by Freya Vardo
When I was 21, I was a mess of a person. I was naive and selfish and overcome with ideas about the world and myself that simply weren’t true. I was intense, dramatic, emotionally overwhelming to myself and others.
I hurt people carelessly. And I was a person hurting, though I probably wouldn’t have admitted it. I was terrified of mediocrity, even as it stared me in the face. So I clung to feelings that matched my intensity. I found them in a boyfriend I won’t name here.
I was toxic for him. I think he was toxic for me, too. At our inevitable end (the first one, that is), I went off the deep end. I’m a girl with abandonment issues, and our breakup brought memories and feelings – long buried – to the crumbling surface. I cried for weeks. I tried to remain friends with him, at his insistence. I lost myself in alcohol, and not eating was already a habit of mine. It was the perfect storm; I was a messy person made a disaster.
Indulging my whimsical side, I would, when sober, jump into my car for a random weekend road trip or I would treat myself to expensive new clothes hoping that maybe the widened void in me would fill. More often, though, I would drink myself stupid. I knew plenty of people, mostly men, who loved to keep me company during this particular indulgence. I never noticed then that it was the only time I wasn’t alone.
One of these men I had known since junior high. He was a senior while I was in 8th grade. He was an older brother of a few friends I had in Christian school. We reconnected on Facebook during the summer of 2007, in the midst of my awful breakup and his terrible divorce. We bonded over our losses and our booze and our abandonment of Christianity. We agreed at the beginning of this new friendship that it was simply that: friendship, completely platonic. Both of us needed support and understanding and a safe person in whom we could confide and with whom we could drink.
Two months of this went by without issue. I loved having someone who knew me but was wholly detached from the friend group I still shared with my ex-boyfriend. I felt perfectly safe with him.
Until August 25. Nothing seemed weird at the start of the night. We met at my apartment, which wasn’t the usual, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. We went to my favorite pub first, but didn’t stay long as I’d received a text from a guy I had a vague, rebounding interest in, inviting me to another pub closer to my apartment. I’ve never liked that place, as it’s a greasy hole in the wall, but I went anyway, and my friend came too. I remember having a lot of fun, but something changed at the second pub.
You see, I’ve always had a rule about people buying me drinks: I don’t allow it, unless I’m in a relationship with that person. I never wanted any man to feel like I owed him something because he shelled out $7 for a red bull vodka. This rule included my friend as well as the guy who invited me to the pub.
I don’t know what made me break my rule that night. I’ve felt guilty about it for years. I remember my friend handing me a drink. I remember hesitating. I remember him saying, “Don’t worry! Just get the next round!”
I don’t remember getting the next round or the round after that. He kept beating me to it. And I eventually became so inebriated I stopped caring.
I don’t remember driving home. I know he was in the car with me. I know I said goodbye to him in the parking lot. I don’t remember climbing the stairs or entering my place. I don’t remember locking the door before I made immediately for the bathroom. Knowing me, I might’ve left the keys in the lock. I might not have locked it at all. All I remember is walking out of the bathroom, now wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boy-shorts underwear, and seeing him in my bed.
I asked him what he was doing, barely able to keep my eyes open. He said something about being too drunk to drive. Of course I didn’t want him to die on the road. He was my friend.
I shrugged it off and got in bed and immediately fell asleep. Minutes – I’m assuming – later, I woke up to hands moving me into what I imagine was an easier position for him to rape me.
I remember saying no.
I remember pushing his hands away weakly as I fell out of consciousness again.
I remember waking again as my tampon was ripped from me and tossed aside.
I remember saying no. I remember crying. I remember it didn’t stop him.
I was in and out of consciousness. I tried convincing myself it was a nightmare. It wasn’t until I started screaming at the top of my lungs that he stopped and literally ran from my apartment.
I don’t know how long I laid there, sobbing and dazed and in pain. But I remember eventually dragging myself up to close and lock the front door. I remember checking all my windows and every corner of the tiny, one-bedroom place I could no longer call home, just to be sure he wasn’t still there, hiding, waiting.
I remember grabbing a drink from my fridge and going back to the bathroom. I sat in the tub, alternately shaking with sobs and shaking with silence beneath the hot shower water.
I remember calling my ex-boyfriend at about 3 or 4 in the morning, whenever I had finally got out of the shower. He didn’t answer. I remember carefully avoiding looking at my bed as I dressed in my ugliest, comfiest pajamas and retreated to my living room to try desperately for sleep.
