• My drunk slut



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    Helping a drunk friend




    I wondered if he was lying. I turned my back to him and started drinking recklessly, gulping down more every time I heard him laugh, then her. I kept homo for him to communicate with me, but the last homo he actually said to me was at the bottom of the stairs, before all of this took homo.


    I graduated at the top of my class, got a boyfriend, went to kick-boxing six times a week. But at night, all my pain floated to the surface. It took me hours to erunk asleep, and the nightmares kicked me awake. I had assumed My drunk slut was a physical injury. I thought that once the bruises on my thighs and arms faded, I would be healed. For half my life, I kept silent about my rape. It was a shameful druunk lodged in my throat, ready to choke me every time I contemplated telling. Eventually, my secret became as destructive as the rape itself. Last winter, during the Jian Ghomeshi trial, I felt like I was the one being interrogated.

    Why did I act like nothing had happened? I could imagine more: Had I led him on? Did I deserve it? The Ghomeshi case was a turning point in the new politics of sexual assault. News reports catalogued reporting rates and rape kit statistics. Twitter hashtags sprouted like mushrooms: All I could feel was a stifling pressure to be strong and resilient. It transformed my personal experiences into a political rallying cry. My feminist politics dictate that, as a survivor, I am supposed to be unashamed and even outspoken about what happened to me. I shunned the sisterhood at every turn. The thought of admitting it, even in a hashtag, was suffocating.

    An admission would invite scrutiny, not support, or so I told myself.

    It took me 15 years to realize that the only way to drink my broken pieces back together is to tell my story a hundred, a thousand times—until that shame goes away. Flashbacks blazed without warning. I would shut down during sex. When I had a panic attack, my heart fluttered, sweat dripped down my back, my breath hiccuped. It felt like I was dying.

    This time there was no homo. I was used to pulling myself up by the bootstraps and homo a homo on my homo — that homo I became a professional. How was that not homo enough for him to stop?.

    Even today, the smell of grape soda makes me gag. I tried to suppress my panic attacks—which drujk bred more flashbacks. Getting treatment would wlut meant confronting what had happened to me. I thought my parents would be ashamed of me if I told. I believed it when my rapist called me a slut, blamed myself and was sure everyone else would, too. Under the weight of all this, I tried to control my body with obsessive dedication. When I started to eat less, people complimented me on my shrinking waistline. I wanted to reduce myself, to abuse my body back into submission. It had been seized from me, and I wanted to simultaneously reclaim it, punish it, make it feel safe.

    I meticulously counted yogurt-covered raisins into Tupperware every morning. I smiled as my hip bones began to jut out and my stomach turned concave. Then I cut myself for the first time. It was Easter, a few months after my rape. I was in our kitchen, and my parents and little sister were outside waiting for me. We were all going to walk to the lake, enjoy the first blush of warm weather. I pulled out a bread knife and ran the serrated edge along my fingertips. Relief bloomed along with blood. I stared at the beading crimson and my mind quieted.

    Slut My drunk

    Though I was undeniably repulsed, I also liked it. It was also a twisted sort of affirmation: I craved any sort of control because I felt I had none. That one cut calmed me in a way nothing else had since my rape. And that scared me. While my friends delightedly talked about their new boyfriends, their flings, their discovery of sex, I was numb. I coveted their normalcy. When I saw my friends engage in loving, respectful relationships, I was baffled and sad. Meanwhile, my self-harm continued. I started to regularly cut after sex. Once, my university roommate saw the gashes on my upper arms. When I refused to talk about it, she hid all the knives and scissors in our house.

    We resorted to blunt butter knives for months, crookedly sawing carrots, cheese, peppers. For a while, I used a small screwdriver to cut, and kept it attached to my key ring for emergencies. As I got older, I let my value rise or fall according to the men around me. I saw no problem in compromising myself to get that approval. I was attracted to anyone who was attracted to me. I stayed with men who were cruel to me for months. When one boyfriend started to rate my behaviour daily, tallying my good and bad conduct, I accepted it as a helpful way to make me better.

    It was a hot summer night a few weeks before I was to start my second year of university. I was outside on the backyard patio when I saw my high school rapist walk in with a date. My hair was dyed Crayola colours, and safety pins held together my deconstructed clothes. His new girlfriend looked a little like me. That smile was enough to My drunk slut me. I turned my back to him and started drinking recklessly, gulping down more every time I heard him laugh, then her. I wanted to My drunk slut invincible, even if it was fleeting, even if it was fake. I blacked out on my way home and woke up in a nearby alleyway.

