We were drinking.
We were high.
We were sober.
We made out with him.
We enjoyed making out with him but that’s all we wanted to do.
We went to his apartment.
We invited him to our apartment.
We didn’t say no.
We said no, but we weren’t loud enough.
We were too stunned to fight.
We didn’t fight hard enough.
We asked him to wear a condom.
We didn’t ask him to wear a condom.
We tried to bargain with him, offered this for that.
We knew him.
We didn’t know him.
We were wearing a revealing shirt and high heels.
We were wearing tight jeans.
We were wearing a bathing suit.
We were wearing a maxi dress and Converse sneakers.
We were wearing make up.
We were wearing lipstick.
We weren’t wearing make up.
We didn’t tell anyone.
We told our best friend.
We told the guy who found us stumbling down the street after.
We waited twenty years before telling anyone.
We didn’t go to the hospital.
We went to the hospital three days later.
We got a rape kit.
We didn’t get a rape kit.
We pressed charges.
We didn’t press charges.
We couldn’t remember his name.
We couldn’t remember what he looked like.
We couldn’t remember how many there were.
We changed our story as we began to remember more details.
We changed our story into something we could live with.
People who have been sexually assaulted know there are good victims and bad victims. Good victims, of course, do not exist but they are an elaborate ideal. They are assaulted in a dark alley by a known criminal who has a knife or a gun. They are modestly dressed. They report their assault immediately to law enforcement and submit, willingly, to a rape exam. They answer all questions about their assault lucidly and completely as many times as is necessary. They are adequately prepared for trial. They don’t pester the prosecutor as he or she prepares for trial. When they testify, they are modestly dressed. They are the girl or boy next door. They deserve justice because they are so righteous in their victimhood.
An ugly truth is that even this nonexistent “good” victim” is unlikely to find justice for sexual assault in our legal system or our culture at large.
Last month, Rolling Stone published an article about rape at the University of Virginia and they told the story, of Jackie, a young woman who was gang raped at a fraternity party. People instantly took sides, as if there could be sides on such an issue. But then it came to light that Rolling Stone made several inexcusable missteps in their reporting. Then they threw Jackie, whose story was told when she did not want her story told, under the bus. They said their trust in her was “misplaced.” They said there were inconsistencies in her story. Then they backtracked but did so quietly when so much damage had already been done. Now Jackie’s freshman roommate and her father have made statements that Jackie is not lying. In the court of public opinion, Jackie needs supporting witnesses. Her violations continue to mount.
A great number of people are gleefully celebrating Rolling Stone’s retraction because now they can hold on to their fervent believe that rape is not epidemic, that such terrible things do not happen with alarming frequency. Their glee provides quite a display.
I’m not a journalist, though the more I write nonfiction, the more I learn the rules of that game and why those rules matter. At first I did not understand the importance of the reporter, Sabrina Rubin Erdely, neglecting to interview the alleged rapists. I don’t care what the alleged rapists have to say for themselves. What could they possibly offer to the reportage other than, “no comment”? Now, though, I understand the importance of at least trying to verify a story. I understand how it was in Jackie’s best interests that Rolling Stone report the story properly and thoroughly. I understand how Rolling Stone failed this young woman and did a disservice to all survivors of sexual assault.
Here we are, once again having to fight for victims to be believed about something too horrible to invent.
I am a bad victim. I told no one what happened to me for a very long time. The boy who offered me up to his friends, I let him continue fucking me after the rape because my body didn’t matter. What I wanted did not matter. The kids at school said I was a slut so I became a slut. I put myself in dangerous or unhealthy situations for the next twenty years, longer if I am being honest, because that’s what I deserved, because I was trying to get back to that breaking moment, in search of what, I am not sure. I destroyed my body in more ways than one and am now in the process of undestroying that same body. I did what I had to do. I try not to carry too much shame with me from one day to the next.
Most anyone who has survived sexual assault is a bad victim in one way or another. There is no script we follow. There are inconsistencies in our stories and our choices. At first we simply try to survive and, when we are lucky, we try to live as best we can.
Tags: a broken justice system, rape culture, rolling stone, survivors, the butter, UVA, victims, willful delusions
He was your boyfriend and you didn’t break up with him for another year.
Everything about this Rolling Stone debacle hurts so much, and is unbelievably damaging.
