Unless you’ve been living under a
rock, you’ve certainly heard the news this week about a certain Canadian media
member being accused of sexual assault by several women. As a result, discussions have cropped up
about consent and anonymity. And, as could be expected, questions have surfaced
about why none of these women went to the police.
I must first admit that I’ve wrestled
with writing this all week. It’s never easy to come forward when you’ve been
silent for so long. But sometimes certain issues come to light, or certain
discussions arise that make you feel like you can’t be quiet any longer.
What I’m about to say is
something only a handful of people know.
What I’m about to say is
something I’ve never told my family.
What I’m about to say is
something I’ve never told most of my closest friends.
I don’t know Jian Gomeshi. I’ve
never met him. But I do know what
it’s like to be sexually assaulted, because I was sexually assaulted.
Twice.
The first incident happened seven
years ago. I was at a Halloween party organized by a friend’s boyfriend at a
bar on Crescent. I had been drinking, and didn’t know many people at the party.
I’ve never had trouble meeting and talking to new people, and so this wasn’t
much of a concern for me. I met a group of people that I began chatting with.
When they invited me to come back to their apartment for an after-party, I
foolishly agreed.
Red flag #1. I didn’t know these
people. I had been drinking. I shouldn’t have gone with them. But I did.
When I arrived at the apartment a
few blocks away, I excused myself to go to the washroom. When I came out, only
two people remained. One girl, and one guy. Red flag #2. She lived across the
hall, she said, and was going home to bed. She left, and I was left alone with
this guy. Red flag #3. The guy and I chatted about nothing of consequence, and
soon found ourselves kissing. I eventually stopped him, realizing that this was
not something I wanted to do, and he was gracious... At first.
As I got up to fetch my coat, he
tried to kiss me again. I tried to politely decline, explaining that I didn’t
know him and needed to go home. That’s when he grabbed me and pushed me into
his bedroom. He forcefully kissed me, and pushed me down onto his bed, pinning
my wrists above his head. I squirmed, but he was much stronger than I was. I
repeatedly asked him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He grinded his pelvis
against me, and I could feel his obvious excitement on my hip. I panicked and
mustered up all my drunken strength to push him off of me. I quickly gathered
my belongings and rushed out of there.
I headed back to the bar where the
party was, and saw a friend at the door. I was visibly shaken and upset. I told
him what had happened, and he convinced me to call the cops. We went to his
apartment to call the police and wait for them to arrive. I didn’t want to talk
about what had just happened, but I felt like it was my responsibility to do
so. I figured the cops would have my back.
When the police arrived, I
explained what had happened. I couldn’t remember specific details like the
address or the apartment number. I just knew it was somewhere downtown, a few
blocks from Crescent. I had moved from the south shore to Montreal only a few
months prior, and didn’t know my way around the city very well yet.
“You’ve been drinking this
evening, miss?”
“Yes.”
“And you went back to his
apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You know that guys have
expectations when you agree to go back to their house.”
“...Yes....”
“And you’ve been drinking. Maybe
you changed your mind. But men have expectations.”
The rest of my discussion with
the cops wasn’t much more helpful than that. They decided that since “nothing”
actually happened, and since I couldn’t recall where the guy lived, that there
was no sense in filing a report. So I didn’t.
***
A year and a half ago, I was out
at a bar downtown in early May watching a Habs playoff game with some friends.
I didn’t have a bus pass that month, and decided to walk home after the game.
It was about an hour walk, and I opted to use a busy, well-lit street as my
route of choice.
When I was just a few blocks from
my house, a man began making obscene comments at me. Given the fact that it was
late at night, and I had no interest in this belligerent stranger in the
street, I ignored him and kept walking. He approached me, blocking my path. I
muttered something about not being interested and wanting to go home. He pulled
a knife out of his pocket and held it to my throat. I looked around, and there
were no cars or pedestrians in sight. He forced me behind a closed grocery
store, pushed me face-first against a brick wall. I do not wish to get into
details, but suffice it to say that what happened next was something I
definitely did NOT consent to.
When it was over, I collapsed to
the ground. By the time I had gathered myself, he was gone. I walked the rest
of the way home. But I did not call the cops. I did not file a report. (NOTE:
I did make sure to get myself checked
out medically in the days that followed. I’ve been diligent since to ensure
that everything checked out and there were no long-term negative effects to my
physical well being.)
Physically, I am fine. But I’m
far from okay. Nothing has ever been the same. I don’t trust men in the same
way that I used to. I’ve had a series of dysfunctional relationships with
unavailable men ever since. I’m addressing it, and dealing with it, but I’m a
work in progress.
I’ve never spoken up about what
happened because I thought people wouldn’t believe me. I’ve never spoken up about
this because I didn’t want my father to find out what had happened to his little
girl. I’ve never spoken up about this because I was drinking both of the times
that I was sexually assaulted. Because I was walking alone late at night.
Because I was wearing a skirt. Because I put myself in situations that I
shouldn’t have. I’ve never spoken up because I’ve felt dirty, ashamed, and
humiliated. But I am speaking up now because what I’ve finally realized, after
all this time, is that it wasn’t my fault. I did absolutely nothing to deserve being sexually
assaulted.
This is my story. I am one of
many. I understand why women don’t come forward. I understand why women don’t
go to the police. I am one of those women. I have chosen not to let myself be a
victim, but rather to move on with my life and be awesome. That’s the only way
that I feel like I can regain control.
Anyone who knows me knows that I
don’t like to talk about the “big stuff”. If something really gigantic happens,
or if something is really bothering me, the odds are good that I don’t want to
talk about it. I don’t particularly want to be talking about it right now.
But I’m putting my name to a
story for the women who can’t. I’m coming forward for the women who can’t. To
them I say, I understand. Don’t let anyone tell you how you should handle
yourself after being sexually assaulted. Only you can decide what’s the best
way for you to deal with it, and what’s the best way for you to heal.
There is
no right or wrong.
I support you and whatever you decide.
I am with you.
I am
you.