SlutWalk Speech, 22nd September 2012

Today I spoke at SlutWalk.  This is what I said.

_________

Last year we marched because a Toronto policeman said that to avoid being raped, we should avoid dressing like sluts.  The anger spread worldwide, and the SlutWalk movement was born.  Last year we marched and we sang and we held placards that declared that our skirts don’t rape us, rapists do; drink doesn’t rape us, rapists do.  And we have today, too.  SlutWalk helped me to accept that the vodka I drank didn’t rape me; the rapist raped me.  We have come a long way in rejecting victim blaming and putting the responsibility firmly at the feet of the rapist.

But, too many people still think that rape is something we can avoid if we are sensible, don’t drink, cover ourselves up and behave like ladies.  Too many people still think there are different levels of rape: rapey-rapes, legitimate rapes, forcible rapes, stranger rapes, and that these are inherently worse than those that take place between man & wife, friends, or date-rapes.  This year, George Galloway explained that to have condom-less sex with a sleeping partner is only ‘bad sexual etiquette’ and something less than rape.  If George was the only one then we could make do with ridiculing him.  But, he is not.  Rape is rape is rape, and it is time everyone knew that.

We need a dialogue, an honest, open, dialogue.  Women believe the myths that they can avoid being raped, because otherwise the world is too scary.  But rape is happening to us every day.  Somewhere between 1 in 3 and 1 in 8 women will experience rape or sexual assault in their lifetime.  That is an epidemic. 

Men fear being accused of a rape that they didn’t do.  The media perpetuates these fears, seemingly reporting every false allegation, whereas actually it’s less common than for other crimes at about 2-4% of accusations.  And with a disastrous reported to conviction ratio, all those people who are accused, but never go to court, or to prison, like the man who raped me, can claim they were falsely accused, adding fuel to the fire of the myth that false accusations are something to be feared.

It is easy to not be a rapist.  Be certain of consent.  Enthusiastic consent.  Not coerced consent.  Not drunken consent.   The rape epidemic suggests that there is a fundamental misunderstanding of consensual sex, and the attempts by politicians, the media, and others to categorise rape differently suggests that many people seriously do believe that the line is somewhere else.

The myths about what constitutes rape prevent justice.  The CPS decided not to prosecute the man who raped me.  I found out that they decided not to prosecute because I waited to report, and didn’t do so straight away.  Most rapes go unreported, and of those that are reported, most are not immediate.  The body, and also the mind, needs time to process the trauma of what has happened.  They also didn’t prosecute because I had been drinking.  A lot.  So much that the police said I could not have been able to give consent.  But a jury might have thought I was asking for it.  The CPS don’t actually care if they think the man is guilty, only if they can get a conviction.  They want a good conviction rate.  We need to change societal norms so that everyone who is not here today and might be on a jury, knows that rape is rape is rape, and that it doesn’t matter how much someone was drinking, what someone was wearing, or how many other men she’s been happy to have sex with, when consent isn’t there, it’s rape. When juries start to convict, the CPS will start to prosecute.

We must stop the epidemic.  Because it is not about one night that went wrong for those of us left behind.  I didn’t just have a hangover the next day.  Over four years later, I still suffer from symptoms of post traumatic stress, with nightmares, insomnia, anxiety attacks and recurrent deeply depressive episodes.  Not a single day has gone by when I have not thought of it, it is with me constantly.   

The myth of rape in society silences us, and silences our pain.  Because we know, or expect, that others will judge us for being raped, will perhaps tell us we weren’t raped, it was in our heads, we stay silent.  Because mental health issues are also taboo, a sign of weakness, we are silenced again.  If people know the truth, we believe they will see the words stupid & weak emblazoned on our foreheads.

It’s not about one night.  It’s not about a man who makes a bad decision.  It’s about the days and the nights we live afterwards.   On one night, I was made a victim.  In still being here, I have made myself a survivor.  But, surviving isn’t living and I long for a future where I am living.  I dream of a future where rape is rare, where the raped are supported and where rapists are always punished.

We are many.  We are too many to be silenced.  Silence hurts us.  We must raise our voices.  Enough is enough.  

