Now is the Time for Men Survivors to Admit: It Happened to #MeToo
I, like millions of others in the country, tuned in on Thursday September 27, 2018, to see who Christine Blasey-Ford is; what she looked and sounded like and to see if I thought she was credible. I was also curious to see what Brett Kavanaugh would say, following Ford’s remarks. I, like thousands of others across the country and world, wasn’t prepared for what Ford’s opening statement would do to me.
Listening to Ford speak in her opening statement was rough, as was the proceeding Q&A session, which lasted for hours. Like you, I watched and rode the rollercoaster with her; from her having to relive what little details she could remember and successfully articulate, to answering what her “strongest memory” is. It was at this moment, with the question posed to Ford by Vermont Senator Patrick Leahy, that my own sexual assault memories came flooding back.
To be expected, by those who are at least somewhat educated with sexual assault and rape statistics, the Internet was set on fire with people’s own survival stories. The Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN, for short) help hotline received such a huge influx of calls that people were having to be put on hold. RAINN later announced that they had a 147% spike in calls during, and immediately following, the Ford hearing. In the midst of this slow-running and unending train ride that is the #MeToo movement, Ford’s testimony thrusted attention back on to survivors of sexual assault and reshuffled the deck to place victims and their stories at the forefront once more. However, this time is different.
What was on display at the Senate on Thursday, September 27th was shameful, to put it lightly. Using a victim of an alleged sexual assault as a political pawn, without supportive evidence, was a disgrace. Watching old-time, Republican men elect a much younger, female prosecutor to do their bidding, only to scream at their Democratic counterparts across the aisle once given the chance to speak (I’m talking to you, Lindsey Graham). Ford admitted that she was terrified but also that she felt it was her “civic duty” to come forward. With her story, brushed aside especially on the Republican side of the line, America witnessed a true patriot who was about to unwittingly become the face of so many peoples’ own pain and trauma; people who, like Ford, have worked to forget their own sexual assault horror stories.
Eighteen years ago, I was sixteen years old and the year was 2000. I was a confused teenager—I thought maybe I was bisexual but was beginning to lean gay. I wasn’t out to neither one of my parents and only a few, select friends. At that time, we gays didn’t have smartphones or the apps that are available today, oh no; we had to work to find and make like-minded friends. Around that time, I will admit that I did have some sexual encounters, but never intercourse. I can be honest about that, unlike that sad display we all witnessed by Brett Kavanaugh, the man who claims to “REALLY LIKE beer” but then cringes when asked about sex or blacking out (or sex while blacked out), as if to say to the Senate without using words, how dare you. I am not ashamed to admit it, I was a hormonal teenage boy. However, I would not consider myself promiscuous at that stage of my life, by even a far stretch. (See how easy that was for me, and I’m not even on a job interview. I have nothing to lose, whereas Kavanaugh has a lot on the line and still tried to sell us his devotion to his university studies and his faith, working out and abstinence.)
I eventually met an older guy named Vincent. We spent many days and nights, exchanging emails back and forth. He eventually talked me in to coming over to check out his place. I was scared at first but that quickly went away the first time I got into his car and we headed to his place; he was smiley, very attentive and responsive to my habit of talking too much. He had this weird comfort about him. Keep in mind that I wasn’t officially out, so it was nice to be able to talk freely about things I enjoyed; female musicians like Madonna and Mariah Carey or female-fronted bands like No Doubt… you know, that kind of stuff. Stuff that would have had me automatically labeled “Gay” and laughed at by the boys at my school because it seemed soft or girly and not macho enough. Vincent was my first openly gay, adult friend.
The first time I was over, we did get on the subject of sex at one point. I explained to him, when he had asked if I’ve ever had intercourse, that I had not and that I felt it was special and should be saved for that special someone. I, with rose tinted glasses, explained my fantasy of how great it will be once it is experienced with my first, true love. He said to me that that “was great,” and that it “should be sacred” and should happen “when it feels right.” I appreciated that, and it only made me more vulnerable to him. Not only did I like how cool and hip he was, but I enjoyed the conversation, talking about guys and now, my being open with him about my ideals and how I viewed intercourse as sacred. I hadn’t shared that with anyone up to that point.
What didn’t cross my mind at that time was that I was ripe-for-the-picking, naïve, fresh fruit hanging upon a tree of whimsical innocence. I didn’t even think about how I was fresh meat that had entered the lion’s den… that I was prey, being circled and about to be devoured by a shark. When you’re a teenager who is somewhat socially awkward and out-of-touch, your mind just doesn’t go there. I was more focused on being this open book to him and having him actually listen to me and I anticipated his response and his knowledge. I liked that he was 47, older and out with his sexuality. I enjoyed talking about his life experiences over our spaghetti dinner. I liked when he told me about his time in Italy and when he said lines to me in Italian (he was Italian). I just thought he was cool, and he felt like a safe place. He was also very attractive for his age. I went back over to his apartment a handful of times. In between those visits, we spent a good amount of time chatting and really building a friendship and trust.
I didn’t know then that this was all a part of his plan.
I was his underage, dirty little secret whom he was conditioning to become an easy kill. He was essentially building me up to let me down. The second-to-the-last time I was over at his apartment was when he raped me.
I remember being tired during this visit and if I remember correctly, it was kind of a late visit, about 9:00pm, give or take. I remember that he had a gigantic TV in his living room, with a surround sound system. He had put on a DVD of Madonna’s music videos for me, I laid on the couch and he said he was going to take a shower. Not too long after, he came back out and sat in a chair with only a robe on. I remember he had an erection at one point, and I remember thinking that tonight was going to be the night we fooled around. I remember being excited. We went to bed eventually, shutting down Madonna and heading into his room. I remember once the living room was shut down and before we began walking to the bedroom that it was dark. It was also dark in his bedroom… no mood lighting, just the moonlight, peering through the bedroom window from outside. Looking back at these little details now, if I weren’t so naïve then I would have taken it as a sign, a red flag.
