By Erin Pike, Special to JTNews
Editor’s Note: This article by writer Erin Pike is somewhat graphic, and may make you uncomfortable, but we feel those sections are important and necessary to stimulate the discussion Erin’s situation requires.
For some reason I feel the need to say this first: I am a feminist. I am the feminist other feminists approach about controversial feminist issues. I am the advocate who will audibly react with disapproval to sexist stories told in conversation, on stage, or from a screen. I am the Bechdel Test police. I have fuzzy legs and armpits and only wear bras for special occasions. I am an old-school feminist — some might say a hard-core feminist. I am a feminist and this is my first time writing publicly about my rape.
Last month I was asked to watch and review “Brave Miss World” in preparation for the Seattle Jewish Film Festival. “Brave Miss World” is a documentary about former Miss Israel and Miss World champion Linor Abargil, who was raped and, through incredible strength and bravery, became an international activist and legal professional for victims of sexual violence. Abargil’s consistent message to survivors in the film is that they must talk about their experience in order to heal. The film was so moving and inspirational I asked to write about my personal experience, if there was an opportunity to do so.
So here I am, thanks to Linor Abargil.
I’m going to explain all of my fears, the reasons why the mere task of writing this article was nearly impossible. The largest fear is that people won’t believe me. That I’m mistaken, that what happened, somehow, wasn’t rape. That because I consumed alcohol, it wasn’t rape. That because he was my friend, it wasn’t rape. That because at one point we had dated, it wasn’t rape. That because I was sexually active, perhaps even promiscuous at the time, it wasn’t rape. That because I invited him to my apartment, it wasn’t rape. That because I was extremely emotional and unstable that night, it wasn’t rape. That because I didn’t have any visible bruises or cuts, it wasn’t rape. That because if people don’t even believe Dylan Farrow’s first-hand account of sexual assault, then what the hell are my chances, it probably wasn’t rape.
I’m afraid he will find this article and read it. I’m afraid our mutual friends will send it to him. I’m afraid our mutual friends will find this article and tell me it wasn’t rape. I’m afraid my feminist friends will be angry at me for never pressing charges or seeking legal justice. I’m afraid that by feeling so much shame and self-blame about rape, I am less of a feminist. I’m afraid my parents will find this article and tell me it was my fault. I am sad because at one point my rapist was my friend, and now he’s not, and that gives me horrible anxiety — am I a bad person for no longer being his friend? He was a good person up until that point, is he back to being a good person now? Should I have stayed in touch? Is it my fault he doesn’t understand what he did was wrong?
It was four-and-a-half years ago. He was coming to town for a convention, so I told him he could stay with me. That evening, I had an emotional breakdown, a particularly bad one. When he arrived late that night, he found me collapsed on the floor, visibly upset. And drunk. Initially he comforted me, as a good friend should, and we talked about why I was emotional. Then we ended up in my bed, kissing.
That is all I remember.
The next morning, he had left before I woke up. I noticed right away that I felt incredibly sad, and that my genital area was sore. I went into the living room and saw my roommate.
“Last night was kind of crazy,” I apologized, referring to my emotional breakdown and make-out session. As an afterthought, I asked her to give me a review on the night’s events, for clarity, if nothing else. That is when my life changed. She told me she had heard us having sex.
“You don’t remember?” she asked.
I had absolutely no recollection. My brain immediately flooded with defensive thoughts: I had wanted that, right? Since we were kissing? Even though he was completely sober and I had blacked out? It wasn’t rape because I had invited him over, so maybe it was my fault that he assumed I was interested in sex? How could such an outspoken feminist be raped by her friend?
I spent the following days totally lost and in immense pain. I needed so badly to talk to someone, yet I felt such shame and self-blame I was completely incapable of doing so. I confided in one friend, a mutual friend of ours who had dated him in high school. She immediately understood what had happened and sat with me as I called him to confront him about it. During the phone conversation, he confirmed that we “had intercourse,” but denied any responsibility for poor judgment, and insisted that what had
happened was “not non-consensual.” He wasn’t a rapist, he thought. And yet the facts were so clear: He had been in a situation of total power and control, a situation in which I had none, and he took advantage of the opportunity (rape).
I didn’t press charges. I thought the details were too confusing and unreliable, and — mostly — I didn’t want to talk about it at all. I was afraid I would never get my sex drive back or feel in control again. I wanted to be left alone to heal.
I myself wasn’t even able to call it rape until recently. In the years since, I had referred to it as “that bad sex thing,” his name on my list of sexual partners, sprawled angrily and scribbled and accented with a question mark (does he “count?”). I’ve been in therapy for almost a year now, and that has helped me come to terms with what happened. Without therapy I would probably still be in denial, and believe it to have been my “fault.”
Like Linor Abargil, I, too, become more religious as a part of my healing process. I began to attend synagogue and embrace Judaism, and I attributed the existence of a strong religious influence in my life with a dire need for existential clarity and hope.
I pen this account specifically for others like me, who may still be questioning whether or not their “bad sex thing” was really rape, who may still be blaming themselves and burying the memory, those whose rapists were friends, family, or even a spouse. Your instinct and intuition that what happened was wrong should not be silenced, and I encourage you to find support from anyone possible so you, too, can come to terms with the truth and move on to healing. If you cannot trust a family member or friend to support you, there are Internet and phone-line resources, both national (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network, www.rainn.org) and local (Harborview Center for Sexual Assault, www.hcsats.org). I did not know about these resources at the time, but I wish that I had.
If you have not experienced rape or sexual assault in your lifetime — even though you cannot understand what it’s like — you are desperately needed as a supporter and confidant to the survivors around you. Be there for others, they will need you.
It is also important to acknowledge that rape and sexual assault happen to people of all genders. As I stated earlier, I am a feminist. My artwork and my life reflect that truth, and my personal interests of dismantling rape culture and attacking gender inequality happen to be a large part of who I am, interests that have only grown since my experience. But I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge the fears that male victims face when talking about their experiences, fears largely due to the inequality of socially constructed gender roles. In short, effects of the patriarchy harm everyone, and those effects become especially apparent when navigating the complex issues of sexual assault.
I know this will sound trite, but the conclusion here is that rape sucks. Rape really, really sucks. And knowing that good people are capable of doing harmful things also sucks. It is reasonable to point at someone horrible and say they are horrible. But when someone you care about, someone “good” does something horrible, it’s easier to defend him or her and end the conversation. So this is me, starting the conversation: I have been raped and now I’m talking about it. Thank you, “Brave Miss World.”