My Experience With Sexual Assault

Trigger Warning: Descriptions of sexual assault while in a psychiatric facility, and being disbelieved by authorities.

I wrote this in the middle of the night when I was feeling particularly awful about what had happened, and people’s responses to it.

     a year and a half ago, i was raped. it wasn’t like you see on law and order, where a violent repeat offender, serial rapist, or child molester scooped me up in public, had his way, and went on with his day. for one thing, my rapist was a female. for another thing, it occurred in a baker act facility. for those of you who don’t know what a baker act is, it’s a law in florida where police and healthcare professionals have the authority to admit you to a psych hospital for observation for 72 hours, and even if you’re an adult, you can’t sign yourself out. anyway, back to the gritty truth.

     i was getting ready for bed, when they brought in another girl. i’ll admit, i engaged her in conversation for a while, but then the conversation got awkward. she started saying things like “i want to fuck you” and “you have nice boobies” to the point where i got very uncomfortable. i told her to stop or i would go to sleep, as it was late and i had already taken my night meds. she kept right on talking that way, until i told her i would go to bed, yet again. then, as i got up to use the restroom, she followed me into the bathroom and tried to open the door. well, she actually did open the door. it was there that she made me take off my shirt as she licked and sucked my breasts. even during consensual sex i don’t like my breasts touched. but some people do it without knowing, and it makes me anxious, you know? she kissed me and she tasted like corn bread and the death of an innocent girl and the rebirth of a monster. she told me i had a “fat pussy” which still bothers me to this day. i can still hear her voice telling me that, and i can still hear the little giggle afterward.

     the next morning, we both had to switch rooms. we were still together, just in a different room. nobody found out until a few days after i got home and i typed up a letter to my girlfriend, telling her what had happened, and she sent me a letter back, supporting me and advising me to talk about it. my mom found out a few weeks later when i flew into one of my famous borderline rages and screamed at her that i was raped. she called a rape crisis hotline for me and let me talk to a counselor.

     later that year, i started drinking. i didn’t drink every day, but every once in a while to forget the sadness. the pain. the anger. the vengeance. it was like my whole chest was collapsing in on me and i couldn’t breathe, i couldn’t think about anything but what had happened, i couldn’t sleep. i would stop fantasizing and daydreaming about fun things and i would fantasize about being whisked away on the TARDIS to far away times and places, confiding in the doctor that i was broken and allowing him to pick up the pieces, and sherlock deducing that i was mentally ill and a rape victim just by looking at me and john relating with me, or hunting with the winchesters and breaking down with them because they’re just as broken as i am. i also had daydreams of revenge, where i would strangle her to death or stab her.

     the summer before i turned 17, i was arrested for punching mom in the face and breaking her nose. (i know what you’re thinking, who in their right mind would punch their mother in the face? well, my answer to that is nobody. i wasn’t in my right mind)

a counselor was asking me intake questions and asked me if i’d ever been raped. i told her yes. so they forced me to report it to the police and DCF (department of children and families) which was like being raped all over again. they made me talk about it, then had the goddamn motherfucking NERVE to tell me that “if i was lying i would be prosecuted with perjury, and that lying about being raped wouldn’t get me out of jail. like i was stupid enough to think that if i told a lie i would get out of jail. it still bothers me that they accused me of lying.

     when i went into a residential treatment program, i got a little peek at my paperwork. they had consulted the hospital it occurred at and it said that my “accusations of sexual abuse were found to be false”. what a motherfucking slap in the face. i mean, everyone at residential was acting like they believed me, but how could i really be sure with that on my papers? it still hurts now, as i write this. it hurts less, day by day, minute by minute, second by second. the most triggering part of writing this blog article was writing about how the police thought i was lying. even describing the assault and how it unfolded wasn’t as triggering as that. now i’m doing better, i’ve got two trauma workbooks from residential and i’m not drinking anymore, or using maladaptive daydreaming. it really does get better, if you move inch by inch and take it one minute at a time.

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