It Was NOT My Fault

I was sipping on an iced coffee, perusing Tumblr and avoiding anything that had to do with actually getting ready for work, when I stumbled across a particular post on one of my favorite feminist blogs that read in bold lettering: it’s not consent if you made me afraid to say no.

It rattled me. Deep down in my little bones, I felt something stir.

However, instead of addressing the rogue emotion I shut down my computer and ambled through my apartment, trying to shake the nagging suspicion that I’d just discovered a deep dark truth. A deep dark truth that I had never fully admitted to anyone – especially not myself. I was straightening my hair, glancing up at where I’d scribbled my favorite line of a Lord Byron poem across my mirror in eyeliner, when I started to cry. It wasn’t a pretty cry because I’m not a pretty crier. Because I knew, finally, that I had been raped.

(This may seem bizarre to some of you; it certainly still feels strange to type.  It probably seems like something I should have definitively known before a picture on Tumblr showed me the light, but the truth of the matter is, I was so busy buying into all that bullshit that society had fed me on rape, it was hard to both identify and classify what had happened to me when I was nineteen until someone took the time to phrase it in a way that made sense.)

I was nineteen years old when I trusted a boy, and I trusted that he would stop when I felt uncomfortable. He did not.  When I said, “No,” he ignored me. I was scared; I was overpowered and eventually, I simply gave up. I laid beneath him and did not fight because I was tired, because he was stronger and because I wanted it to be over with so I could get away from him as soon as possible.

However, in this situation, what society would have seen was that I had been drinking. I had flirted with him earlier in the night and kissed him. If I did not sleep with him, I led him on. I was a tease and a slut. I knew what I was getting myself into because I “asked” for it.

I spent years blaming myself for his inability to stop when I was uncomfortable, to listen when I said no. I genuinely felt bad for wearing something that showed off so much cleavage that night. And I chastised myself again and again for taking that last shot. When I was upset with him the next day, he shrugged, “You eventually stopped  saying no, so what was I supposed to think?” I let him make me question whether or not my silence qualified as consent. So when his friends jumped to his defense, commenting that it had sounded like we were both having a good time, I was the one who felt guilty. He was supported.

When I was finding my stuff so that I could leave and noticed all the bruises from trying to push him away, the same friends laughed, “Well, I guess somebody likes it rough!” Instead of standing up for myself, I was humiliated. With burning cheeks and smeared makeup, I hurried out to my car, cried the whole way home and wore jeans with long-sleeved shirts for two weeks so I did not have to remember.

I let them cast me as a whore, and I took on the role with two eager hands because I wanted someone to blame. Society would not let me blame him; they taught me that it was my fault. They taught him that it was acceptable behavior.

Back then, I hadn’t been exposed to any literature or information about ‘rape culture’ or ‘victim-blaming/slut-shaming’ so I wasn’t able to process what had happened to me for what it actually was. I still was buying into the ‘be careful what you wear/don’t go anywhere late at night alone/always watch your drink/don’t give him the wrong idea’ way of thinking. It took a few years, lots of reading, amazing posts from even more amazing women on feminist blog sites alongside the support of my incredibly strong, funny and loyal best friends to understand what actually happened.

It was rape. It was unacceptable. It was NOT my fault. It was his.

There’s nothing cookie-cutter about being raped. For me, rape used to mean some masked figure jumping out of the bushes with a knife while I was walking home in the dark and attacking me. But it is just not that simple. You know what is simple, though?

The word ‘NO’.

And if someone did not choose to understand the very base meaning behind an ‘N’ and an ‘O’ strung together when you spoke them, screamed them, whispered them, implied them… it’s THEIR fault. Not yours. I’m on your side. I don’t care what you wore, I don’t care how much you drank, I don’t care how long you knew them, I don’t care if you decided halfway through that sex with someone wasn’t what you wanted and you changed your mind.

I am on your side & so is the Bitchtopia nation. Chin up, pretties.


Lolly Says

Lolly Says is a 23 year old book junkie, residing in the Midwest. You can check her her website here

5 thoughts on “It Was NOT My Fault”

  1. This is by far my favorite post we’ve had so far. In this article you’ve done for me what that picture did for you. After battling for years- was it my fault or am I just another false accuser?- you’ve really hit home. Thank you so much.

  2. No, thank YOU. It felt amazing finally being able to write this piece & it’s even more amazing now that I know it’s meant something to someone.

  3. Thank you so much for sharing. My first time having sex was similar to your experience, except I had been saying ‘no’ to him for weeks because I was only 16 and I didn’t feel ready, I didn’t want to lose my ‘innocence’, I was scared, but he kept pressuring me every time we fooled around so I figured I had to ‘give in’ eventually. I didn’t want to ‘disappoint’ him again. He asked the same way he had asked for the last two months and I didn’t respond with my usual “no, I’m not ready yet, please be patient”…instead, I didn’t say anything, I just turned my head to the side and braced myself for what I knew he was going to do. I was angry with him for years. When I asked him about it 4 years later, he didn’t even recall the fact that I had never said yes. There are so many of us out there…know that you’re not alone. (Not to mention, this is really well written! Thanks again for contributing!)

  4. You opened my eyes in the same way, too.
    I lost my virginity when I spent the night with a guy who promised we wouldn’t do anything. He badgered me for sex until 5am, and I said yes because I was exhausted and wanted to go to bed. (how romantic!) Afterwards I was so freaked out, I immediately ran home. When I stepped outside his room I discovered a peanut gallery that had been waiting for me to emerge. I was literally the only person who had no idea what was going to happen that night before it did.
    The concept of “guaranteed” sex is presumptuous, yet it’s the norm. You’re expected to owe people something. The fact that anyone should expect something as huge as sex so casually is outrageous, but we just don’t see it that way. Your story helped show me that.

  5. As a Father of a little girl I am thankful to have read this. It was wonderfully honest, thought-provoking and without a hint of spite or righteousness. Your experience will give me a platform from where to begin when the time comes that I’ll want to have a conversation of this very nature with my daughter.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s