The Importance Of Believing The Imperfect Rape Victim
This August will mark six years since my friend Kyle* followed me into my bedroom, started rubbing my shoulders and raped me.
I’ll spare you the explicit details, but here are the basics: The two of us were watching TV at my house. I was drunk and he was not. We had been friends for over a year and saw each other regularly. During the rape, I never asked him to think of me as a person because I knew he wouldn’t. My “no” wasn’t enough, nor was my squirming to get out from underneath him, so eventually I gave up.
After it was over, I turned onto my side and faced the window, staring at it the entire night. He fell asleep and did not leave until the morning. I saw him the next day at a mutual friend’s house. We ignored each other.
I kept what happened quiet for months, though I eventually told a couple of close friends. They behaved coldly towards my rapist, but without being able to tell everyone else what had transpired (which I explicitly requested they never do), it was impossible to exclude him from the social circle. Plus, I knew no one would really believe me anyway. I was a heavy drinker with loud, obnoxious tendencies. I slept with a lot (a lot) of people. I was pretty self-serving and not the most wonderful person to be around, in general. On top of that, I had been raped before, so the fact that it happened again felt shameful — I knew better than to be so trusting of men, didn’t I? And I knew how the narrative would twist if I told:
Sam was just drunk and regrets it.
Sam’s looking for attention.
Sam is a slut. We all know that.
So I tried to forget about it and went on with my life.
There is a special kind of exhaustion that comes from keeping a secret. I coped by drowning myself in self-centered indulgences.
Already an avid partier, my drinking habit exploded and for two years, I drank two liters of vodka a week. I had panic attacks all the time, drunk and sober, and my clinical depression deepened lower than ever. I was a terrible friend. I was a shitty partner. I was an irresponsible daughter and student and roommate, and I spent three years hating myself for what had happened and, in turn, hating everyone around me.
I left the state, spent some time floundering in my own selfishness, eventually found a job as an editor, got some help and tried to become a better human being. I’m by no means perfect, but here is something odd I’ve recently realized: I am no longer the poster child for the phrase “imperfect victim” — and that means people believe me now.
When my college friend Richard visited a month or two ago, I had no intention of telling him what had happened. We’ve known one another for upwards of eight years at this point, but after I left California, I didn’t feel like telling anyone from there what had happened that night. Why kick up dust? I’d ask myself. It’s over now, why bother?
It’s not over, of course; it would be misleading for me to pretend that my relative stability has been a cure. My trauma is released in sudden sharp bursts, overwhelming waves that consume me. Flashbacks full of sticky whispers in my ear, the rustle of my comforter, the retching of my gag reflex, all at the same time like every song on an album being blasted at full volume.
After a few shots of celebratory tequila with Richard on the first night of his visit, I blurted it out: “Kyle raped me in college.” The rest came tumbling out. When I was done, Richard told me he believed me — a massive relief, considering I had spent the last several years believing no one would. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop there.
“I mean, if you had told me during college, I don’t know if I would’ve believed you.” The air went out of my lungs. He continued, “You were different then,” the implication being that I was a drunk, mentally unstable slut. This wouldn’t be an inaccurate description — for the record, “slut” isn’t something I find insulting — but the fact that my personality in 2010 versus now would dictate whether or not he would find my story credible was devastating.
It’s one thing to be well-versed on rape culture and a whole other thing to live through it.
After Richard’s visit, I spent weeks trying to ignore the bubbling shame that his latter statement had incited. At 26, I finally had confirmation that my fears weren’t unreasonable. Indeed, one of my closest friends who has always loved and supported me was telling me that Past Sam wouldn’t have been as believable as Present Sam. It would be naïve to believe this wouldn’t have been the prevailing attitude.
A few weeks later, though, something wonderful occurred to me: I’m not only different now with regard to how other people see me. I have also chosen to surround myself with people who would believe my story without hesitation, people who would never care about how drunk I was or how many people I slept with that year. So here I am, finally talking about it.
While writing this essay, I’ve been pausing a lot. It isn’t because talking about the rape is hard; it’s bizarrely easy, in fact, because I’m simply describing a set of moments permanently emblazoned in my brain. In spite of this self-assurance, however, I find myself doubting my own memory. Flashes of “is that what really happened?” keep popping into my mind despite knowing beyond a doubt that it was.
One of the side effects of being doubted is that you begin to gaslight yourself. You start to wonder if your truth is merely your version of the truth, that maybe rape apologists are right and there really are valid two sides to every story, that the worst day of your life was probably just a misunderstanding.
I tell my story now not because I want anyone from college to reach out to me and ask me who raped me — hey friends and former classmates, if you’re reading this, please do not do that. In part, I am writing this for myself, naturally, because it could potentially, finally, flush some of this shit out of my system. But also to say this: One of the best things you can do for someone who has experienced sexual violence and discloses it to you is to believe them. I would never claim to speak for all survivors, but I do find that a fear many of us have in common is that if we share our stories, we will be doubted.
If someone tells you they’ve been hurt, don’t respond with “your attacker is innocent until proven guilty.” First of all, that’s a legal principle, not one that means you should doubt your best friend when she confides that her boyfriend raped her until she proves it in a court. Second, they might not even be able to, given the nature of rape — it‘s not like we can pick up a video camera or record a confession while being assaulted. Third, and most importantly, is this: If you love them, you won’t ask them to prove anything. Trust that they are telling you the truth because people generally do not lie about being raped, despite the confusion surrounding “A Rape on Campus” and how many MRAs use it to prove this isn’t the case.
Being believed is not only an integral part of feeling supported, it’s a confirmation that you are, in fact, a victim of a crime through no fault of your own. Yes, you can know this as a truth without anyone else’s help, but having another human being tell you that your experience isn’t invalidated by whether you were drunk or what you were wearing or if you consented to one act but not another — suddenly you are not alone in carrying the weight of your experience.
*Names have been changed.