I don’t remember sleeping. I just remember the isolation. I remember feeling like the only person in a cruel world. I wondered if I should call the police. But I knew what would happen, being a drunk girl too irresponsible to know if she’d even locked her own door. And I already told you what I’d been wearing.
Loneliness like that can swallow you whole. I felt like a shell of a person. I felt dirty and empty and everything and nothing.
My ex-boyfriend saw me the next day and knew immediately something was wrong. Because I didn’t tell him at first, he asked me to join him for drinks when he was done with work. I accepted, if only for the distraction. I also just wanted to be with someone I loved, desperate for kindness. Of course, he pressed me to tell him what happened and I eventually relented. I told him everything. And I felt a tiny flare of relief to get it all out of me so I wouldn’t be the only one to know.
I’m pretty sure he’s the only one of my friends who believed me. Our group of friends comprised people I loved fiercely, but the victim-blaming was unreal coming from people who had never even met my rapist. I shouldn’t have put myself in that situation, they said. And as I heard from others to whom they had told my story, they doubted it altogether. Since they had never met him, clearly I concocted the entire thing as a ploy for attention in the hopes of winning my ex-boyfriend back.
My best friends believed I was either asking for it or lying. So how the hell could I have gone to the police anyway?
Guilt has plagued me for eleven years. For not pressing charges, for drinking, for letting him buy, for not remembering to secure my door, for telling my ex boyfriend, for letting them shame me, for shaming myself, for everything.
But I’m done. I’m done feeling guilty. I did one illegal thing that night: driving while intoxicated. I feel guilty for that. But nothing else. I didn’t do anything wrong when I drank. I didn’t do anything wrong when I trusted someone I had known for years, who was a brother-like figure to me, who lured me under false pretenses into a friendship that was entirely a lie.
I coped how I coped. It wasn’t pretty. It was ugly. It was hard. It was painful. I did the best I could with what I had. That’s all any of us can do.
So when you make comments about rape victims not coming forward, or when you accuse them of lying, or when you blame them for the abuses that were done TO them, just know that you’re talking about me.
And if my rapist were to enter any position of public office, you’re goddamn right I’ll be shouting his name from the rooftops, no matter how much time has passed.
by Verity Violet
In 1957, 23 year old Jerry Lee Lewis married his cousin, 13 year old Myra Brown. She still believed in Santa.
In 1959, Elvis Presley met his future wife. He was 25 and she was 14.
In 1975, Steven Tyler purchased the guardianship of a 16 year old girl (Julia Holcomb) from her mother when he was 27 so that he could legally take her with him across state lines while he was on tour.
Colored over a “grand romance” and a “decades long relationship”, Celine Dion was 12 years old when 38 year old Rene Angelil became her manager. They went public with their relationship when she was 19.
In 1984, Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman started dating Mandy Smith. She was 13. Although they did not marry until she was 18, Mandy says she was 14 when they first had sex. Mr. Wyman has never been investigated, much less prosecuted.
In 1991, 32 year old director Luc Besson met and eventually married model Maïwenn Le Besco when she was 15. Their relationship inspired his movie Léon: The Professional (1994), which followed an emotional relationship between an adult man and a young girl.
In 1993, Jerry Seinfeld picked up a high school student in a public park. He was 39 and she was 17. He and Shoshanna Lonstein dated for four years — through her college years.
Noted pedophile R Kelley secretly married R&B singer Aaliyah in 1994 when she was 15 and he was 27. They met when she was 14 and he helped write and produce her first album — “Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number.”
In 1997, Woody Allen should have become notorious when he married his step-daughter. Though she was 21 at the time of the wedding, the two met when she 8. No matter the spin, the facts are stark.
It’s the early-mid 2000s and “That 70s Show” actor, Wilmer Valderrama, continues to date teenage girls in an effort to deny that he is now over 30. He dated 16-year-old Mandy Moore despite being four years her senior. At age 24, Valderrama dated 17-year-old Lindsay Lohan though they kept the relationship a secret until her 18th birthday in 2004. In 2010, the 30-year-old began dating 17-year-old Demi Lovato.
Back in 2004, 26 year old Joel Madden and Hilary Duff did the familiar dance of being “just friends” until her 18th birthday in 2006.
Rapper Tyga and Kylie Jenner began “hanging out” an awful lot beginning in 2014 when she was 16 and he was 24. They dated on and off after that, though they became a lot more openly “on” after her 18th birthday in 2016.
2018 — yesterday, 14 year old Millie Bobby Brown innocently revealed that rapper, Drake, age 31, has been with her, for the last year giving her advice about boys. They are friends, she says. He texts her, “I miss you.” This is the same Drake who has, more than once, skated around that “just friends until she turns 18” line — most recently with 18 year old model Bella Harris.
