Remembering

Why am I so bent out of shape over the Brock Turner incident? I couldn’t figure out why. I thought it was maybe because I felt people were making a huge deal about it. This stuff happens ALL THE TIME. Then I thought maybe, just maybe, she had part in it too. How could I even think that?  She didn’t ask to be assaulted! Then my curiosity sparked. Why would I think these thoughts? Why did I feel so strongly about this incident? Yes, many people are posting about it on social media, and yes many people are upset about it, but this felt different. The hurt in my heart was deep. It was familiar.

I now know why. I was her. No, I was not sexually assaulted behind a dumpster. And no, I never found out for sure if I was assaulted. I just remember the feelings.

I was fifteen years old and school had just gotten out for summer. It had been a difficult year and I had made few friends at my new high school. One of them being a girl whom was a wild card, or as I now see it, really bad news. She had a history of sexual abuse and she was much more sexually evolved than myself. She had sex with guys and was sexually equivalent to a college graduate. I didn't think anything of it. I accepted her. I knew we all are different, and who was I judge? She was my best friend. She was sweet, kind and rebellious. Just like me.

I don’t remember the date. I don’t even remember what we drank. But I remember exactly what I was wearing. The red and black plaid shorts, the fitted black t-shirt, the pink St. Christopher necklace, the underwear, the bra. I remember the specifics. What I felt. What I saw.

I woke up without pants on in a bed with a guy I had never seen in my life. I later found out he was 18. I remember waking up, still confused and disoriented, seeing my friend across the room with the guy she was seeing. Why were they in my parent’s house? And what the hell happened?  Was this a fucked up dream? Why couldn’t I remember anything?! WHERE ARE MY SHORTS? I panicked inside, feelings so disoriented it was difficult to walk. Embarrassment, shame, disgust and fear washed over me when I stood. I scanned the floor for my shorts. They were nowhere to be seen. I didn’t show panic. I didn’t show any emotion. I couldn’t. My young self was afraid to rock the boat; I didn’t want to make anyone feel bad. I had signed up for this the moment I took a sip of alcohol, hadn’t I?

I remember showering and feeling numb. I didn’t even begin to think what happened. My brain was in fragments. I just needed to know I was still breathing. I felt my chest. My legs. My knotted hair. Looked at my hands. My arms. My breasts. I was still there.

What happened next, I don’t really remember. I don’t remember them leaving. I don’t remember any conversation between my friend and me. I don’t remember her leaving. I do remember my mom questioning me furiously about the call she received about two guys hopping her fence. I denied it. My brain wasn’t working right. Hell, my body wasn’t even working right. I was uncontrollably cold when it was scorching hot outside. She questioned my brother, the likely offender. He denied. She wouldn’t give up. She questioned me again. I admitted. Stunned, furious and downright out of her mind, she talked to my friend’s mom. The questioning began. As she questioned me, I knew I couldn’t lie. However I knew no specifics, I didn’t know who they were, I didn’t know where we went, and I didn’t know what I drank. I didn’t cry, I didn’t get angry, I didn’t get defensive. I just tried to keep my mom calm. I made this mess. I needed to clean it up. Both my parents questioned me. I answered what they asked. I told them everything that I knew. And they had no idea that I may or may not had just lost my virginity.

I couldn’t remember anything about the night. I just felt different. Behind my parents back, I reached out to my friend and she filled in some of the blanks. Her boyfriend had carried me up my driveway because I was passed out. I had drunk Southern Comfort like it was water. We met them at the elementary school up the street. I seemed to like the guy I “hooked” up with. I seemed to “like” him? Wasn’t I passed out? I hooked up with him? What does that even mean? My naïve fifteen-year-old self couldn’t hear anymore. The more I heard, the dirtier I felt. I had let this guy stay at my house. Wasn’t it my fault?

That summer I fell into what I now know is depression. I went through the motions. I played soccer. I hung out with friends. I went on family vacation. I ran countless miles. I got my fastest mile time. And I didn’t feel like myself. I stopped looking in the mirror. I hid my sadness and shame behind a fit body and determination. I had hurt my parents so significantly and I could not burden them anymore than I already had with my well deserved shame. It had been my fault after all. I had chosen to drink. I had allowed those guys to come to my house. Unconsciously, I decided this was my mountain, and I was going to conquer it alone.

