I am not alone.

TRIGGER WARNING: Rape.

"Not All Technicolor is Good," a watercolor I painted as my first attempt

to understand my feelings towards what happened.

Some background: I am working on a new musical that has to do with a young woman reconciling being sexually assaulted by someone she trusts. This is a story I needed to tell to work through my own similar experiences. But I was having trouble allowing myself to delve into the memories. Immediately after, I told my friends I didn't want to think about it and then ignored it for years. I no longer think ignoring it is a healthy way to cope. This is a stream of consciousness of me addressing the blocks I've put up to ignore my past.

Why am I so unwilling to confront my rape? Why am I so uncomfortable to even say that it was rape?

Maybe I’m afraid that people won’t believe me. Everyone tenses up when you say “rape". I can say “the thing with my ex” and people can know all the details and it’s fine, but the second I call it “rape” the air is sucked out of the room.

I guess I get it, it’s a scary word. It was scary to admit that it happened to me. It still is.

It’s a word that can ruin lives. Saying he raped me has so many consequences. For both me and him. I don’t want those consequences.

But as much as I don’t want this to ruin his life, it did ruin mine. Or at the very least, it permanently changed it. There is a version of me that existed before and a version of me that exists after. Life as I knew it was over. But he’s unaffected. He probably doesn’t even know it happened. I want him to know. But there’s no way to bring awareness without hurting someone. It’s either his reputation or mine. And we all know how these things normally turn out for the victim… haven’t I already lost enough?

Maybe I’m afraid if I admit that it happened, it means admitting I’m weak. What sort of person gets raped by their boyfriend and then continues to date him as if it never happened?

I just didn’t want to be lonely. I loved him. I trusted him. After everything, I still loved and trusted him. I was never even mad at him.

What does it say about me? What am I afraid that it says?

That I let someone in, I trusted them, and they betrayed me.

That I truly am better off alone.

That this’ll keep happening because I’m too weak to say my boundaries.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I was raped. Not because of how others will react, but because of how I reacted.

I’m embarrassed that I let it happen. That I didn’t fight back—I just took it. That the only proof of rape is in my own memories. I was so fucking meek. I didn’t want it to happen, but I kept quiet. I didn’t protect myself. I’m mad at myself for letting it happen. I’m furious that I let it happen again.

I’m embarrassed that I made excuses for him. That I rationalized his point of view. That I’ve downplayed its effect for so long. That I let him keep going business as usual in his life, and he could hurt someone else. After we broke up, people started talking to me about how he had been horrible to them but they didn’t want to ruin our relationship so they stayed quiet. I was so mad at them for that, but how am I any better? He hurt me, I didn’t tell him, and now he will hurt someone else.

Why can’t I tell people how I fucking feel? Why do I feel like I need to go through everything alone? I have thoughts and opinions, why don’t I articulate them? I used to think I was bad at it, but I’m not. I’m good at getting across my thoughts. I just never do. I choose not to.

I hate that I chose not to.

I want to speak up.

I want to say how I feel.

I want people to know what I’m thinking.

Because I think good thoughts.

I used to believe that my thoughts were bad, but they’re not. They’ve just been invalidated, so they’re desperate. I have been invalidated, so I’m desperate too. But I’m also good. Despite all the bad, I am good.

It’s horrible and unfair that I was raped. It was a terrible thing that I went through. I’m sorry that I went through it alone.

Perhaps that loneliness was my own fault. Perhaps it wasn’t. Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have had to go through it alone.

I don’t have to continue to go through it alone.

I was raped. And I am not alone.

Below are two poems I wrote since that relationship ended. It's been a number of years, but I felt they were relevant to the passage I wrote today. If you feel any of these ways, or have experienced anything similar: you are not alone.

Survivor’s Guilt

If it is

going to happen anyways,

why

shouldn’t I do what I can

to prevent it?

Is it not

my fault

to some extent?

Since

I cannot change the world,

is it not my responsibility to prevent

just as much as it is for

every

guy?

If they don’t know any better

because the world refuses

to teach them,

don’t I hold some guilt?

Aren’t I to blame?

I remember…

I saw you in my dreams last night.

But since the statute of limitations on my trauma has expired,

I kept it to myself.

I relived the whole relationship last night.

Every detail occurring in a new but all-too-familiar way,

forcing me to reopen a closed case.

I coped with it all again this morning.

The scab was ripped off a long-forgotten wound,

creating a new bloody mess

in the place of an old scar.

And the worst part is,

I remembered.

In the dream,

I remembered everything you had ever done to me.

I remembered

the tears

and the pain

and the lies.

I remembered

how well I’ve been doing in your wake—

how I had managed to put myself back together

after you tore me apart.

Even as you repeated every action,

I remembered it all.

And I still forgave you.

I knew I shouldn’t,

but I did.

I always do in those dreams.

Maybe

I would in real life too.