I am so tired of being afraid. I have been tired of being afraid for
longer than I have known how afraid I am. Afraid of being raped. Afraid of
being murdered. Afraid of being raped and murdered. Afraid of being raped and
almost murdered but surviving and having to recount the horror so that I might
lend a voice to women who have experienced something similar but are also too
afraid. It is exhausting. I am exhausted. I am enough of a coward to admit to
my yearning for blissful ignorance, but I know that ignorance will never be
mine to have, not because I personally know a handful of women who have been
raped...but because I personally know so many more men who have raped.
I remember quite clearly the day I had to explain to a friend that he
was a rapist. I was fairly young when I discovered he was a rapist, about 15. I
used to hang out with a lot of older boys from my neighbourhood because I had
bought into the idea that girls were terrible company. You know, bitchy and
constantly talking about boys. Anyway, one day I was hanging out with these
boys who were pushy and constantly talking about girls when one of them started
telling a quintessential sex story. Being a virgin at the time I considered
this research, so I began to listen intently. He was a lot older than me, in
his early 20's and quite good looking so I knew the story was going to be
amazing. He told us of how he had gone to a tavern the previous weekend where
he found a girl we all knew to be openly lesbian. He said they started drinking
heavily but at some point he stopped drinking and continued buying her drinks.
She passed out. He carried her to his mother’s house where he had sex with her
until his body started to ache, he said. She woke up in the early hours of the
next morning. He said that she grabbed her clothes and ran out of the house
naked. I asked why he would have sex with a lesbian. He said it was so that she
could make an informed decision about her sexuality. I had so many questions,
but it was hard to concentrate with the amount of loud and obnoxious laughter
that was swirling around with our cigarette smoke. So I left.
"You didn’t have sex with her, you raped her" I kept
rehearsing in my head. I avoided the subject for days and then weeks. I saw the
girl that he raped often, and every time I did I felt the urge to fall at her
feet and apologise because I knew. I knew and I was too afraid to say anything.
I was afraid and he hadn't even touched me. He hadn't touched me but I did not go unscathed. I will ask that you note how I avoided the subject but not him. I
continued to hang out with the boys. They spoke about girls, often. He did not
share as many stories as the others because he liked to keep his "private
life private", but every so often he would share a story, and every time
he did it was harrowing. More than the egomaniacal tone of his stories, I was
haunted by his ignorant excitement. He had no idea how completely terrifying he
was. He was "sharing" himself he would often say. As if he was making
the ultimate sacrifice. As if he was some sort of Holy Communion and by having
him, women were blessed.
I was sent to boarding school when I was 16 because my aunt was afraid
of the calibre of my friends. Before I left I said to him my
rehearsed words...but slightly amended "you didn’t have sex with them, you
raped them." I walked him through why he was a rapist from the safety of
my aunt’s backyard while he stood on the other side of the fence (he was not
allowed on my aunt’s property because...well everyone knew what he was). He
explained to me that I had grown up in white suburbia and could thus never
understand the dynamics of township living. I defensively rebutted by telling
him I understood the township just fine and also understood that he was a
rapist. "If I am such a rapist why have I not raped you?" I did not
know the answer "maybe it’s still coming." maybe he was right.
A rapist tells me that my rape is still coming and
I believe him, long gone are the days of "it will never happen to
me". I sat and smoked in rape culture so aggressive it rhythmically
birthed immediate victims. With my fear induced silence I helped it along its destructive
path. It is a travesty that I had to explain to Sir Rapesalot the brutality of
his actions, but more disturbing...more heart-breaking is the reality that many
of the young women that he raped are not clear on the fact that they were
raped. Because they were drunk right? Because everyone knows how he gets
sometimes...because women should be more careful around him. Because everyone
knows. Everybody knows.
This story is not unique. There are so many just like him. So many
mothers telling their daughters not to go near "that" house. So many
precautionary measures that nurse the monsters. So much fear induced
exhaustion. So many attempts at starving the ravenous beasts that prey on young
women rather than slaying them. So the fear persists and the beasts live
comfortably. I am so afraid that nothing will change. I am afraid that he might
be right, that my turn is coming.
your writing skill still blows my mind. You paint with words.
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