On June 5th, 2015, I went out with a friend and had way too much to drink. I wore a short, tight dress with high heels and I made out with a guy I had just met. He was attractive, sweet, and funny. When we left the bar and started walking to his car which was parked in the White House Ellipse, I felt safe because he had told me he was in the Secret Service. He even showed me his badge. When I got into his car, I didn't have sex on my mind. I simply wanted to keep making out with this gorgeous man who I had just met. He told me he only lived a few miles away from my apartment.
Four hours later I'm sneaking out his front door to take a $60 Uber ride home. He did not live a few miles from me. He actually lived approximately 30 minutes from me. Instead of an innocent night of making out, I spent the rest of the night waiting until he fell asleep so I could leave undetected. I felt guilty and ashamed and embarrassed. Why? Because I didn't know I was raped.
I've watched enough TV to know what rape looks like. An attractive young girl is jogging through Central Park at night with her headphones in, completely unaware of her surroundings. All of the sudden, she's being pulled into the bushes by a big hulking masked male. She's screaming and kicking and fighting for her life while he beats her until she's quiet. That's rape. No questions asked.
So when I went home with my rapist by my own accord, made out with him until I had a scab on my chin from his beard, and let him kiss my breasts, I thought I had asked for it. It wasn't until he tried penetrating me that I started saying, "No, no no, no." Even as I was saying those words and he was pushing into me, I thought it was my fault. I didn't kick or scream. I just laid there, stunned into silence. Finally, after a few seconds, he pulled out of me and told me "we can just cuddle." So I let him spoon me until I heard his breathing steady and then I picked up my heels by the door and left his apartment barefoot.
He called me the next morning to apologize. He didn't say the "r" word. But he alluded to it. And I felt so guilty and ashamed of myself for having a one night stand that I said "It's okay." I then forced myself to date my rapist for an entire week. In my head, I had to make this into a relationship, even though I cringed every time he touched me. It wasn't until a week later when I told a friend what had happened that I started to see that I was wrong.
The very next day I called the RAINN (
Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) hotline. I explained what had happened to me with the complete stranger on the other end of the line. When I was done, I very timidly asked, "Is that rape?" I could feel the compassion through my phone as she answered, "Yes, that's rape." I felt like an idiot. I'm 26 years old. Shouldn't I know what rape is?
"You can say 'yes' to any sexual act leading up to penetration and still say 'no' to penetration."
When I heard those words it was like someone had flipped a switch. My brain, which had been working so hard to protect me for the last week by not letting me think the worst, finally gave in to the truth. I was raped. And I would have to get very used to saying those three words.
Before filing a police report, I made sure that I wasn't going to be forced to press charges. A police officer - someone you'd expect to be an expert in something like this - actually asked me in an accusatory tone, "Why wouldn't you want to press charges?" I was so fucking pissed someone, especially a man, would have the balls to ask me that question. Why wouldn't I? Well let's see...what if he comes after me, what if he shows up at my apartment, what if he tries to kill me, what if he denies it, what if he calls me a liar, what if people find out, what if people think it was my fault, what if he loses his job, what if I lose my job, what if this is on the news, what if my parents find out...? Also, why the fuck are my reasons any of your goddamn business?
Despite this horrible experience with law enforcement, I decided to meet with a police officer and officially file a police report. I sat in an interrogation room with my hands clutching a soggy, disintegrating tissue on a cold stainless steel table and told him everything that had happened. As he was finishing up his notes, I asked, "If you had a daughter, what would you tell her to do?" He didn't even miss a beat. He calmly looked right at me and said, "I do have a daughter and she wouldn't have a choice." I could have hugged him.
But I'm not an idiot. I've seen rape victims on the witness stand and I've watched as her testimony, her truth, her character, are torn to shreds. Jurors want a perfect victim. They like their rapes neat and tidy and able to fit in the pretty squares society draws for them. They like girls who don't drink and would never dream of having premarital sex. They like the Central Park victim.
The officer told me that regardless of what I eventually chose to do, it looks better to a jury that I follow protocol and go to the hospital for an exam. So that's exactly what I did.