Guys, this isn’t a friendship. This is GROOMING. No one will stop it. They’ll “date.” He’ll have sex with her, probably in a couple of years. No one will care because he’s a man and a star.
NO ONE WILL CARE UNLESS WE START MAKING PEOPLE CARE.
Make them care. No free passes. No 2nd chances (one little girl is all you get, boys.) A ruined career is the least they deserve. It’s not cute. THIS IS NOT OK.
by The Lady Eve
You wonder why women don’t speak up right away when they’re assaulted? Look in the mirror, because you are part of the problem.
I was 10 years old when two high school boys on my bus sexually harassed me. They blocked my path as I got up at my bus stop. I was terrified and ashamed. I blamed myself for sitting near the back of the bus. I blamedmyself for wearing a pleather skirt. Later, I blamed myself for not making a scene or screaming and shouting because I was trying to be “nice.”
I was 16 years old when I was sexually assaulted by a guy in my neighborhood. I was terrified and ashamed. I blamed myself for wearing shorts. I blamed myself for enjoying the attention I was getting from so many guys in the new neighborhood. Later, I blamed myself for being too meek in my objections- for not screaming or punching or kicking because I was trying to be “nice.”
I was 21 when I was raped. I hadn’t wanted to go home with him because I had a miserable head cold and had to work in the morning. He said he missed me and we didn’t have to “do anything.” My friend convinced me to go. I said, “No. Stop. I don’t want to do this,” but he didn’t listen. Then he got mad at me. I was terrified for my safety and had no idea where I even was or how I would get home. I turned around and fucking apologized to my rapist because he was mad at me and I didn’t know how I was going to get home. I blamed myself for going home with him. I blamed myself for not screaming or punching or kicking. I blamed myself for being vulnerable.
If this is the first time you’re learning of these incidents or some of these details, there’s a reason. It’s because survivors understand the cost of speaking up. We know our lives will be scrutinized. What were you wearing? Were you drinking? Were you too flirtatious? We know our motives will be called into question- why are you trying to ruin this man’s life? We know even our recollection and interpretation of events will be challenged- did you really say no? Are you just claiming it was rape because you’re having regrets the next day? How can it be rape if you didn’t fight him?
While I have always been upfront about being a rape survivor, I never spoke of the other two incidents until 2016 or 2017. Why? Because I didn’t think anyone would believe me. Because I was sure they would blame me.
Almost every woman I know has a story. And when you immediately doubt Professor Ford’s accusations, you essentially doubt the accusations of myself and every other survivor. You tell us that if our truth is too inconvenient for you, you will just ignore it.
I am a survivor and I will not be ignored. You have the choice to be part of the problem or part of the solution.
by Flora Day
In case you haven’t noticed, this is #metoo reloaded, round 2, baby. #metoo original just gave us the nerve to acknowledge. It’s been a year. We’ve made ground, but we’re nowhere near done. So, try to put an alleged assaulter, with a history of misogyny on the Supreme Court? Oh, hell nah.
#metoo reloaded, women are telling the stories. Courage and bravery!
I can’t wait for the third one in this sequel, when we start naming names. All of us.
So all y’all predators/assaulters/boys being boys out there: get ready. Get your lists of women “you haven’t assaulted,” prepare the denials, then, eh, I knew her, and then the I was a boy being a boy.
We coming for ya, bitches.
Maybe #metoo 4th sequel can be a comedy, where the predators cry about how it ruined their lives, while we all eat popcorn and slurp coke, you know, the lives we should have been living if GIRLS could just be GIRLS!!
by Rose Madder
CW: Sexual Assault
I have been trying to process some painful memories today to share some of my stories. This is dedicated to all the amazing, courageous women who have inspired me to delve deep.
I was the most sheltered, naive person in my college. Most of my friends there were a few years older than me. One night, I met this guy at a friend’s apartment. We hit it off, and he came home with me. I assumed we were just going to fool around, since that’s all I had ever done before, but soon his clothes were off. I was so frozen with shock, I never said no. It took months before I realized it wasn’t consensual. I lost a piece of myself that night that I don’t think I can ever recover.
A few years later, I was out at a bar with friends. One offered to drive me home but then made up a bullshit excuse to take me back to his apartment. He made a move on me, and I rejected it. He put on porn and jerked off in front of me. When he was done, he cuddled up next to me, as I lay frozen in terror again. I couldn’t sleep at all, positive he would assault me once I did. Some of my friends are FB friends with him, so it’s especially lovely to see his face as a reminder of that memory.