I have learned in the past couple of months how to tell people close to me about what happened in Africa. It’s awkward and stilted and painful to tell, but I can do it. I explain why I was there, and why I was walking that direction that night, and why I let Jill run away but I stayed out alone. I describe seeing that man standing there, looking at me. But then, I can’t say much else.
“I was attacked” is usually the most I can say.
“He kicked the shit out of me” has come out, as an inappropriate though somehow manageable way of explaining.
“I got hurt” can sometimes escape before a sob comes out.
 The night of, when I called my mother with shaking, bloody hands, all I could say was “Mommy, something happened.”
 Sometimes the person just knows. They look at you with a pain and a question in their eye and they don’t say anything but you just nod and they know. Or sometimes they do say something like “Did they…” or “I don’t want to ask but…” and then they trail off and you give them that look that you feel like you’ve been wearing since that very first night and they just know. They don’t want to say it either.
 I have a feeling that my mother just knew, because the way I heard her wail on the other side of the phone from across an ocean can really only be explained if she knew this one reality. My boss took the phone out of my hands and walked away with my mothers voice when it became clear that talking to her was pulling me out of my detached state and making what happened all too real to me. Maybe he was the one that told her. I never did.
What happened isn’t and wasn’t a secret: more than enough people know.
People who you’re only just meeting for the first time give you a different kind of look. The look they give you is both sad for you and scared for them. You are a reminder of a terrifying reality in the world: and somehow they cannot forget that yours is the life they’re so terrified of.
Or maybe they have some morbid curiosity about what happened. They’d love to hear the details of how you closed yourself away in your room for almost a week after the attack and didn’t speak at all. Maybe they want to know about how your parents were thrilled that you were out of the hospital but while they thought you were asleep they spent hours trying to decide if you needed to be in a mental hospital. These are the people who talk in hushed tones about your black eye and stitches. They openly trade rumors about what scars are hiding under your carefully selected blouse and jeans.
 There are the ones who talk about you as if you died that night.
      “She had such a bright future.”
      “She was such a beautiful girl.”
      “You should have known her before.”
But you didn’t die. You might have thought you were going to, but you didn’t. You fought as hard as you could to protect yourself, but you couldn’t. Your only victory was to get out alive, and you did. But sometimes it feels like you have died.Â
You were bright and shiny. You were outgoing and beautiful. You were powerful but lovely. You were kind. You were trusting. You were smart, driven, dedicated. You were funny and happy and selfless. You were an asset. You were a joy. You were indomitable.
No matter how much you wish that night could be a secret, it’s not. Even if you never told anyone else, it’s not a secret. You know. He knows. He knows way too much about you.
 In my case, everyone knew by the time I got home. Some did me the courtesy of pretending they didn’t, but they did. Everyone did.
 That night wasn’t a secret. I can talk about it, though I don’t like to. I can put words to what happened. Scratch that, I can put most words to what happened.
I have never used the word rape out loud to explain that night. That is what happened to me. I know that. But I can’t say it out loud, and frankly, I don’t want to.
The word rape has taken on so much meaning in society lately. We’re living in a “rape culture”, and in the twenty first century, we’re not afraid to say it. We know that rape can occur in a multitude of situations to a huge subset of the population. We have a conceptual, legal definition of rape, but we can’t stomach considering the effective definition of rape.
What happened to me was what people think of when they hear the word rape: not the type of acquaintance rape that has become so terribly common at colleges that it has been renamed “campus rape”. It’s the stuff that people think of when they think of their nightmares: a stranger literally coming out of the bushes, raping them, and leaving them for dead.
But putting the word rape to what happened to me is telling more of my story than I want to tell. It’s telling more of my story than anyone wants to hear. When rape victims use the word rape, we’re not using the legal terminology. We’re putting a word to our own messy horror, and sending it out into the world.