The next day I got up and went to work. At 5:30 pm, I left and showed up on time to orientation at my new part-time job at Crate & Barrel. I smiled at customers and pretended I gave a fuck about how to train a candle to burn properly and why someone should pay $1,300 for a Wüsthof knife set. Around 8 pm, I took a city bus by myself to the nearest hospital that performs the SANE (Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner) exam, or for you Stabler and Benson fans, a rape kit.
When I got to the emergency room, I tried to whisper to the woman at the front desk that I was there to get a SANE exam. But she didn't know what that was. Here it comes. The first time I said it out loud. "I was raped."
She called the social worker on duty and I was escorted to a room I didn't even know existed in hospitals - a tiny living room full of pamphlets and tissue boxes, tucked away from the rest of the exam rooms. She asked me what happened. And I told her everything I had told the others that had asked that same question so many times in the last few days. She phoned the on-call nurse who is qualified to administer these exams. And the nurse told her what I already knew - it had been a week and a half since the rape took place; there was no evidence to collect. The best thing they could do was to admit me to the ER for a pelvic exam in addition to an STD and pregnancy test.
I sat and waited to be triaged. When my name was called, I sat in a chair while my blood pressure and pulse were taken and I provided answers to questions I can't even remember now. I was escorted to a second waiting room and waited and waited with others for a bed and a room to become available. I remember watching the news and thinking how bizarre this all is. Here I am surrounded by people with swollen ankles and upset stomachs and I'm here to make sure I don't have chlamydia and an unwanted pregnancy. My tests came back negative and I ended up taking a cab ride home at 4 am the next morning, my eyes swollen from sobbing and exhaustion.
A few weeks later, I recieved a bill in the mail for $2,000. What a shitty year to have high-deductible insurance. I'm quite literally paying to get raped. I called my insurance company who said they couldn't cover it. I called the hospital charity care service who said they couldn't cover it. I then applied to Virginia's Criminal Injuries Compensation Fund who denied my claim twice because in order to receive support, I have to follow the guidelines which require that I "fully cooperate with law enforcement." AKA, if I want them to pay for it, I need to press charges.
A couple weeks after the rape, I met with an attorney and family friend that handles sexual assault cases to discuss my options. After a few glasses of wine and some soggy tissues we came to a decision.
I know some of you aren't going to get it. In fact, most of you probably won't. Why don't I want to press charges? The following has been playing on repeat in my mind for the last 10 months: I feel bad that my rapist may lose his job in the Secret Service. Then I am angry with myself for sympathizing with him. I tell myself that I didn't ask to get raped, this wasn't my fault. Next, I feel guilty that I'm even using the term "rape" when there are women who are beaten or even murdered after they have their bodies violated. Then I feel sorry for myself for even letting myself think that. I owe it to the millions of other girls who went through something similar to call it what it was. I was raped.
Add to that the very low chances of this going in my favor and that's when I tap out. I'm not going to put myself through that because I don't know that I'll make it out alive.
The same day I decided not to press charges I sent him a text message telling him what he did was rape and asked him not to contact me again. One text message and five missed phone calls later, he respected my wishes. I haven't heard from him or seen him since.
I still look out for his car whenever I'm coming home. I'm paranoid that he's going to show up at my apartment unannounced. Every time I see a black SUV with tinted windows and Secret Service license plates, I can feel him staring at me from inside the vehicle. It's an irrational fear and I know that. But it doesn't make it any less real to me.
I'm telling you this because there is very little power I have over this situation. The only thing I can do is write about what happened and hope that someone hears me. I hope that women read this and know that rape is rarely what you see on TV. I hope men read this and know that they alone have the power to eradicate sexual violence.* I hope everyone reads this and remembers to always believe a victim, always support them, and just. fucking. listen.
Survivors, please hear me: whatever you are feeling is what you should be feeling. Whatever you are doing to cope (as long as it doesn't harm you) is the right way to cope. There is no textbook on surviving a sexual assault and we all handle it differently. Do not let anyone tell you that you are doing it wrong. You are fucking surviving. And that is exactly what you are supposed to be doing.
*I recognize that sexual violence is committed by both males and females. For my purposes as it relates to what happened to me, I am defining the perpetrator as a male.
