Yes, No, Maybe.

Trigger warning: concept of rape

Two nights ago, it finally started to sink in. When I was 19 years old, I was raped. As I type these words, I notice thoughts trying to make me soften the wording. I will give those room in a bit.
This rabbit hole started with a BuzzFeed quiz to test your privilege. A friend brought it to my attention. There’s quite a bit I’d like to say, prompted by that quiz, but I will stick with one topic today. One of the questions asked whether you’d been raped. And here, I hesitated.

Flashback to my 19-year-old self. On what would turn out to be the first and only hookup of my life to date, I was out and about with friends. We’d met another group of party-goers on public transport and we’d hit it off, roaming the streets and clubs together. Amongst the other group, there was a guy. Long story short, we ended up making out that night, and, when faced with the decision of whether to join my friends on the first train home, or whether to stay, I decided to stay.

I don’t remember much of what happened on the way back to his place, or what we did there before the incident. Knowing myself, I can guess that I would’ve been tired, excited, nervous, and happy. Probably in the process of falling head over heels for this guy.

What I do remember, is him asking me to have sex with him. I remember saying no. I remember him saying please. I remember saying no. I remember him saying please again. I remember saying no. I remember him saying please, again. I remember saying okay.

A quick penetration later, and that was that.

No big deal, right? I had agreed, and I guess that meant I wanted it, on some level. I certainly wanted it the next time the opportunity presented itself.
I continued to see the guy for a few weeks, until he broke it off. He was 26.

The memory has always stuck out, but it wasn’t until recent years that I started to re-examine it.

I did not consent. My okay was given under pressure. I don’t think I saw an alternative. That alone is enough for me to cautiously, hesitantly, use the word rape.
I don’t feel comfortable using it. There are so many critical voices in my head when I do. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing, blowing it out of proportion”, “It’s such a big word to describe such an aweful thing, do you really think you’re on par with that?”, “Rape involves violence and intention to hurt. This was not that. Stop being such a drama queen. Stop being such a baby.”, “It can’t have been that bad, you stuck around, after all”.

The majority of me recognizes that these voices are reflections of things I’ve been taught about the concept of rape. Something that, as has become more and more obvious in recent times, our society thus far has been somewhat misguided on – and in large parts still is.

Which brings me to the subject of patriarchy – our history of separation, if you will. From each other, and from ourselves.

Because beneath all of the sadness, the fear, the vulnerability I feel about this matter, this situation -  there’s a much, much deeper pit of sadness that this is… so normal. I think that’s one of the main reasons why it’s so hard for me to label what happened as rape – because that resets the baseline and suddenly so, so many women would have been. The idea that every single day, women are confronted with behaviour that objectifies them. That every single day, women find themselves in situations they did not consent to. That every single day, the message is hammered home that our value is dependent on what the men in our lives think us worth. And that sex, is, somehow, part of that package. Something we owe. Something we must provide to prove our worth.

This might seem like a mighty tangent to you, reader, but this is a thought pattern I have identified in myself and in some women I know. So yes, perhaps the way it is phrased is a generalisation, and I, of course, cannot speak for everyone. Right now, I speak for those that I know of, with the assumption that we are not the only ones.

But there’s two sides to this. It’s not only women who learn their place. Men learn their place too, and how women should fit into that.

I hold no anger towards the guy. I’m certain he did what he thought was okay – what he had been taught was okay. And that’s where I start to get angry. Angry, and frustrated, and a bit hopeless.

How can we change the way we learn to be male and female? How can we change the roles, the behaviours, the patterns that are thought acceptable of the genders in our society?
And yes, of course, we are so much more than just our gender. Just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you’re assertive. Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you’re in touch with your emotions. Our lives shape us to be individuals. However, one thing that is part of our lives are the gender roles society inflicts upon us - that we inflict upon each other. For it’s easy to blame ‘society’, but what is society if not us?

But I digress. My point is gender roles do influence us. How that manifests is another matter.
A friend told me, after sharing some of this, that we wishes he could protect me. I realised very strongly in that moment that I don’t want to have to need protection. I want to live in a safe world. A world where people are aware of the concept of consent and what to do with it. Where we consciously try to break through the gender concepts that live in us. Where we genuinely want the best for everyone, not just ourselves.

I don’t have an instruction manual for this. I’m very sure there are good resources online. I’m also very sure that talking about this helps. Hence this post.