This is the link to the video.  On my tablet the sound is abysmal, on my laptop, still not great but lots better. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZSlP9bAnHg

Triggered

*TRIGGER WARNING*  If you think you might be triggered by description of rape please do not read further.  Today, I ignored a trigger warning and paid the price.

Today my body and mind froze and I shut down.  I’ve been getting complacent, thinking the therapy was working, but actually I think it was only some of the stress at work went away.  I thought I was handling all the rape talk in the news, getting desensitised even, to all the stupid, ignorant, old white men (and their acolytes) who tried to paper over rape by declaring it wasn’t real rape.  I was indignant and angry, but not broken.  I was proving to myself that I was stronger now, I could handle this.  And then, this morning, I read Penny Red’s blog*.  I read the trigger warning, I knew I was getting into risky territory.  And I was entirely fine until the line about him sending her an email afterwards.  I literally crumbled.  I could see myself crumbling and I was powerless to stop it.

The text that the man who raped me sent me next day has always confused me.  (I know that sentence would sound better if I wrote ‘my rapist’, but I want no ownership over him, just as I don’t refer to ‘my rape’, I say ‘I was raped’, it was done to me, that is all). 

But the text always confused me.  I used to be able to remember the words exactly but some things do fade with time, and now I remember only that he called me a young lady, said he’d had fun, or words to that effect, and indicated he’d like to see me again. 

Did he not know he’d raped me?  I struggle with that.  I have no memory of getting home, did I indicate that sex was on the menu, did I help us get home?  How did he know my address? I woke to find him fucking me, Assange-like, without a condom.  In fact, I was so confused by what was happening, I think I only managed a ‘you’re not wearing a condom?’ murmur, rather than any righteous indignation at the fact he was fucking a comatose, mostly asleep, lump of flesh.  It couldn’t have been much fun for him, basically fucking a corpse?  How could he think I was a willing participant when I wasn’t ‘there’?

I started coming to my senses, pushing away at him, trying to get him to stop.  That’s when he started to use force to pin me down.  And started to beat me.  Did he think that was ok too because he knew I was kinky?  The violence took the wind out of me and I didn’t fight or struggle much after that.  I froze.  Fight, flight, freeze.  In discussions of whether rape is ‘real’ people seem to forget that freeze is just as common human reaction as fight or flight.  More common.  So, I ‘let’ him do everything else that he did to me.  He fucked my arse, he penetrated me with various things he’d found in the kitchen, including the arm to my espresso maker.  And yes, when he told me to, I sucked him off.  I was in a daze, in and out of real consciousness, just holding onto the fact that at some point he would have to be done with me, finished and he would leave. 

Did he not know that he’d raped me?  How can he have thought that I would want to see him again?  Part of me thinks he decided to rape me when I told him over dinner (it was a first date) that I didn’t fancy him but perhaps we’d be friends.  Part of me thinks the text was meant to confuse, to create some kind of ‘alibi’ for his actions because a rapist wouldn’t send a text like that.  But part of me wonders if he really thought that what he’d done was somehow acceptable behaviour.

And some of the comments made by men in the news, and by men (and women) in comments on articles about what those men have said, lead me to believe that there really is a fundamental misunderstanding by some people on what rape is.  Terms like ‘bad sexual etiquette’ are nothing but euphemisms for rape.  Rape is rape is rape.  ‘Nice’ men rape.  And other nice men feel scared that they might misread signals and be made a rapist by mistake.  I don’t believe it’s possible to rape by mistake.  I have a secret for you, it’s very obvious to a lot of people but unfortunately not to enough: if you’ve got enthusiastic consent, you’re not raping anyone.  There can be no confusion with enthusiastic consent.**

So, today my body shut down.  I literally crumpled.  I sat on the sofa crying for quite a while.  I made an effort to do some work, which lasted til lunchtime.  Then the pull of stopping, needing to stop and not ‘be’, to opt out of life, was too strong, I could feel the thick fog enveloping me like a blanket and I slept most of the afternoon.  Today being Thursday it was therapy day, and I turned up like a petulant child saying I didn’t want to be there, I was shutting it all out and being angry with having to be there, having to have left the safety of that foggy blanket.  But it helped, I guess.  I’m processing the fact I shut down, rather than staying shut down.  I don’t know when I’ll get used to the fact that I can feel fine one minute and then be triggered into a really vulnerable and scary place the next.  The world scares me, not just the rapists in it, but the ignorance of others too.  There are so many of us who are hurt by rape.  Figures vary but as many as 1 in 4 are often quoted.  And it’s not just the women (and men) who are raped that are hurting but the people who love us too, our friends, our families.  When will we our voices be heard, when will wider society understand how destructive it is?  When will it be better? When?