For me, rape is messy. Rape is bloody. Rape is struggling under the weight of a man who weighs about a hundred pounds more than you. Rape is fighting with all your might. Rape is knowing you’re losing, but fighting just in case you might be able to get away. Rape is being furious with yourself for not being stronger, faster, more clever.
Rape is screaming and fighting and hoping but seeing no one come to help you. Rape is begging. Rape is saying “Please no. Please don’t do this to me. Please you have to stop” over and over and over again even though you know he’s not stopping.
Rape is feeling your muscles grow weak and sore and pleading with your body to do more and get you out.
Rape is knowing that you are going to die. Rape is fighting to decide if you want him to kill you right now and save you the pain or if you want to make it home and hug your mom and hope that maybe someday it will be okay again.
Rape is feeling him struggle with your pants and kicking and screaming and squirming because your pants are suddenly the only thing you have left to protect you.
Rape is feeling him kick you over and over again until you feel each strike not from any new pain but simply because it knocks the wind out of you. Rape is growing dizzy while he slams your head against the ground until you can’t see clearly anymore.
Rape is feeling wetness all down your neck and realizing that it’s blood but you don’t know where it’s coming from. Rape is reeling and trying to ground your soul in your body so you can keep fighting but not being able to see. Rape is feeling the ground rocking beneath you and realizing that your own brain is playing tricks on you.
Rape is the total defeat and shame you feel when he finally gets those pants off of you. Rape is feeling that he’s brushing your hands away more and more easily—while you’ve gotten weaker, he’s just as strong as ever.
Rape is listening to him unzip his pants. Rape is feeling him shove inside you even though you’re trying your hardest to keep him out. Rape is seeing him groan and tell you “you’re so tight” and knowing that only your boyfriend had ever said to you before.
Rape is that feeling in your chest that you’d never felt before but has now taken up residence in your heart for years.
Rape is feeling as soon as he is inside of you like you are gone. Rape is waiting for him to finish because now you can’t fight any more and every time you try to he hits you again.
Rape is hoping that you’ll just black out but never feeling any relief come.
Rape is feeling him finish inside you.
Rape is feeling him look at you after and admire his own handiwork.
Rape is the tug on your arms as he tries to pull you into the bushes where no one will find you.
Rape is finding some surge of strength that must have come from God because you know you had nothing left inside you.
Rape is running desperately to find help. Rape is the first person you speak to knowing, just by looking at your mostly naked battered body.
Rape is seeing your naked bruised body for yourself and knowing you’d never be able to look at it the old way again.
Rape is having to tell your mother. Rape is your mother having to tell your sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, grandparents.
Rape is flying out of Africa for medical treatment. Rape is four broken ribs, a broken nose, 58 stitches, a dislocated knee, a cracked scull, and massive internal bleeding. Rape is six months of STD testing because it’s impossible to know for sure what illnesses that man had.
Rape is getting home to your own bed and knowing that even though that’s all you’ve wanted since that night, you don’t feel any safer.
Rape is knowing that even though your family is putting up a tough face, they’re struggling.
Rape is avoiding mirrors and other people until the worst of the bruises fade. Rape is being physically unable to do anything to distract you. Rape is doctor ordered bed rest that forces you to spend all day every day thinking about what happened to you.
Rape is returning to school in the fall with whispers and pointing. Rape is watching your grades tank and feeling powerless to stop them. Rape is watching your friends act just a little bit different. Rape is feeling your future slip away from you.
Rape is feeling scared, useless, worthless, all of the time.
Rape is all of this and so much more.
People wonder why so few rape victims come out and tell their stories. People wonder why it is so hard to use and hear the word rape. The fact is, rape is a deeply private struggle that victims have not asked for. Some women can let people into that. Right now, I need to keep my rape to myself.
On bad days, everything you do is still touched by rape. On better days, you can get by a little better. As time passes, it does get better, but it never goes away.
It’s been two and a half years, and I still feel rape every day. Â