I’m worried about Jackie. I hope she’s doing OK and has people taking care of her.
Me too sister
Hearing others’ stories about being a bad victim helps me in the struggle to carry less shame forward each day. Thanks for writing and sharing this.
We traveled all the way to Venezuela to see him
I, too, was initially thinking “this is a story we don’t need both sides to,” but now I also agree with you. My heart hurts for all the women whose truths become silenced because of this.
I was drunk. I went to the bar to flirt because I was angry with an ex. When it started happening in the back of his friend’s darkened restaurant, I didn’t resist, I didn’t fight, I couldn’t do anything but follow along in shock. I made him finish as quickly as possible. I slapped him in the face. He didn’t understand why I was upset. I let him talk me into staying. I let him give me a ride home. I let him have my phone number.
I knew, as it was happening, that I was a bad victim. That he could say I wanted it, even though everything inside me was screaming. I knew nobody would believe me. I knew how I would be treated. I knew I didn’t want to deepen the cut. I have never told anyone.
Thank you for telling us. That’s incredibly fucked up, and I’m so sorry it happened to you.
We were best friends with him before, and for a long time after.
We made out with him again after.
We drank alcohol again in his presence after.
We still loved him after.
Bad victim solidarity.
(I was a kid. I don’t remember clearly. It’s like a bunch of bad dreams except I know it happened.)
Ugh comment got eaten, trying again
Same here, I did/still do get a lot of “well then maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that, stop thinking about it!” OR “you should have reported it! You still should report it!”
And I sometimes wonder that even though it ruined part of my life, will always affect part of my life, if I were to ever coinfront them about it it would be a “oh that? You’re still thinking about that?” I really doubt it was ever a big deal to them, and they’ve gone on with their lives swimmingly, I’ve no reason to think differently.
We didn’t know what to say when he started taking our clothes off, so we mumbled “okay.”
We continued to date him afterward.
We let his friends call us trash.
We forced ourselves to forget every and any detail.
We didn’t even know we could call it assault, so for 15 years we just called it bad sex.
“We didn’t even know we could call it assault, so for 15 years we just called it bad sex.”
Yes.
We asked where he was going because we wanted to go with him.
We went willingly to his apartment.
We had known him for three years.
In agreement with benlehman and other above commenters: Bad Victim Solidarity.
“But maybe he didn’t mean to.”
“It just doesn’t sound like abuse to me.”
“You need to move on.”
I guarantee that the man who abused me and the pastor who came right to the edge of calling me a liar don’t ever think of me. But five years later, I still think of them almost every day.
We willing hopped on his scooter
We didn’t know how to get home or have a cell phone and begged for directions
We met his roommate
We said fuck you when he finally dropped us off
We apologized to our roommate for disappearing
Thank you for this.
We came to his hotel room when we were drunk and disappointed in love. We didn’t tell him to stop.
Oh Roxane, thank you so much for this. I’m surprised by how much I needed to hear the words.
We were eleven
She was thirteen
No one had told us about consent
So we didn’t say no
Girls don’t do that to other girls.
During the Strauss-Kahn case, I knew a woman who worked with the DA. Before they dismissed the chargers, she told me in an almost offhand way that the woman who accused DSK was the worst victim they’ve ever dealt with. It is fucking depressing how common the narrative of the unreliable victim is used to undermine everything.
It was a choice between staying there and walking out alone into the city at night to call for another ride, so we stayed there and let it happen.
We thought it couldn’t happen to people like us.
We felt like it wasn’t worth saying no to big things when no had already been ignored around small things.
We said yes to one thing and then didn’t say stop when it escalated into something else.
We worried about making the other person angry.
We stayed because we were lonely.
We stayed because we needed validation.
We stayed because we were scared of explicitly turning them down.
Hell, sometimes we even stayed because we really wanted to finish reading a piece of their comic book collection.
This hits so close, you don’t even know. Well, no, you do know. And thank you.
I love you all and I wish you all the space and love and acceptance you need in order to be exactly who you are.
I was 14 and, knowing nothing about boundaries and having no self-esteem, it didn’t occur to me to say “no” or “stop.” I just froze and figured, OK, I guess this is happening now.
I also had no idea that it doesn’t have to be done with a dick to be rape. Apparently, no one else did, either – my boarding school gave me the same punishment as the rapist. More than a decade later, I read the details of the Steubenville case, looked up the legal definition, and it finally clicked.