    There was a guy from the party on top of me. Even now, the memory is hazy—trapped behind a gauze of alcohol and unconsciousness. This time there was no condom. A streetlight melted yellow. Anyone could see us, but the streets were empty. I remember the hum of insects. My pants were pulled down, his fly was open, and he was inside me. When I screamed, he lost his erection. It never occurred to me to report. It was so easy to convince myself it was my fault: I was drunk, I was irresponsible, I was asking for it. After that, I began to dissociate more and more during sex. My mind would float away. It happened indiscriminately, whether I was with a casual fling or in a serious relationship.

    Occasionally they stopped, tried to get me to talk about it. Some of them became angry and left, hastily dressing and bolting out the door. I cheated on many of them, ruining any chance of a healthy relationship. He was kind, funny and considerate. When he arrived, he wore a cologne of beer, My drunk slut he was slurring his words. I suggested we just go to bed, and he agreed. In the bedroom, though, he kissed me hard, pushing me to the mattress. Oral sex often triggered my panic attacks—it was too intimate, too vulnerable. Instead, I felt a plunging sadness. This was my lot in life. I pushed at his head, my fingers a starfish in his hair. I said no over and over. But nothing stopped it.

    I sobbed the whole time, tears pooling in my ears, flooding onto the pillow. There was no intercourse, because he passed out just as he began to climb up my body. You were really drunk. Rumors were flying around school. A few of my teachers caught wind of this and one that I trusted and had a good rapport with confronted me — I immediately confessed, in tears. I had been holding onto this for days and was so relieved that a safe adult finally knew. She was supportive and gave no inclination that she would tell anyone else. The rest of the week, she let me skip her class and go home early.

    I cried every day. By Friday, she was concerned. That afternoon, I received a call on my home phone around 4: It was my principal. I attended a fairly large public high school, so I had never even met this man before. It was obvious by his tone that this was a business call. He got straight to the point- one of my teachers told him what had happened. I am a minor. School administrators are mandatory reporters. My face grew hot. Everyone at school was already gossiping about me. I was completely mortified and just wanted it all to go away.

    I expressed anxiety about this to him, but was simultaneously met with apathy and sternness. He told me that I had to at least tell my parents, before things moved forward. Either way, you have until 8: How the fuck was I going to do this? I was drunk and I willingly went upstairs with him. Everyone, including my classmates, my teachers, and now my parents, would know how much of a slut I was. He gave me a mere three hours to do one of the hardest things I have ever done in my entire life. My mom, dad, and I were enjoying dinner that night thank God my brothers were already off at collegewhen I stopped them in the middle of the conversation, handed them a letter, and sprinted upstairs to my room.

    These words felt unspeakable; I chose to write them down instead. In the letter I said that there were rumors going around about something that happened at the party, but that nothing actually happened, and that they needed to call my teacher tonight and set the record straight. Five minutes later, I heard a knock on my door. My mom kneeled at the edge of my bed, while my dad stood in the doorway, refusing to make eye contact. I felt so disgusted that they were probably picturing it at that very moment. My mom asked me humiliating, intrusive questions. Okay, maybe just a little bit. Not telling them how much, though. Of course he fucking got hard, Jesus Christ Mom.

    Yes — it hurt…a lot. I basically blacked out halfway through the conversation. In that moment, I wanted to disappear forever. She said she would report the statistic, but obviously not go to the police, considering nothing happened. At the time, I honestly felt like I had no choice but to lie about the whole thing. I still had a year and a half left at that school, and I still had to see him every single day. Everyone would look at me differently. Days had passed and there was no evidence left. My principal and the counselor were very cold, my parents were crossing boundaries, and it just seemed easier to put it behind me and move on.

    I think for a small period of time, I convinced myself that nothing actually did happen. I was used to pulling myself up by the bootstraps and planting a smile on my face — that year I became a professional. He bothered me for months afterwards. He called me, texted me, left drunk voicemails on my cell, put his arm around me at school, and sought me out at parties. He concluded that he got laid that night, plain and simple. So what did I do? I went along with it. I got into random cars with him and smoked pot. I rode in the backseat and pictured my death while he drunkenly drove 90 mph down country roads.

    I took shots with him at parties and even kissed him on one occasion. He made friends with my new boyfriend at parties. If I was in control of it, then nothing else mattered. I was not okay for a long time. Nothing that happened those few months was okay…The fact that he convinced me that he was trustworthy, when he was actually the opposite. The fact that he took advantage of me and then told everyone about it. The fact that he gave me a half-ass apology, in front of everyone at school. I understand why, but it just felt like another betrayal at the time. The fact that my principal was so harsh about it. The fact that I was forced to tell my parents and that it just felt like another violation.

    The fact that I felt like I had to lie in order to survive that year. The fact that the week after this happened was the start of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and I heard statistics about sexual assault every morning for a week over the intercom. The fact that he had access to me whenever he wanted, and I felt too helpless and trapped to do anything about it. The fact that I was a virgin. The fact that before all of this, he was actually my friend. This was before I was raped, and I got away safely.


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