I Couldn’t Say the “R” Word: A Guest Blog by Chelsea
Note: This piece gets a bit graphic about sexual assault, so if that is triggering, you might not want to read it. I know that for a long time, I could not read or hear anything graphic without being very triggered, so do what feels right to you.
After eight years, an inpatient psych hospital stay, four therapists, and tons of meds, it is still hard for me to say the “r” word in reference to what I experienced at the age of 18 in my second week of college. For many years, I just referred to it as “it” or “what happened at Holy Cross”. Never rape. Then I started being able to say I was assaulted, but still. Never rape. Because that couldn’t happen to me, right?
I was so unbelievably excited when a sophomore football player wanted me to come to a party with him. It was my second week of college and I had come from a very small, all girls Catholic High School. I had never gone to a “real” party or a date with a football player. I spent hours picking out my outfit and purposely wore a tight t-shirt that showed off my breasts. I was finishing my hair when he texted me to meet him at his dorm.
When I met up with him, he asked me to come back to his dorm room for a second so he could finish watching a movie before we went. He said his roommate wanted to come to the party and wanted to shower first. I didn’t think anything of it and followed him nervously.
When we got to his room, we sat on his bed and he showed me pictures of his family. The movie he was watching, Minority Report, was on in the background but I don’t think he looked at the TV for even a moment. I remember being touched that he was already showing me pictures of his mother. I asked him when his roommate would be done, and he avoided the question and kissed me. I was taken aback but willingly kissed him back.
He was by far the most attractive guy who had ever been interested in me, and I am ashamed to admit that was a stroke to my ego. The kissing quickly became aggressive and he put his hand on my left breast. I stopped kissing him and told him I wasn’t really ready for that just yet. He started to get more forceful, called me a slut, and said I was lying. Things quickly turned from the casual atmosphere of showing me family photos to a scary, painful experience.
He shoved me down on the floor and held me down with one hand while hiking up my skirt with the other and removing my underwear. I kept saying no and started bawling. But I didn’t scream, push back, or fight in any way.
I eventually stopped telling him no, but I couldn’t control my sobbing, which angered him even further. He assaulted me vaginally, and anally. When my vagina would not get wet, he began to swear and yell at me, and bit my nipples and did other things that I assume were meant to turn me on. When it didn’t work, he spit on my genital area and continued.
The anal sex was so very painful that I started crying out. He slapped me, and I stopped. I probably could have gotten him to stop by screaming more since we were in a populated dorm, but I didn’t.
When he was done, he threw the used condom in my face and told me to lick it. I did not. He then got up and left the room, to “rinse me off of him”. I am ashamed to admit that I did not leave. I remained there on the floor in a daze and was still there when he came back from the shower. This made him irate and it was at this point that I got dressed and left.
I stayed in a daze for three days, did not eat anything other than granola bars and did not leave my dorm room other than to pee.
My roommate got the RA involved and she eventually helped me to tell my story.
I called my mom, and she came down and took me to the hospital for a rape kit. Since I had not showered (lovely, I know), there was still some evidence left on me. Long story short, the state of Massachusetts believed they had a strong case and said they would press charges even without my testimony. I came back home for a week but my family wanted me to try and stay at the school.
I went back to school and met with the detective my first day back. My mom came along for emotional support but was not allowed in the room while I was being interviewed again. The detective grilled me about certain details, and for some reason I left feeling that she did not believe my story. Now I know that was just in my head, because she has contacted me several times since to let me know she did believe me, she just needed to get the details a defense attorney might eventually ask. I freaked out and begged her not to prosecute him; that I just wanted to move on with my life.
After dinner with my mom, she went back to Maine and I again holed up in my dorm room. Five days later, the pain became too great and I overdosed on pills. I spent a week in the hospital and then another week in the psych hospital.
When I came home, I slept around to an extent that still makes me sick. I slept with strangers, my best friend’s boyfriend; you name it.
I went to a local college but was floundering in every aspect of my life. Despite what the detective originally told me, he was not pursued by the state because I did refuse to testify. I still carry a lot of guilt about this, especially since my room mate and I kept in touch after I went home and she let me know that he had assaulted someone else. I often wonder if I could have prevented her being hurt, and I think I was selfish for not just going through with testifying if it came to that. Holy Cross did find him guilty in their disciplinary committee and he lost his football scholarship. He also was placed on academic suspension, though I do not know for how long. I do know that he played football again the next year.
A year after I came back home, I met my husband and seemingly turned my life around. I stopped sleeping around with multiple men, stopped using drugs, and obtained my master’s degree. But I continued to feel empty inside and was filled with such a deep sense of disgust and shame. I thought that I was probably wrong about being assaulted. I thought I probably had invited it and it was deserved.
I became pregnant with twins and gave birth to them in June. They make me so incredibly happy but I am still left with that nagging feeling of emptiness and self-hatred. Since I suddenly had my hands full, I found it difficult to focus on the t.v. because I couldn’t keep my eyes on the screen.
I decided to start checking out podcasts, and stumbled across Mental Illness Happy Hour. I found I could concentrate on podcasts because I could take care of the babies without having to try and keep my eyes on the screen. I quickly became obsessed with Mental Illness Happy hour and began listening to all of the episodes in order. After about a week, I had a breakdown where I began sobbing and it truly hit me that I had been raped. I had not deserved it. After listening to so many other people express similar feelings of questioning their own role in being victimized, my mindset shifted. Thank you so much to Paul, the guests, and all of the listeners for helping me come to this realization and making me see that I was not a willing accomplice and did not deserve being attacked. As I write this, my self-hatred is telling me that I sound cliché and corny, but at this point I do not care. I will forever be grateful for stumbling across this podcast and how it brought me such an epiphany.
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