*The content below may be triggering to some.Â
A few months back, Samantha Muckle bravely shared a story on this platform about her rape and subsequent choice not to officially report it. I began writing this immediately after reading hers. I was also raped and have chosen not to press charges. It took me a full year to tell anyone what had happened. When I did begin sharing, I only told my then boyfriend and a few close friends. This is the first time I’ve decided to discuss my story publicly, and there are still many people close to me completely unaware of what I’ve been through.
Two years later, I still don’t feel comfortable discussing the exact details of what happened one night my senior year of college in that boy’s bedroom. My discomfort stems from two things. First, there’s always a certain amount of pain that comes with reliving my trauma, and that pain still outweighs the catharsis that comes with sharing. The second reason I feel so uncomfortable only recently became clear, and it’s what led me to write this piece: I largely refrain from sharing with those close to me that I was raped because I am trying to protect them. It is their possible discomfort that silences me. This reason is almost never discussed, even in the current Me Too era, where so many aspects of rape culture are finally receiving media attention.Â
I am lucky enough to have close friends who support me in all aspects of my life and are vocally protest rape culture and victim blaming—so why did I feel so scared of burdening them with my own story?
I feel that this is a situation so many assault survivors find themselves in; the well recorded prophecy of isolation because no one understands what we went through, and no one understands what we went through because we’ve silenced ourselves around the people who want to understand the most.
The first person I told about my assault was the boyfriend I had a year after it happened. We were at a bar and ran into my assaulter. I began panicking. It was obvious something had triggered me, and rather than continuing to suppress it, I “word vomited” what had happened. I remember my boyfriend being dumbfounded, awkward, asking me if he should go up to him, say something, even punch him. I said no, and insisted that we leave. The next morning we woke up as if nothing had happened. We never spoke about that night again and, I felt, mutually agreed to forget I’d ever mentioned it. At the time, I was extremely hurt. I felt like I was an unfair burden and a damaged partner. It took me six months after that to tell another person. When I did begin sharing, my boyfriend’s reaction surprisingly became a repeated pattern in many of my friends: shock, discomfort, and then, tacitly agreeing to never speak about it again. This isn’t to say that all of my friends responded in this way; some of them, normally the ones who were survivors themselves, made me feel heard and comfortable sharing my experience (particularly Eileen, who also encouraged me to write this piece). But I was frustrated at how many of those closest to me were genuinely tongue-tied and incapable of having a conversation about my assault. How could those who cared for me so deeply not know how to provide me with a safe space where I could be open about my trauma and my continued difficulty in recovering from it?
It wasn’t until I read this article discussing the allegations that surfaced against Aziz Ansari in January that I began to realize the tragic normalcy of my experience. Rape culture has permeated the modern American sexual experience in such a way that well-intentioned men and women are easily capable of committing microaggressions (and flat out assault) against their partners. As a society, we are so paralyzingly uncomfortable with discussing consensual sex, let alone with beginning a conversation about rape. This lack of conscientious dialogue leads to doubting victims (are you trying to get attention by sharing this with me?), comparing victims stories (oh that isn’t that bad, what happened to this girl I know was way worse), suspicion (are you trying to make me feel guilty because I could have prevented this from happening to you?) or just standard denial (I’m gonna pretend this conversation never happened because I wouldn’t even begin to know how to help you process something like that).
Because of this, I wanted to write down some things that might be helpful to know in the devastating but far too likely situation that someone you’re close to approaches you after they’ve been assaulted. I’d like to note that these tips are not necessarily for survivors themselves, and if you are ever triggered by a situation and don’t feel that your own mental health allows for you to be a part of it, of course, take care of yourself and remove yourself from it. These are merely tips for people who wish to be allies of survivors and currently do not feel capable of doing so.
Be a conscientious listener.
For me, this is the most important advice I can offer because it dispels the notion that there’s one right thing to say when someone’s told you they’re a survivor. I was never looking for specific condolences or piece of advice from anyone that I shared my story with. Instead, I was merely looking for a sign that this was a space in which my experience could be safely shared without judgement and devaluation. Allowing someone the opportunity to feel genuinely heard requires patience and strength from the listener. Be aware that your friends might be compelled to share their experience with you at inopportune or unexpected moments. This isn’t to say you should hold yourself to a professional standard. You are not your friend’s therapist; oftentimes, all that is needed is a present and empathetic listener.
Don’t pressure for details.
Reciting details can be a very triggering experience for many survivors, and forces them to relive trauma. If your friend wishes to share exactly what happened, they most likely will. Pressuring them to do so can feel as though you’re asking for proof, and are therefore doubting them. When pressed for specifics, I always felt it similar to the classic “What were you wearing?” question that time and again is asked by law enforcement. Again, you are not an expert or your friend’s lawyer. Your job is not to gather evidence, but instead to provide them with compassion and a safe space.
Don’t downplay or compare.
There are many survivors of assault, each with different stories. One is not more valid than another. Each person is entitled to their experience, and it is harmful as a friend to rationalize away someone’s trauma by sharing with them a “worse” rape. Additionally, changing the subject to an assault that happened to someone else can be construed as an attempt to detach from or avoid the conversation. Unfortunately, because sexual assault is so widespread, I’ve found this to be a very common occurrence when I share my experience with someone. Rather than making me feel less alone by reminding me of other survivors, changing the topic to someone else’s experience can feel like my friends are capable of handling other people’s trauma and not my own. It contributes to the harmful fallacy that discussing rape is only acceptable so long as it’s in the third person and not personal.
Don’t encourage them to confront their assaulter.
In some cases, confronting their rapist could put your friend in mental, if not physical, danger. Furthermore, the likelihood of this confrontation re-traumatizing your friend is extremely high, and every survivor is entitled to process their experience in however many weeks, months, or years it takes them. While confronting one’s assaulter might be cathartic and healing for some, for many others it isn’t. As a friend, it is not your job to take charge of their situation and push them into uncomfortable situations, but instead, to merely be an empathetic listener. Â
Check in.
This last tip is also extremely important to me. After a friends confides in you, I suggest touching base with them the following day or week to see how they’re feeling. This isn’t to say that you need to constantly ask your friend to have a conversation with you about it. A simple, “I appreciate how much trust and strength it took for you to share that with me. I am so sorry and I am always here to talk if you need,” goes a long way. I would additionally encourage you to check in with your friend during moments when they might feel vulnerable, like after being a part of a group discussion regarding a headline about sexual assault or seeing their assaulter in public.
This list is far from comprehensive; everyone’s experience is different and there is no textbook for how to be a good friend to a survivor of sexual assault. We are just beginning a more open dialogue surrounding rape culture and the trauma that survivors have historically endured in silence.