*Penny Red’s (Laurie Penny) blog is here:

http://www.penny-red.com/post/29989130545/its-trigger-warning-week

**For a brilliant and very accessible piece on enthusiastic consent, click this:

http://stavvers.wordpress.com/2012/08/23/people-i-will-never-have-sex-with-ever-those-who-dont-get-enthusiastic-consent/

This is Not a Love Story

I know you only in parts, in moments that we share.  I see glimpses of you, only.  But those glimpses, those moments, those parts of you that I know, that I see, they combine to make me love you, a love that seemingly consumes me, annihilates me and totally, utterly, finishes me. 

You’re a cheat and a liar and I’m grateful for it, for otherwise I wouldn’t know you the way I do.  You’re a brutal sadist, taking only what you want, stopping only when you want, no regard for my tears, my pain, my wish that you would stop.  And I’m grateful for it, and I give you myself to brutalise whenever you want because it makes me feel alive, to be your’s, totally possessed in those moments.  I know that sometimes you’re uncomfortable about the violence in you, but not too much, only enough for decency’s sake.  You’re a very clever sociopath, keeping that part of you hidden from everyone else, even yourself, even me, until after the dinner is eaten and the wine is drunk.  You’re a consummate charmer, with a smile that melts my heart and a touch that makes my knees quiver. 

You excite me, you flatter me, you make me feel sensuous, captivating, alive.  Those parts of you that I know, they keep me sane, and they drive me insane.  You smile at me, and I’m smitten.  You touch me, you kiss me, you hit me, you stroke me, you knock me senseless, with your nonchalance, your you-ness.  You're kind, tender, caring.  You don't have an angry bone in your body.  I love you, and I can’t help myself.  I am your’s.  Entirely.

I hate you, I despise you, I can’t stand you.  You make my skin crawl, you make me want to scratch your eyes out, like I always want to scratch your back, to mark you, the way you mark me.  You’re a cheat and a liar, and I love you.  But it’s a love that only exists in moments.  Perfect moments.  But moments, nonetheless.

Girl, Interrupted

Last night I dreamt that I was committed into a mental asylum.  This didn’t appear to strike me as a bad thing, I seemed to be having fun nosing my way around, meeting some strange creatures, taking in the sea air (we seemed to be on a gothic island structure somewhere in the middle of nowhere), and writing.  I was doing a lot of writing.  I had friends, and I had no worries, I didn’t need to be anywhere, there were no expectations of me, I felt really free, like being ill and ill enough for someone to say I had to be committed out here, that was the best thing that had ever happened to me.  I felt light, in that it was now bearable to be because I wasn’t carrying around me an awful weight on my shoulders.

And then I woke up.  And the weight was back, the expectations were back, the memories of why actually being committed to a lunatic asylum isn’t such a far-fetched thought, and if I let go just one iota of what I’m keeping in, maybe someday someone will do it to me.  And it won’t be to the magic one of my dream. 

I got ready for the day with a sense of fore-boding that I couldn’t shake off.  The silicon chip inside my head really was malfunctioning.  I didn’t feel panic, but I felt very anxious and I didn’t know why.  So, I popped one of those pills I’ve been carrying around but not using, for anxiety, to avoid the panic attacks.  A preventative measure, not because I felt panicky, but because I didn’t want to.  It felt good, I felt calmer.  But it started to wear off.  So at lunchtime, I popped another.  Focus in my afternoon meetings may have been less than desired but I mostly passed it off.  Walking around the office, that was harder, definitely had the gait and balance of a drunk person.

But decided that I liked the floaty, so I had another…. By this time, thankfully, it was really time to go home, so go home I did, floating over the pavements, feet never really making contact with the ground.  Somehow, I did get home.  And decided it was a good idea to eat some food (salami & salad night on the low carb diet), but of course, a bottle of prosecco would wash that down nicely and might complement the lorazepam chasers.