Summer was over and it was time to go back to school. No longer did I have a best friend. I had betrayed her by telling my parents what had happened. I deserved to be alone. I showed up to the first day of school, empty. I had lost a significant amount of weight due to stress, and older guys began showing interest. I was terrified. I know the writing was on the wall; I now see WHY I felt the way I did, and at the time I was confused. Shouldn’t I be interested in handsome older guys? Shouldn’t I enjoy the attention? Girls in my grade started befriending me. I was becoming “cool”. Something wasn’t right though, and I knew it. I stopped sleeping soundly. I stopped wearing makeup. I stopped eating. I started running more. I encountered another traumatic sexual interaction.

Cue anorexia.

I never in one million years would have associated my experience with anorexia with maybe being sexually assaulted at age 15. Now I can see it clearly. I felt out of control, so I controlled the only thing I could-- food.

I still to this day do not know what happened, or if it would even be classified as sexual assault. I don’t know if I was conscious. I don’t know if I drunkenly said yes. I don’t know if I was drugged. I have no clue, and that’s what’s scary. I don’t know. I don’t know if I lost my virginity to a eighteen year old dude I still to this day have never seen again. I dealt with my shame, guilt, fear and disgust as best as I could.

Writing this was weird. I know it will break my mom's heart. I know it will make my dad cry. I know it will leave my brothers fuming with anger as a shield for their sadness. I know my guy friends will tense up. And I know many of my girl friends will be surprised to read this. I am an open book. However, this experience was hidden from even myself.

I haven’t consciously thought about it since it happened. I know that sounds insane. I know my parents remember it. But how could I not have thought about it?! Don’t experiences like this haunt people for the rest of their lives? From what I have heard, yes. However, at the time, I was determined to move forward. It hurt too much to process and I didn't have the tools to do it. So my brilliant brain did what it could to protect me, and suppressed it. Though it was suppressed, it definitely came out to play in my dreams, during times of sexual intimacy and when I drank too much. 

I have done a lot of work on myself in the past five years. By a lot, I mean a lot. I went to wilderness therapy. I went through a depression so dark, I thought it might consume me. I faced countless fears. I moved multiple times, alone.  I had quite a few different romantic relationships. And no matter what I was doing, where I was living, who I was dating, I kept coming up with the same irrational beliefs. I do not deserve to be loved. I hurt people by being who I am. I do not deserve sexual pleasure. I need to be fat or ugly so people will not take advantage of me and will actually like me for who I am. If I become the best physical version of myself, I will become a whore. I deserve all bad things that happen to me.

Reading all of those beliefs, you are either laughing at the absurdness, surprised I have those beliefs, or your heart hurts because you too have some effed up beliefs. I experienced all those reactions. WHERE DID THESE BELIEFS COME FROM? I couldn’t figure it out. I meditated on them. I asked for guidance from my dreams. I saw spiritual healers. I even talked out loud to God to help a sista out. All of this to no avail. And then BAM! Now I am understanding. 

Maybe it wasn’t just this incident that messed with me. I don’t know. I don’t feel like a victim. For all I know, he never touched me. I don’t know if he was blacked out or not. I don't even know if that matters. I don’t know. I don’t feel sad about it either. I feel the sadness has passed. I felt it for four long years, and now I am in a place of untangling. I now understand the root of my beliefs. I now understand why I never feel fully sexually satisfied. I now understand why it has been such a difficult experience to stay in my body. I now understand why I hate being pursued by guys and why I feel more comfortable approaching them. I get it.

A veil has been lifted. It is too soon to say how this will affect me, and I can already feels it’s lightness. 

As for the young woman Brock Turner assaulted, I feel for her. I hurt for her. I wish I could hug her and hold space for her to breathe. I wish I could tell her she will be okay and that she can do it. I know her future feels bleak right now, and she will be okay. She is incredibly brave and she is helping multiple people by sharing her story. She is in her twenties, a time where everything is up in the air, and she is bold for coming out and saying what happened to her is not okay. I pray that she has support, understanding and forgiveness. Forgiveness of herself, the perpetrator and the situation.

As for myself, I will be over here untangling.

I feel a lot of compassion for my fifteen-year-old self. I know she did her best, and damn, she was tough.