a shower after he left and slept for the entire day.
Following the incident, I felt like total shit. I used to be fairly gregarious and enjoyed going out to bars and flirting and meeting new people. I lost all desire to do so. I felt gross and horrible about myself. I often felt emotionally dead. But at that point, I didn't even realize what I was doing and why I was acting that way. A couple of months later, I had dragged myself out to a bar with a group of people, included aforementioned best friend. I was actually feeling pretty okay that night, when who should walk in but him. He walked over and sat down right next to me and put his arm around me as if we were buddies. I shrank away from him and shut down totally. My best friend noticed, and pulled me away from the group to ask what was going on. I broke down and told him the whole story. The look on his face when I told him was a total revelation to me. He said, "That is rape." Well, shit. It hit me. It was rape. I was way too drunk to consent and he took advantage of the fact that I was attracted to him to begin with and that I was a nice person. I felt this huge weight lifted off of me. This wasn't my fault. He was the asshole. The sad thing was, prior to this, if he would have just called me and apologized, or told me that he was really drunk too, or something, anything, I might have forgiven him. My friend offered to kick his ass for me. I declined, but I felt so, so grateful that he offered. That he cared. So we rejoined the group and my friend basically formed a protective bubble around me and death-stared and cold-shouldered him until he got the hint and left.
Things got a little easier after that. I told a small handful of people what had happened, and each time, the burden lifted a little bit more. For about a year after, I started to panic if I saw someone who looked like him, but other than that I started to heal. But the more I healed, the angrier I got. Angry at him for taking advantage. Angry at myself for putting myself into that situation. But would I have done anything differently in the aftermath? No way. Can you even imagine what would have happened if I tried to press charges against him? I was drinking. I was previously attracted to him. The only thing that would have been accomplished would have been setting myself up to go through even more pain and suffering. I did what I needed to do to heal and move on. It is not my responsibility to keep him from doing it to someone else, despite that line being fed to rape victims all too often. It is HIS responsibility not to take advantage of drunk women. He is the asshole; he is the terrible person. Not me. I may have made a few mistakes, but I had the right to be respected. I am not going to apologize for being trusting and assuming that a guy wouldn't keep having sex with someone who is so drunk she is barely even moving.
So this is me, putting my story out there. If you met me, you'd have no idea. I don't take shit. I'm independent. I once spit on a guy who grabbed my ass. But until you are in that situation, you have no idea how you will react, how powerless you can feel. But I'm taking my power back, by sharing my story. By not blaming myself. By saying "fuck you" to those who tell me not to dress a certain way, to those who think rape jokes are funny. So fuck you, assholes. You are the problem; not me. I'm not taking the blame and I will not be shamed for acting the way I did. I did nothing wrong.
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