When I was 18, I was gang raped by 5 high school superjocks at a party. They coerced me into a room, forced me to down a bottle of vodka until I passed out and took turns with me. People, including those I considered friends, walked by the room, saw the event unfolding, yet did nothing to help me. Before I was rendered unconscious (and perhaps while I was blacked out, I don’t know), I fought back as best I could, but I was 98 pounds of puniness being pummeled by weight-lifting, steroid-abusing assholes who relentlessly ravaged me. Remembering little, I woke up in a bed, stark naked, next to one of them. I was bruised all over, in pain due to being a virgin prior to the attack and utterly confounded. I found my clothes, dressed and quickly skeedaddled, walking home only to find my dad driving around, looking for me since I didn’t make it home. I told him nothing. I told no one anything. I blamed myself. Bipolar, I acted out in harmful ways: I slept with anyone and everyone, trying to prove to myself that sex didn’t bother me. I did loads of cocaine, marijuana and alcohol. I shoplifted. Ultimately, I hated humanity. I sought no counseling for the event until I was 26, when the memory I tried desperately to bury came back to haunt me and I attempted to kill myself.
Fast forward: I’m now in my 40s. I got through my trauma with hypnotherapy, although as all rape survivors know, the trauma never really ends. Remnants hover like double-edged swords over your eyes, ready to slice them open when any trigger arises. As you might imagine, the farcical events surrounding Brock Turner, his lenient sentence already reduced to three months with protective custody in county jail, not state prison and the combination of hegemonic white male privilege and rape culture have set off so many triggers, I’m an utter wreck. I live in San Mateo County, so close to Palo Alto and Stanford University. Had I a college-aged sister, I might have been the one in the dumpster. My thoughts for the survivor and her courageous, spot-on descriptive letter to Brock hold only hope for her mental and physical recovery to some sense of normalcy, though I know she’ll struggle and never be the same. Yet that same letter, with its truths, presents another trigger. Not her fault by any means.
I’m having flashbacks and nightmares. I can’t ground myself. I’m doing what I can to help myself: signed the petition and sent in the complaint form to have Persky removed from office, spread everything related to the incident on social media, etc. But I’m still retraumatized.
Then, last night, I had a fight with a white male friend from whom I expected better. He had the utter gall to agree with Persky’s leniency, likening it to a time when he had to stay in county jail for a few nights after being arrested for a DUI and being frightened. What the hell? Then he said the SURVIVOR should be the one to mete out the punishment AFTER watching all seasons of HBO’s OZ and visiting prisons to see the conditions under which inmates live. I told him his reasoning stank of white male privilege and support of rape culture and a denial of the mental and physical prison into which the survivor is already trapped for life. He kept going on about how Brock would be repeatedly raped and probably get an STD or HIV in prison. I explained over and over that he deserved whatever happened to him because he was a monster, rape is nothing like a DUI but rather an act of aggression/power and that, were he poor and a person of color, he’d be thrown in prison for the maximum sentence. I reminded him of his deeds, how he was caught, tried to flee and still denies wrongdoing. I also told him his father supported his “20 minutes of action” while his female friend was so brainwashed by rape culture, even she couldn’t relate to the survivor. Our friendship almost ended, but after many tears and logical reasoning, I got him to understand the concepts I was presenting. He then acquiesced. Nevertheless, I had three nightmares last night.
I’m certain all raped and sexually assaulted/abused women are struggling as I am. I feel as though all progress made has rescinded thanks to these horrible monsters. Once, a few years ago, one of my rapists actually sent me a Facebook friend request. I was floored. Obviously, rapists have trouble recognizing their actions as such.
I abhor Turner and Persky. May they rot in eternal damnation. And may the survivor somehow find peace. I wish that for myself as well.
At least the viral outrage might help break down rape culture a bit, although survivor shaming and white male privilege will probably never cease. Leniency cannot be granted to sexual predators, stunning Stanford swimmers or not.