“He’ll learn from this.” “He’ll regret it.” “He won’t treat people like that after what happened with you.” “I’m sure he’s changed.”
Throughout high school, before I even recognized that I had been raped by my then-boyfriend at 16 (but did eventually recognize how abusive the relationship was), I heard these comments left and right. My friends were still friends with him. He never fell from popularity. His life was unaltered, whereas mine was changed forever.
Continue to tell me and everyone else that they’ll change. That they can’t help it, that boys will be boys. That it’s a primal instinct of power, or they didn’t know any better, or they didn’t know exactly what they were doing. Tell that to me and everyone else — and there are a lot of us — who have lost a little piece of ourselves forever just because someone decided that it was theirs to take.
I am not a stepping stone for your son or your brother or your friend to grow and learn from. My pain and the strength I’ve had to find within myself is not second to helping anyone mature or learn how to not rape someone.
Last spring, I was sexually assaulted after a party by someone who I considered my friend, a junior who I’d gotten close with the semester prior. And as I lay there, lifeless, still and barely conscious, I heard him say, “Does this mean you’re still into me?” as he pressed his lips onto mine. This was months after I came across an article that helped me understand that what happened to me in high school was wrong, and that there is a reason I feel like a part of me is missing.
I believe that people can change. However, I do not believe that abusers can change, partially because there is something detached within them where their hunger for power and their insecurity supersedes any type of morality. No matter how much anyone runs from that, you can’t change the fact that by sexually assaulting someone, you’ve hurt them unexplainably, and it’s a hurt that will follow them for the rest of their lives.
I never reported either of these, firstly because it took me four years to even unwrap the first, and secondly because of the haunting reminder that so much as an accusation that would change my life could ruin theirs (2-8% of reports are false reports. We’re more afraid to believe survivors than we are to admit that false reports are rare). All over the news and in situations involving sexual assault, we always hear that these accusations can ruin someone’s life. That’s what a lot of media tells us, after all: “What about them? How will this impact them?”
That dialogue sinks deeply into you, especially when you’ve survived it, especially when it surrounds every case and television show narrative. It fills you with a guilt like no other – and makes you believe that it would be easier to keep it to yourself and move on.
But there is no real “moving on” from something like this, especially if they get away with it. And they usually do – 99% of abusers get off with nothing; they don’t have to deal with the consequences of their actions.
I wrote about all of this for the first time last April for HerCampus, and I had my article published anonymously. Part of me is still scared that they’ll find my writing and tell me that, somehow, just by the context, without even mentioning their names, I’m ruining their lives by literally just dealing with what happened and trying to help people who’ve experienced this too.
I’m not scared about being “that girl” anymore, or letting these experiences define me. It’s a tiny part of me that made me become stronger because I had no other choice but to do so.
I’m not scared that I was the reason he dropped out of school, or fell apart or set up fake suicide threats just to keep me. If you could have seen me last spring in my corner single dorm room, you would have thought I was dead. Because this body that these “boys” decided was theirs to take is still aching and still healing.
What is somewhat difficult for anyone to understand, unless you’ve been through it, is that no matter what, no matter how long it’s been, it sticks with you. I’m haunted by anyone who looks like them on the train to my internship, or certain mannerisms I remember too well. I’m haunted by words and sentences I’ve heard too often and afraid of getting too close to anyone. I’m haunted by the chuckling during the cliché Title IX presentations that every campus organization and workplace requires, which have no impact other than reminding us that only a spoken yes means yes.
It will make you feel like the people around you don’t really care. Like it isn’t serious, and they won’t believe you. After all, it seems almost humorous to not understand asking for consent, or to ask about every little thing, but assault keeps happening. Clearly, it’s not that simple.
If you told me now that all of this was for the maturation of these boys, or a step toward them “growing up,” I would believe you: Because of the way our society is set up, they get away with it, and preserving the reputations and futures of abusers is more important than holding them accountable. Just look at our newly-appointed Supreme Court Judge or a collegiate swimmer who was released after serving only half of his 6-month term.
Survivors are the only ones who have to figure out how to pick up the pieces. And I’m going to have to do that for quite a while. Boys will not be boys – boys need to be held accountable for their actions.
Melanie Haid is a junior journalism major with minors in German and photography and serves as the News Editor at The Chronicle.
