and Life Goes On.

TW: rape.

So.  I was sexually assaulted by someone I loved a few weeks ago.  The police took it seriously, but it seems they can’t put him in prison because of there being no other witnesses.

It’s a heartbreak and a headfuck to know that he’s out there free to do it again and again and again.  One only hopes that those girls will go to the police too.

After running the gamut from fear to suicidal depression, I try not to think about it.

I hired a psychic to tell me if he was sorry.  “He’s not remotely sorry,” said the psychic, and whether that’s worth anything is another story.

Today I’ve been thinking about the point at which one moves from being a victim to a survivor.  I was raped at the age of 13, and I think it took until I was 19 or 20 for that to stop being a definitive part of my character, and become something had happened, rather than was.  If that were the case again this time, I would be 30 by the time I recovered.

However, there is so much more help available for grown women than for 13-year-old girls (although it’s a terrible indictment of the way we do things).  But four days after it happened this time, I was speaking to the police, being promised that if nothing else, the attacker would be scared out of his mind when the police came for him, and referred to the Independent Domestic Abuse Service.

The ease with which we understand what happened is also important in how we overcome it.  And of course, we have to realise that we will never fully know why it happened, or why it happened to us.  I will probably never see my attacker again, but even if I did, I could look him in the eye and say “Why did you do it?” and still I would have no way of knowing if what he said was true.  I replayed it to myself hundreds of times, trying to grasp what (the actual fuck) had happened – was it an attack made in anger, sexual frustration, a demonstration of power, a reminder of my helplessness?  A simple feeling that his orgasms were the centre of the universe?  I spent weeks chewing these over, until I found an interpretation that sits right in my brain.  As a child, I never found any such interpretation.  That attacker was simply a violent and desperate paedophile – not that I could see that at the time.  At the time I took it very personally, it was a puzzle to be fixed: what had I done to deserve it?

Maybe the survival took so long because I needed the age to see him as a vicious paedophile, rather than a hapless victim drawn into my terrible aura of sexuality.  Hopefully that would mean that this will be a shorter road.

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