 

And yes, prosecco is always a good thing, never a bad.   But I’ve lost the angelic bliss I had earlier, now I feel like the sad, lonely, alcoholic who’s just looking for a new way to get high.  I want to take a knife and have a go at my arms again, but they’re healing and I don’t want to go into therapy/ see a boy, with the scars of my emo self-involved emulation on show. 

Back when I was really hurting, and not just a partially fixed up broken person, I used to get properly high a lot of the time.  I’d give almost anything to feel that kind of pure euphoria but without the tell-tale come-down just once more.  Except I know it doesn’t exist.  Proscribed anti-panic drugs plus booze.  That’s the best I can do, and watch the number of pills you pop, mistakes not required. 

One day, I imagine, I’ll wake up, go for a run, have a shower, get to work, do a day’s work, interact with people, come home, maybe even have a family waiting for me, eat with them and laugh with them.  At some point pretend we’re in the Waltons, goodnight Mr E, goodnight little E, goodnight, goodnight, sweet dreams, see you in the morning light. Normalcy will reign.  I’ll understand the rest of you, not needed to peek into the slithers of your lives to get small insights on you.  Maybe, one day, I’ll be one of you.  Again.   

Until then, this half-life isn’t so bad.  It has some amazing moments.  I get to share parts of some of you who no-one else get to see.  There are days (not many) but there are days when I do kick-ass like the old me and I know she’s not too far hidden beneath the debris.  I smile, I laugh, mostly I do a really good impression of being one of you. 

But I’m not and until then, please no judgements about how I choose to get through my days: lorazepam, prosecco and whatever else gets me through, because the biggest win is the battle I already fought; I decided today would be a day I get through.  Most of you probably just think that’s normal; one is alive, so one traverses the day and what the day gives us.  For me, I make a conscious decision, I’ll get through it, whatever it takes.  But whatever it takes sometimes means taking a little help from where I can find it. 

I did feel like flying, but it wore off.  I don’t think I should take any more pills.  Some more bubbles, then maybe just collapse in bed.  Cry a little bit for the life that I wanted but is never going to be mine.  And then, hopefully, sleep.  And this time, not about the mental asylum.  

Bad Feminist

So, this week FemFresh has been taking a bit of a beating over it’s inappropriate advertising, which was suggesting that us women had smelly lady parts that needed cleaning so that we didn’t offend anyone with our lady smells.  And they made things worse by calling such lady parts ‘frou frou’s’ and suchlike...  Social media did its thing on twitter and most hilariously on their facebook page and the mob descended…

Of course, this also comes at a time when middle America is apparently outraged at the use of the word vagina and so calling our lady parts by the proper name is now also a political statement.  VAGINA! Yell it enthusiastically at those bad misogynistic republicans. 

Well, I’ve never called my bits frou frou, and prefer the more traditionally filthy pussy or cunt myself, but if someone wants to refer to parts of themself as a frou frou, then I shan’t argue.  And, whisper it, I actually use FemFresh.  Every day. 

I’m a sensitive soul and my pussy is no different.  Ordinary shower gels and soaps, they can cause itching.  Hot days, tight clothing, different time of the month… Sex.  Itching is uncomfortable.  FemFresh actually works and occurrences of itching significantly reduced.  So, I’m a fan.  Comments on the FemFresh site were also particularly scathing of their wet wipes type product.  Well, I was at a festival and these were being handed out by the portaloos.  Brilliant.  Every time I go to a faintly unsanitary lavatory I wish I had some with me. 

I’m tired of being told by men what I can and can’t do as a woman, how I should act, having them talk at my breasts, or brush my arse with their hand.  I’m tired of slut-shaming and victim-blaming.  I’m tired of judgements over abortion.  My vagina isn’t a political instrument.  And women have no right to make it so either.

So, I use FemFresh.  And shock, I also get a Hollywood wax every few weeks.  I don’t do it for men, I do it because I prefer it.  Being entirely smooth doesn’t make me feel like a child as often charged against the practise, it makes me feel soft, slippery, sexy.  I even quite like the idea of bleaching my anus but steer clear because I don’t need another beauty obsession and I do try not to spend my money on unnecessary things... 

