I was 18. I was outgoing, funny and very sure I knew how the world worked: good and bad, black and white. And yet, when it happened, I couldn’t name it.
He was my friend. I had known him for a year. He came from a good family, and for months he had been telling me how much he liked me. I had told him more than once that I didn’t want to have sex with him.
That day, at a student picnic, he kept pouring more and more vodka into my cup. It happened in the woods. It was September, and the days were still long. I suddenly realized I wasn’t wearing my underwear. It had been left in a pile of leaves. I remember starting to piece the fragments of memory together in the middle of my drunken haze: My virginity had just been taken from me somewhere in the middle of the woods, not far from a stupid student party.
It was my first time having sex, and I didn’t even remember what happened. I had always believed that sex is supposed to feel good, and your first time is supposed to be romantic. I thought it would happen in a beautiful place, with rose petals strewn about, and that I’d do it with someone I loved.
My friends and I had talked about consent before, but in a way that made it seem like something that wouldn’t ever be necessary for us — and certainly wasn’t sexy. I even remember we laughed about it — that’s how removed from reality I’d been. “Imagine you’re on a date, everything’s going great, you’re waiting for him to kiss you, and then this dork asks, ‘Can I kiss you?’ That’s it, the moment’s ruined!” That’s how we joked back then in the Eastern European country where I grew up. How naive I was.
I remember fear and panic starting to wash over me as I began to comprehend what he’d done. I remember the shame I felt when another classmate asked if I was OK, and how I forced a smile onto my face and told him, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” even though I had just been raped by a man who was supposed to be my friend.
“I convinced myself that if I did not say ‘no,’ it was the same as saying ‘yes,’ even if I hadn’t been capable of saying anything at all.”
I now realize that out of all the people who were there that day, that classmate was the only person who noticed something was wrong. He wasn’t even a close friend. I wish he had become one. If I knew him today, I would thank him for asking.
Because I couldn’t accept what had actually happened, I decided what I had just experienced must have been due to my own irresponsibility. I told myself it was my fault for drinking so much. I blamed myself for letting my friend get so close. I wasn’t angry at him. I was angry at myself.
At some point, my mind decided to fully rewrite the story. I pretended this was how it was supposed to be — that I had somehow consented, and that it could be the beginning of a relationship. After all, I had already lost my virginity, so I felt I had nothing left to lose. I convinced myself that if I did not say “no,” it was the same as saying “yes,” even if I hadn’t been capable of saying anything at all.
In my friend’s mind, not taking “no” for an answer was what made him “a real man.” This false version of the event became the truth in my mind for many years.
In order to take back control after that party, I decided to make that day the official beginning of a romantic relationship with my rapist, to give what had happened at least some kind of meaning. After all, he had been pursuing me for months. He’s smart and funny, and he seems like a nice guy, I told myself.
“You’re such a sweet couple,” our friends and professors would constantly tell us.
The truth about what really happened came to me unexpectedly many years later. It wasn’t during a session with my therapist or while talking with a friend or family member. It was while I was lying in bed scrolling through my newsfeed on my phone.
I saw a post from one of my male acquaintances who occasionally posted about women’s rights and violence against women. The post said that “no means no” and men shouldn’t “ask a second, third or 100th time until they hear the answer they want to hear.” It said “no” is the answer, and men need to learn that.
I immediately flashed back to how proudly my husband had talked about the beginning of our relationship and how he had pursued me until I finally gave in.
He was right — I had turned him down over and over again and I didn’t consent to what happened in those woods. But I closed my eyes to that uncomfortable truth and replaced it with pretty phrases, like “our relationship started at that party,” which left out the awful details. I told no one that I had been incredibly inebriated and that it had all happened so fast I barely understood it, or that it brought no pleasure at all to my drunk, barely moving body.
How could I tell anyone? We were together! At some point, I even fell in love with him. He talked about love, too. In the months after he raped me, he helped me with my university assignments and gave me flowers — and orgasms, too. And then we were married and had a child. It didn’t seem possible that he could be my rapist. I didn’t think anyone would believe me, especially after I’d gone along with the lie for so many years.
However, once a door in my mind opened back to that day and the reality of what had happened, other pieces started to fall into place, and I recalled so many other transgressions, especially after our daughter was born. I remembered how he brought another woman to our home when I had a fever and just wanted to go to sleep, and how he forced me into a threesome with her. The next morning, I felt ashamed and disgusted that I had taken part in it. I was angry at that woman — and at myself — but for some reason, I don’t remember being angry at him.
I also began to realize I had never been taught to value my own boundaries. Even though I have wonderful, loving parents, I grew up watching my mom serve my father, and I never once learned what healthy conflict looks like. I didn’t know what personal boundaries were or that I could have them, let alone that they needed to be defended.
“I immediately flashed back to how proudly my husband had talked about the beginning of our relationship and how he had pursued me until I finally gave in.”
When I eventually began therapy, my therapist kept guiding me back to my own desires and asking me what I wanted. I had truly never allowed myself to consider that before. It made a small crack in my worldview, but I still was unable to fully see what I had lived through — or why I had made so many excuses for so many years. I saw a new path in front of me, and, though it was hazy and uncertain, I knew it led somewhere better than where I had been.
That night in bed, when I finally allowed myself to admit that I had been raped, I burst into tears. I began to curse my then ex-husband in my head — I called him every terrible name I could think of — and the rage I had pushed down finally began to rise up inside of me and break apart. I wanted more than anything to speak to him and say the word to him that I had never been able to say before, but he had died three years earlier. We had divorced two years before his death.
Since then, the only person I’ve told is my best friend, but even she has never heard all of the details I’ve written here. My daughter has no idea what her father did to me. She only knew him for a few years, and I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth. However, I have taught her about boundaries, about what can happen at a student party or anywhere else, about how saying “no” is always OK, and that she should never be afraid to stand up for herself.
This is what mothers are forced to do: teach their daughters how to stay safe and pray that they remain that way. But what about our sons? Why aren’t we spending more time ensuring they don’t become predators?
Last week, I came across a video of students being asked about the alleged gang rape of Jane Doe at Cornell University. Most of them were shocked and condemned the assault, but there was a specific comment that struck me. When one student was asked what should happen to the alleged assailants, he responded, “Probably expel them. Expel them and maybe even press charges.”
Maybe even. That’s where we’re at. For some people, prosecution isn’t even the default response to rape. Millions of women have experienced rape and many of them have been assaulted by someone they know — or even married. It’s time things change. I hope my story can be part of that.
Mary Burn is the pseudonym of a writer based in Europe. She is currently working on a memoir about consent, abuse and rebuilding her life. You can subscribe to her Substack here.
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