Roxane, thank you so much for writing this.
“OK, I guess this is happening now.”
This is the recurring thought, nearly exactly, every time a man pushes, takes, violates a boundary. Oh, you’re going to grab my breast at a restaurant, in front of my mom? Okay, I guess this is happening now. Oh, you’re going to say I’m too ugly and fat to say no to you and mean it? Okay, I guess this is happening now. Oh, you’re going to call me a cunt in line at the bank? Okay, I guess this is happening now.
It’s such a sad, sick thought, and it holds so much, but mostly: the shock, and the complete unsurprise. Of course this is happening/how could this possibly be happening. Okay. What else do you say to that? Okay.
Same here. That’s thought is why I stopped resisting. Because I figure well if I go along with it then it’s not “rape”.
So many people don’t realize, nobody wants it to be rape LESS than we do. Especially considering the way our society stigmatizes victimhood. I doubt anyone is psychologically equipped to readily accept being raped, yet still feel like a fully functional individual who matters. Like many other deeply shitty things, it just doesn’t process that easily.
“Of course this is happening/how could this possibly be happening. Okay. What else do you say to that?” – exactly. I might quote you on that in the future if/when I try to explain it.
i was unaware of how urgently i needed to read this: “We changed our story as we began to remember more details. We changed our story into something we could live with.”
We had talked about fucking.
We probably would have said yes.
We were too calm when we told our story to the authorities. A real victim would be more traumatized.
We were too hysterical when we told our story to the authorities. We’re looking for attention.
i absolutely love this- it encompasses so many of my feelings (and guilt) for being a ‘bad victim’.
We gave him a hand job
We blacked out
We didn’t realize it went further until later
We were drinking. We kissed him at the party and went to his room. We were impressed by his academic accomplishments and liked his accent. We told him he was “cute.” We had been trying to meet a guy.
We were too disoriented to find our coat. We didn’t tell him “no” a second time right before he did it because we didn’t know what was happening. We were too confused to tell him to stop right away. When we told him to stop, he did (this is what makes me feel like the “worst” victim.) We didn’t know if he wore a condom. We didn’t know what it was like to have consensual sex.
We didn’t know him. We gave him our phone number and friended him back on Facebook. We didn’t remember specifically saying “no” until the next morning. We responded when he messaged us “:)” the next day and asked how we were doing. We ignored his next messages without any words of rejection or accusations. We didn’t realize it was “sexual assault” for weeks afterward even though we cried all the time over losing our virginity to him and the memories of the pain. We said, “I told him I wouldn’t have sex with him, and then he was having sex with me, but I don’t know what happened.” We didn’t realize how deeply traumatic the experience was until we had consensual sex 3 months later. We didn’t tell our mom about it until the other boy hurt us, and we had a complete breakdown over both guys. We cried more over the other boy who hurt us. We told everyone.
we were 12
we didn’t say no because we wanted them to like us and we liked the way they made us feel and they were older so they knew better
she was a woman and they do not rape
I hear you and I love you.
He was my husband
It was our wedding night
Oh, honey, I hug you if that’s within your comfort zone, or I sit with you with your head on my shoulder, or I hold your hand, or I pour you a cup of tea and/or whiskey — whatever works for you. <3
We were in college. College is supposed to be all about sex.
College is where boys like him (and girls like me), who couldn’t get dates in high school, finally get to have sex.
He was my first boyfriend.
College is supposed to be all about sex. What was wrong with us? Were we chicken? Were we gay? Were we childish?
We stayed with him for four years after. When our body shut down because it knew, we stayed with him under we learned to override that shutdown and have sex on demand.
We knew the next boyfriend would expect that skill.
We also knew there would likely be no other option for a long-term relationship because we were ugly, weird, and too smart.
Thank you for writing this. It is both furious and so, so kind. I’m grateful to have you advocating for us.
I was a child.
He was my family, so I kept loving him.
I still can’t remember everything, but I also know exactly what happened.
I didn’t know it was wrong until a decade later. I thought I was just weak.
This is also my story, thank you so much for sharing it.
We were seven, he was thirteen. He was our family. He is our family. We hatefully, begrudgingly said “fine,” and it only lasted a few minutes. It was his tongue on my genitals; he said he only wanted to make us feel good.