Does all this make me a bad feminist?  Maybe.  Some might definitely say so.  Many said that Slutwalk was bad feminism too, but in fact, it was probably the most successful global gathering of women coming together (with men) to stand together that I am aware of since our mothers’ burned their bras.  I'd prefer to spend my energy campaigning against the things that really matter: rape & sexual assault, domestic violence, the gender pay gap.  It irks me beyond mere irkness for example, that there are so very few women in senior leadership roles in my company, and none who report directly to the GM of Consumer.  And we work in Marketing, the supposed bastion of the female executive.

[Actually, I think on reflection that FemFresh may have a fantastic marketing department, not the terrible one they are being accused of... If all publicity is good publicity they have run one of the most successful viral social media campaigns in recent history (maybe since Threshers 'mistakenly' released that voucher).]

So, I’ll continue to keep my cunt fresh and slick and shrug my shoulders at anyone who thinks by doing so I’m betraying the sisterhood. 

Humpty Dumpty Girl

This is very self-indulgent, very 'woe is me'.  It's how I feel today.  Normally, I write and post, no edits.  This one, I posted, then deleted the links, then wrote the flip side, and then edited it together.  It probably doesn't work.  It's painful, and I apologise to those who know me if it's too painful to read.  But I'm posting it, and I'm going to post the links because this is what rape does.  This is what living with rape is like, at least for me.  And it's important to me that people, that society, knows that it's a lasting scar, that sometimes results in days like yesterday and today.  But I still hope for better tomorrows.

You’re despicable, I loathe you, despise you.  You’re nothing, never was much even before the shit went down, never will be now, you don’t have the stuff of survival, you don’t roll with the punches, you just curl up in a ball and feel sorry for yourself.  It’s all about you, isn’t it?  Don’t you know how many others are much worse off than you?  But you can’t move on from it can you, you weak, snivelling little nothing of a girl. 

Yes, that’s right, reach for the knife, it’ll make everything better.  Slice open the flesh, watch the blood rise.  Feel the sting.  It is better now, it’ll last maybe 12 hours, and you’ll want to do it again.  Reach for the bottle, but, no, you don’t drink alone.  That’d make you an alcoholic, but you don’t really have problems, do you, stay in control, always in control, at all times.. Chocolate, that’ll do, , yes, fatso, you’re 3 stone overweight, eat, eat, eat, eat, it makes everything better.  Oh, for when there was something to snort, need that stuff again.  To feel high, to feel invincible, to feel back together. 

Tired, too tired.  Take a pill, take two.  Not three though, don’t want an accident, things aren’t in order yet, not ready for a mistake yet.  Sleep, perchance to dream.  No, no dreams.  Please, no dreams. 

Retreat from the world, cancel all your engagements.  Sleep, doze, watch TV, escape from reality.  Switch off the phone, ignore it when it rings.  When your friends worry, pretend it’s all OK, you’re OK, don’t want to worry anyone.  Want a hug, desperately want human contact, push it all away, because you don’t deserve it, you definitely don’t deserve to worry anyone. 

When will it end?  When will this cycle end?  When will the next one start?  This time it started with feeling overwhelmed, working too hard, getting too tired, too stressed.  Then, a breakdown, like one I’ve not had in a while.  Curled up in a ball, in the corner of the room, shaking, shivering, scared to death.  And then the panic attacks started.  And kept coming.  Crying in the office, waking up in fear, running, running, always running.  Maybe because you didn’t run at the time, tried to fight, but gave up, gave up really quickly didn’t you?  Coward.  Pull yourself together, it’s been four years, get over it, get over yourself.

I don’t really feel all that shit, not all the time, I don’t hate myself like that all the time.  But the internal monologue is pretty fucked up, that much is true.  I want to change the record, I want to be able to say positive affirmations to myself, and really believe them. 

I know I’m strong, I know I’m a survivor.  Because I do think that shit about myself most of the time, and yet I still keep going, finding ways to put myself back together.  I have to believe it’s just a short-term blip, that my time for happiness is coming, just around the corner, that it won’t always be like this, because if it is always like this, and it carries on like this, I honestly don’t know how many more times I can put myself back together.

