Is it Still Rape if You Can’t Remember?

I just finished Unbelievable, the limited series on Netflix. I watched all eight episodes in two days. Don’t worry, no spoilers here, but I will tell you how much it resonates with me. My story isn’t at all like the main character, Marie’s. I’m not sure if mine even qualifies for #metoo. What I do identify with is the shame, the confusion and the absolute belief that you don’t deserve to have anyone feel sorry for you.

In 1995 I graduated high school. I was 17 when I left my driveway with my loaded down Chevy Cavalier. I moved to a college town three hours north so I could study journalism or be with my boyfriend- depending on the day. It was my first taste of freedom.

I was a great kid. I was the one who drove people to get drinks or drugs, never partaking. If I wasn’t home on a Friday night, it’s because I was at school trying to meet a newspaper deadline. So college- well that was something different.

Immediately I began partaking in all sorts of random, risky behavior. I had a job at a local pizza place where everyone was older. Initially, I went out to fit in. Then I went out because I could. Parties mostly consisted of a lot of drinking and random hookups. The hookups didn’t really interest me because I had a boyfriend. He was an introverted boyfriend that didn’t attend parties, but he was my boyfriend still and I mostly honored that.

It was less than six months after arriving in that town that everything changed. I was spending more and more time out of my apartment. I was trying to meet the needs of a full class schedule, my full time job and the boyfriend. I became friendly with one of the guys I worked with. Looking back, I guess I was too friendly.

He was a shift supervisor and he threw pretty amazing parties. All of my “friends” were there. One night of drunken debauchery he followed me into a bathroom.

He stood very close behind me. He was so heavy upon me that my pelvis was pressed against the lemon yellow Formica countertop and my face inches from the mirror on the wall. In the reflection I could see his lips moving next to my ear, whispering something about how he knew I wanted him. I closed my eyes. I felt his penis push against me and his fingers push just inside the waist of my jeans on my right hip. I gripped the counter tightly as to not be bent over. He turned off the light in the bathroom and opened the door.

That is where it should have ended. That is where I should have left. I should have driven or even walked the three blocks to my apartment where my boyfriend would be waiting for me- angry because I was out again. I could have told this man’s girlfriend, who was sitting in the next room drinking her beer and singing to Alanis Morissette. I could have done so many things- but I didn’t.

I was drunk. I somehow navigated the narrow staircase of his townhouse to the bedrooms upstairs. I’m not even sure if the one I chose was his. All I knew is that I had to lie down. I remember trying to keep my eyes open because the room was spinning and I did not want to be sick. I remember fighting that as long as I could.

The next thing I remember is his breath in my face. I was trying to place each element- cigarettes, licorice- an offensive bouquet. I wasn’t unconscious. I knew where I was, who I was, who he was. What I can’t remember is if I said “No.”

I pushed a hand against his chest. I recall the smoothness and the weight. I told him I felt sick, but he said everything would be alright. He told me I had the smallest clit he’d ever seen and how that must make it very difficult for me to orgasm. And then, he pushed inside me.

The whole episode lasted maybe three minutes. He rolled off of me and staggered back downstairs. I turned over onto my side and vomited all over the bedside table and whatever was on the floor nearby. I fell asleep.

The light coming through the blinds in that bedroom the next morning was the harshest awakening. I was still in this bed. I was still alone (thankfully?). I went downstairs to the yellow bathroom to wash my face. The living room was littered with people in various states much like my own. I found my keys on the bar. I quietly unlocked the front door, eased out, and shut it behind me.

It felt like an escape. I thought that I could leave all of the ugly behind in that apartment and never look back, but it followed me.

I kept my job at that pizza place and continued to work side by side with that shift supervisor. We never talked about that night. It was if it never happened. No, it was as if it happened all the time. I continued to get invited to parties, but declined.

One afternoon in August I was at work when I felt the sudden urge to pee like never before. I thought I was going to start my period because I had terrible cramps. When I went to the bathroom there was a river of red. Giant blood clots kept splashing into the bowl. Was I dying? Was this my punishment?

I called my mother who took me to the campus doctor. I was suddenly aware that I was still just a child. The doctor and my mother spoke in hushed tones and abbreviations I didn’t understand. What is a D and C?

I had been pregnant, but had miscarried. Unfortunately all of the blood and tissue lost had not been enough to prevent me from having a Dilate and Curretage. This is the same procedure used after an abortion to remove excess tissue.

I remember zero details about the next few days. I assume I tried to block it out. I knew the pregnancy was the result of that night because the timing made sense. I was no longer the sole victim.

This experience penetrated my life in every way imaginable. It affected my relationship with my boyfriend who actually went to high school with this guy. His friends convinced him I was a cheater.

I had my first HIV test.

I had to quit my job.

I didn’t know how to mourn the loss of that child.

I had completely shattered my mother’s image of her little girl.

I couldn’t focus on school.

I drank even more.

I told future partners that I had a very small clit- just in case I didn’t have an orgasm.

I sometimes craved rough sex which led to endless amounts of guilt and worry that I was truly messed up.

I saw a therapist for a while and tried to stop blaming myself. I just couldn’t let go of my own recklessness. I couldn’t stop being angry with myself long enough to get angry with him.

Less than a year later I was sitting in a restaurant and HE came in alone. He casually eased into my booth and we were eye to eye across the table. There were so many things that I wanted to say, could have said, should have said. This is how the conversation actually went:

“Hey, how have you been?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Yeah, I heard. I’ve been wanting to ask you why you didn’t tell me?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was my baby too ya know?”

I can actually chuckle at this conversation now. I can look back on it with razor focus. At the time, the audacity of that man brought me to my knees. It wasn’t surprising, but it was still so, so painful. After everything I had endured, I was still the one coming up short. I was still the one to blame and the heartless bitch that stole something from HIM.

My anger and hurt has subsided, but it lives just beneath the surface like a mosquito bite with a thick scab. If you pick at it, it WILL bleed. If you leave it alone, it will heal. Either way, it still leaves a scar.

I hope that whoever you are out there, your scars are healing too. I don’t talk about that night and honestly, I didn’t take away a lot of useful information to pass along. My takeaway is this: Don’t let one event dictate who you are. Try not to judge yourself too harshly, because there will plenty of people with plenty of opportunity to do that for you. One last thing- always, ALWAYS, be in your own corner.