I was laying on my stomach at one point in the middle of the night when I was awakened to him on top of me. I felt him slide his hand down the back of my boxer shorts and I asked him what he was doing. He didn’t say anything. I asked him to stop and to please get off of me. He said it was “too late now.” I then felt him trying to enter me. It was an excruciating, stretching, stinging pain. He eventually got all the way inside of me. It hurt really bad (I’ll spare the details but remember that he was Italian). I remember my mouth being wide open. I remember crying and salivating, but I also remember that I was omitting no noise, like a silent shout of muted cries. It didn’t last long, but it felt like forever.
I remember being numb while I was entered without invite and looking up at the window above the bed and seeing the moonlight that creeped a line of space inbetween the blinds and onto the pillow. I remember smelling his heavy breath on my neck, coming from behind. I remember his groans and his piercing, painful thrusts.
Once it was over, he said “go take a shower.” It was a command and not his typical, seemingly compassionate demeanor that I was used to. In just one moment immediately after being violated, I was downgraded to a meaningless fuck puppet.
I remember crying in the shower and biting the meat of the palm of my right hand to try and muffle myself. I remember watching blood trickle down my right inner thigh and down the drain. I remember feeling like I couldn’t get clean. When I was done showering and dried off, I eventually manned up, opened the bathroom door back to the bedroom, and crawled into bed.
That night and the next day I don’t remember either of us saying anything. Once I was home, I showered again.
And then again. I could not be clean.
I didn’t tell anyone and for a lot of reasons.
First, I wasn’t out so how could I possibly tell people I was raped by a man… let alone a 47-year-old man. Second, I felt guilty-- It was my fault it happened because it was my fault for hanging out with him to begin with. Also, I went to bed and had messed around with him, which might have sent the wrong signal so dammit, I got what I deserved.
Two weeks after the rape, I took a bus to his apartment. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do, I guess confront him and tell him how I felt? To my shock, he didn’t live there anymore. The apartment was empty. He had moved. It hit me right then that he was probably a serial rapist and that there were likely other victims. But I was paralyzed in my own guilt and I couldn’t tell anyone because it was my fault. I rationalized that it’d be too big of a burden for anyone to take on… for my mom and dad. Not only was I gay, but I was raped by a man who is older than my parents.
I dealt with this secret, took on this burden and this blame for two years, but not before I began doing coke, ecstasy, acid and abusing over-the-counter medications.
Not before I began drinking hard alcohol.
Not before I began huffing aerosols.
Not before I became promiscuous.
Not before multiple suicide attempts.
During my teenage and early adult years, I didn’t care. I liked that every day was a game of Russian roulette because I had no self-worth and didn’t care if I lived to see another day or not.
For the rest of my life, from age 16 and forward, I’ve dealt with intimacy and trust issues.
That is my story of rape and, unfortunately, Christine Blasey-Ford’s story is my story.
There are similarities in that my rape was years ago (18 years), where Ford’s alleged assault was 36 year ago. I don’t have any evidence, other than my word, however, like Ford, I would have corroborating witnesses who could attest for my telling them about my rape two years later when I was eighteen.
Because there is no evidence, it doesn’t invalidate my experience.
To the people who have said that Ford isn’t credible because she waited for 36 years; Saying she “waited” is not a luxury that she was afforded, trust me. She has spent 36 years, based on her testimony last Thursday, trying to forget about her assault by burying it. And when she wasn’t attempting to bury it, she was trying to work through it by sharing her experience with her husband, her psychiatrist and a few close friends.
I wish that we, as sexual assault and rape survivors, do just wait.
What Ford did, coming before the Senate and some 20-million viewers worldwide (and those were early viewership estimates), took real courage.
Simply just sitting around “waiting” to use something so vile and soul-crushing would be a gift.
What we sexual assault survivors really do is hope. We hope that if we don’t give the traumatic experience anymore life, it’ll just go away and suddenly cease to exist. We hope that we will get better and not continue to let our triggers completely paralyze us and/or sabotage us. We hope that our assailants don’t do what they did to us, to others. We hope we can curate real, meaningful connections, both intellectually and physically, with our partners. We hope we can get out of bed and make it through each new day.
While in the grand scheme of things I’m not exposing a potential Justice, who is applying to serve a lifetime appointment on the Supreme Court of the United States, and I’d proudly describe myself to you as a nobody, I refuse to make myself fully believe that. I’ve done that for eighteen years. Sexual assault survivors aren’t nobodies, and that kind of self-deprecating language is only a small part of the many reasons why we don’t report or come forward in the first place. It is a toxic, useless thought that falls under the broad, unfortunate umbrella of what life is like, being a survivor. Considering ourselves’ unimportant and as nobodies comes from a place of self-hatred and worthlessness… a sort of safe place we’ve all been comfortable in for far too long.
We aren’t nobodies and all of our stories matter, regardless of how people will try and water them down or brush them aside as unimportant or small. Or in Ford’s case, where her story is being exploited as politically motivated. Those are all subconscious excuses that become realized by people who are either in denial or have no idea what it’s like to be sexually victimized and violated.
There is never an inappropriate time to come forward with your story. 18 years or 36 years later, there’s never been a better time to transition from a victim to a survivor.
My story matters and so does yours.
To say we “wait” when what we’re really doing is seeking and holding onto hope, is an insult.
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