It’s hard, battling a mental illness.  Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia.  And doing it alone.  Yes, I have friends, you are all awesome, when I let you be.  But I get home from work, I get up in the morning, by myself, alone.  I can go the whole weekend without talking to a soul, not even via text.  I’m lonely.  When I’m with you, I try to be happy, because it’s no fun dwelling on the painful stuff, and no-one wants to be around someone who brings them down.  And it’s exhausting, so sometimes I just choose to be alone. 

And when there’s other stuff to deal with too, it’s like there’s too much.  I’m not fit, my body aches, I’m overweight, mostly from comfort eating.  But now I have an injured knee, it probably needs surgery, and I don’t know how I’ll cope with that, just the idea of my body being invaded like that, then mending, being trapped in my flat.  I feel overwhelmed by having to get well in my head, and get well in my body, all at the same time.

Every morning, when I wake, my hands ache, like an old person.  I sleep with them clenched so tight.  I want to know how to relax, how to let go.

It’s been four years.  There are so many years ahead of me.  But it’s such a struggle, every day feels like another struggle, another battle, it’s exhausting.  How can this go on for year after year after year?  How can I find the strength?  I’m starting therapy again soon, I hope it will help me find a way out of this rut, I feel like I’ve stopped, I’ve not been making progress, I want to get better, so badly.

I want someone, but I feel damaged and broken.  And I’m scared to go looking for someone, very few men are bad like the one I was unlucky enough to have dinner with that night, I know that, but I can’t stop the fear. 

I want a baby, so badly.   I want to be a mother, to cherish someone.  I don’t think I’m well enough, I’m scared I never will be.  Because of the knee, I have to wait again to try for another few months, maybe I’ll get well in time. 

Is this my life?  Working too hard, going through cycles of depression and panic, putting myself back together, doing it all over again? 

I saw my oldest friend the other day.  Happy, married, two beautiful children.  It reminded me why I should never go to a reunion.  I just don’t do well by comparison.  I’m happy for her, so happy, but I want to be happy for me too.  Me, I just feel like a cautionary tale.  You can have it all, it can get all screwed up, so quickly, so suddenly, I know it’s what you do with it that counts, and maybe I haven’t dealt with it right, yes I wanted to self-destruct and did my best to do that for quite some time.  But the reason I didn’t self-destruct, and haven’t yet, is maybe because I am still fighting for myself, I have to hope that I will continue, and won’t give up, however much I sometimes want to.  Just to make it end. 

Anxiety, panic attacks.  Now, evidently, depression.  I want it to end.  I’ll put myself back together again.  I always seem to.  It seems to get harder, not easier, every time.  I won’t go back on the happy pills, they take too long to kick in and I hate the side-effects.  This is my prescription this time:

1.       Today I rest, and eat the two bars of chocolate I’ve been hoarding

2.       Tomorrow I get some stuff done around the flat so it doesn’t feel like I’m living in my own filth

3.       I’m going to go visit my lovely friend, pick up her newborn and feel calmer

4.       Meditation classes start when I get back

5.       Yoga classes start when I get back

6.       Date with a lovely man who always makes me smile

7.       Go running – or rather jogging, try to get fit. 

8.       Don’t work much, leave on time, or not too late anyway

I know I need to be around people, but I don’t have the strength, I’m not cutting you out because I don’t need you, it’s because I need you too much, and when I’m better I want to laugh with you.  I hate that you see me as broken, I hate that I’m damaged.  Tomorrow, I’ll be a survivor again.  Today, I just don’t have the energy.  

Dear Luke

I am writing this in response to a comment by someone calling themselves Luke on a blog written by London Feminist entitled ‘Rape Culture in up to 140 characters’, a storify of the responses to the Ched Evans verdict.  Ched Evans is a footballer, and so the case received much publicity and column inches.

    

In the words of London Feminist, the context of the prosecution was that the victim had gone with Evans' team-mate Clayton McDonald to a hotel, after they met at a nightclub.  McDonald then sent Evans a text saying he'd "got a bird" and Evans showed up with two other men, one of whom filmed the sex.  The woman woke up unable to recall what had happened, thinking her drink had been spiked, and complained that she had not consented to sex at all.  The jury acquitted McDonald, with whom the victim had apparently gone to the hotel willingly, but convicted Evans.  He has been given a five year sentence.

