An Open Letter to the Guy Who “Raped” Me,
First of all, I use the term “raped” lightly and in quotation marks because that’s the technical term for what happened. The definition of rape is the act of intercourse without verbalized consent. And that’s exactly what happened. I drank a little too much that night, and so did you. But that’s no excuse. That doesn’t give you permission to go ahead and take advantage of me, it doesn’t matter what my actions were. I don’t remember anything that happened that night, just very few snippets here and there.
So honestly, if I don’t remember, did it really happen?
You can say whatever you want about that night, after all it’s your word against mine and since I was unconscious for half the night, does my word even count? Probably not.
You told me that I initiated it, that I was the one tugging on you, whatever. And while I do admit I can get very touchy-feely when I drink, it takes two to tango. What I find hard to believe is that I did everything on my own. I couldn’t even stand up on my own or form a coherent sentence. You didn’t drink as much as I did, so honestly you could’ve done more to stop it. But you didn’t. And the result? I lost my virginity and I didn’t even know it. You said that my actions counted as consent. But I didn’t know what I was doing, so how could I have said “Yes I want to have sex with you now.”? Answer: I couldn’t have said it, I didn’t say anything. The words coming out of my mouth were probably a jumble of God knows what. But I can guarantee that even if I did say yes, I was still way too drunk to know what the hell was going on.
What’s worse, you said that after it happened you left the room because you thought you got me pregnant. So you had sex with a drunk girl, then left her in a room. Alone. Unconscious. In what world is any of this okay? Not in my world that’s for damn sure.
I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that you had sex with me while I was unconscious, or the fact that you didn’t tell me until 8 months later. You said it was because you were scared you got me pregnant and then it was because we were already fighting and you didn’t want to make it worse. No, see the right time to tell me would’ve been the next morning. The right thing to do, the mature thing to do, would’ve been to take me to a clinic or buy me a pregnancy test or plan B pills. But no, you decided to not tell me for 8 months.
After you told me, I felt so disgusting. I felt dirty. Worthless. Useless. Broken. I felt like no matter how many showers I took, I would still be dirty. I blamed myself for the longest time because you made it seem like it was my fault. Like I threw myself at you. It made me feel like I was a whore and I hated myself for the longest time. Everytime I tried to remember what happened that night, I ended up having a panic attack just thinking about all of it happening. People told me it wasn’t true. It couldn’t have been because you told me about it 8 months later. You just wanted a reaction out of me. But no. After you told me, you would get mad and post about it on social media. You would say you owned me. That you were “always going to be my first and that’s never going to change”. That made me feel even worse. I got physically sick every time I thought about it. I felt like no one was ever going to want me again. Who wants to be with a girl who was wasted her first time? Probably no one.
I did a lot of things to distract myself. I burned a paper that had all the bad memories from the past year. Including all our fights and a lot of other stuff that had absolutely nothing to do with you. But you got offended and lashed out on social media.
After that night 9 months ago, something else happened. I suddenly hated being touched. Even if someone was just reaching past me, I jumped and it gave me anxiety. I didn’t really think anything of it because I normally don’t like being touched unless I initiate it or say it’s okay. But it got worse. I got anxiety every time someone went to hug me. I’ve pushed so many people off of me over the past 9 months because it got uncomfortable for me to be touched. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy being held, but honestly only when I say it’s okay. When people just go for it I can’t handle it. It’s like it’s some form of PTSD, I don’t know.
I know I can’t go back to that night and change what happened. I know I’ll probably never know the entire truth about what happened that night. I know I can’t change the fact that my first time was while I was blackout drunk and with a guy who I wasn’t even in love with. But I can accept all that. I can accept that what happened was beyond my control and that’s just the way it is.
I haven’t forgiven you yet. I haven’t forgiven you for mistreating me when we were fighting. I haven’t forgiven you for yelling at me and degrading me. I haven’t forgiven you for treating me like my mental health doesn’t exist or it doesn’t matter. I haven’t forgiven you for calling me a slut just because I flirted with a guy on Halloween when we were never a couple. I haven’t forgiven you for pressuring me into having sex after I changed my mind. I haven’t forgiven you for having sex with me while I was incapacitated. And I sure as hell haven’t forgiven you for keeping it from me for 8 months. Truth be told, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. Maybe one day, but that day isn’t today and it probably isn’t tomorrow.
I’m still working on forgiving me, though. Forgiving myself for drinking too much. Forgiving myself for blaming myself when I know it wasn’t my fault and it was literally out of my control. Forgiving myself for letting myself be walked on by you for all this time.
Rape is the act of intercourse without consent. I never consented verbally. “Throwing” myself onto you isn’t consent. Drunkenly kissing you isn’t consent. Tugging on you isn’t consent. Being unconscious and unresponsive isn’t consent. So technically, yes, you raped me and that makes you a rapist. If you don’t want such a harsh term we can call it sexual assault or sexual abuse. I hate the word rape just as much as the next person, but that’s the word for what happened that night.
I know I said I could ruin your life with this. And I can. But am I? No, I’m not. It’s been too long and the only proof I have is the message of you admitting to it. Even then it’s your word against mine because I was unconscious for most of the night. It’s also too much of a hassle and I really do not want to get involved with police again or with a judge. Because God knows you would get off easy because that’s just how the system works. I’d rather see you get your karma in a way you deserve, not because a judge says so.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t hate you. Not for that night, not for anything. You were my best friend and the most important person in my life. I never wanted to lose you. I should hate you for what you put me through, but I don’t.
A lot has happened in a year. You’re not the person I thought you were a year ago or 9 months ago. And honestly, you’re probably never going to be that person. You’re still going to be the asshole with so many different personalities, a huge ego, and an anger problem.
But I also want to thank you. For helping me realize that I deserve better. Thank you for helping me realize that despite how shitty things can get for me, I can rise above it and come out stronger than before.
Sure, I’ll never have a “first time” again. Not in the literal sense. But hey if someone ever decides to love me despite all of this, then that’s the story I’ll tell. In the meantime, okay that’s how it happened. It wasn’t magical or romantic, and it was probably really sloppy, but it is what it is.
I hope life treats you the way you deserve. And I hope you never do this to another girl. I hope you fall in love with a girl who loves you back in the way I never can, and I hope one day you can be mature about all of this and take responsibility for your actions.
The Girl You Broke