The full blog can be accessed here: http://londonfeminist.com/site/rape-culture-in-up-to-140-characters/

Luke wrote on May 08 at 19.12

Any evidence that there was definitely no consent? Or can she just not recall? In my eyes, what they did was wrong whether there was consent or not but I guess when we live in a society that heartily embraces drunkenness and fornication (and both at the same time, even better!) then are we really surprised when situations like this arise? I think the root of the problem lies way beneath blaming her or him. Should she have gotten into such a drunken mess, should he have had sex with her even when she was drunk? Both seem culpable. Her irresponsibility when drinking alcohol has consequences, she’s an adult, she should know this. No, that doesn’t mean she deserved to get raped, it simply means she should have seen the possible consequences. Of course, in the eyes of the law, and rightfully so, if she didn’t give consent then he is legally speaking a rapist, but there is a bigger picture than just what the law says. If she was in such a state that she couldn’t remember who she had sex with then does who she has sex with REALLY matter much to her?

Luke is not alone in thinking this.  In a 2010 survey 64 per cent of respondents said they thought a person should take responsibility for being raped if they drank to excess/blackout. 

This matters to me.  I was raped.  I had been drinking.  I had been drinking a lot.  Like the girl raped by Ched Evans, I also believed I might have been drugged, although I will never now know for sure.  Certainly, the way I blacked out and remember what happened in flashbacks is not the way my memory works other times I’ve been drinking a lot.  I thought for a long time that it mattered if I had been drugged, because if I had been drugged, then it definitely wasn’t my fault and it was premeditated on his part.  First, it took me a long while to forgive myself for being so ‘stupid’, for putting myself at risk and trusting that the guy I was meeting on the blind date was just there for a meal and to get to know each other.  But then, I realised, and the SlutWalk movement has been very instrumental in helping me to realise, that there was nothing for me to forgive myself for.  My drunkenness didn’t rape me, the man raped me.  I have been out with men before, and since, where I’ve been drinking.  I’ve had men come home with me when I’ve been drinking.  Those men haven’t raped me; when I’ve told them to stop, they’ve stopped.  The difference is not the drinking.  The difference is those men weren’t rapists, the man who raped me, he’s a rapist and that’s why I was raped.

Luke, the person who is raped is NEVER culpable.  Drunkenness does not constitute consent, and if the person you are with is drifting in and out of consciousness, seems disoriented about where they are, or who you are, you can be absolutely, certainly, without a shadow of a doubt, assured that they do NOT consent.  Luke, the possible consequences of getting into a drunken mess, as you so eloquently put it, should not include rape.  The only possible consequences of getting into a drunken mess should be a stinking hangover the next day.

Luke, you are right, the root of the problem isn’t just a ‘her fault, his fault’ dynamic, it is more complex than that.  The root of the problem is you, and the 64% of society at large, that buys into this rape culture, that keeps victims silent, that refuses to condemn rapists for the scum they are, that comes up with rape apology after rape apology after rape apology. 

Luke, you ask a question at the end of your post.  You ask, does it really matter that much to her if she can’t remember?  Yes, Luke, it really matters.  However much her conscious mind remembers, her subconscious remembers far more.  In fact, her subconscious is trying to protect her conscious mind by not revealing all the details.  But she will remember, in her nightmares, with ongoing post-traumatic stress symptoms, which will suddenly appear to terrify at any moment.  Luke, it’s now over 4 years since I was raped, and I still suffer from nightmares, from PTSD, from the inability to deal with stress.  It affects me every day.  Luke, it matters.  For rapists, it might have been one night.  For the victim, it means trying to survive, every day, and many days, even years later, feeling that the attempts are futile.

It upsets me beyond words that 64% of society believes I was partly to blame for being raped.  I want to feel that I’m not alone.  If you stand with me, let me know that you’re not one of the 64%, let me know you’re not Luke, and if you were once one of the 64%, please let me know you’ve changed your mind, give me hope that it won’t always be this way, that rape culture will end, one day.  

#ImNotLuke #ImNotThe64%

Thank you for reading.