We haven’t forgiven him; we locked away that version of him and looked for another one.
A decade. We forgot for a decade. We’re still not sure if it was really assault or if we’re just looking for excuses to feel sad. Yet we think of it every single day.
We cannot tell anyone because we have to protect him.
Thank you for sharing and thank you for your strength. I love you.
We kissed him back but never invited him back to our hotel room.
We giggled when we tried to shrug him off as he wrapped himself around our back and grabbed our breasts as we tried to get away to our room.
When we told him he wasn’t coming in and he forced us up against the door, we half-heartedly kissed him back, half-heartedly shoved him away, because shouldn’t we be flattered a man wanted us?
A man wanted us. You’re welcome.
This is heartbreaking. I love you.
He was our boyfriend and we loved him. We thought this is my duty as his girlfriend. He deserves to do what he wants with me. We told our best friend she said we wanted it. We never told anyone else.
Yes, the messages we get about being “dutiful” girlfriends — like this is just part of the deal. 🙁
Thank you. It’s healing to know someone understands
There was a thing on the news yesterday, with a Bad Victim. My mother didn’t believe her. “You understood it was wrong,” she said to me. “And you were younger than her.” I had to try to explain – because I was a Good Victim, or at least a Good Enough victim, but I still know what it’s like. I spoke up – but not until after he was gone, said everything was fine when my parents called and prayed they would understand I didn’t mean it. I said no – but when he kept asking I relented. I know how – confused – messed up – pliant people get when confronted with a thing that *should not be happening why is this happening*. I had to try to explain.
She still doesn’t understand. But she believes me, at least. I have that.
We accepted money from him. We kept in contact with him for decades afterwards. We thought about rape and sexual assault and child sex abuse a million times before we made the connection. We found it hard to make the connection because he didn’t have a trench coat and there wasn’t threatening music playing every time he walked into a room.
We were already having sex, but he said he’d use a condom
When we said stop, he choked us. It happened so fast.
We didn’t think we would be the type to freeze up like that, to go limp and let it happen.
We’re supposed to fight.
It was terrifying how strong he was.
We couldn’t breathe.
He kept saying ‘you like it.’
We were still bleeding the next day.
We were in clinics getting tested for HIV for months.
But guys aren’t victims.
We’re just punchlines.
You’re victims just the same. No matter what society says, it’s wrong, and it shouldn’t happen to anyone. I’m sorry it happened to you.
He started when we were in 6th grade, in 1972.
He said he would kill our mother and brother if we told anyone and no one would believe us anyway.
We thought we were the only person in the world this was happening to.
When we read the Dear Abby column in the newspaper about it happening to someone else we cut it out and hid it under our mattress for comfort.
We weren’t alone.
This breaks my heart because I fit the good victim narrative (a stranger accosted me in a dark alley and raped me at gun point) and it doesn’t make anything better. As soon as I got away from him I started building up my defenses against imagined interlocutors-what was I doing walking there alone? Why didn’t I scream? Why did I let him take me inside? He even called me a bad victim before he pulled my clothes off: “good women don’t wear shorts that short, you must have wanted this to happen.”) And I call myself a bad victim in my head all the time because while it was happening I pretended it was just a shitty consensual hook up and did my best to turn him on so I could make him come faster. I can’t forgive myself for this even knowing that I did it because I was afraid he would kill me otherwise.
I know a think this way because another man told me I would get raped as punishment for being slutty and loving sex. Every time we hear a victim’s character questioned and maligned it puts us in our place. Knowing it’s not true helps but doesn’t silence any of the voices of blame in my head.
In no way shape or form was this your fault. There is nothing wrong with enjoying consensual sex. You did what you had to in order to survive. You are strong, you are smart, you are beautiful. Don’t let the voices drown out who you truly are. You are not alone.
We had been talked into trying anal sex and did not like it or want to do it again. We thought he respected our thoughts on the matter.
We always sleep deeply and one night a week or so later he managed to have his way while we slept and he pulled out when he realized we were not so asleep anymore.
We thought we had shat the bed until we woke up completely.
We did not tell him to leave our first apartment in those wee hours of the night.
We were a couple for another 2 years until he slapped us during an all-too-common argument, and we finally (luckily) realized it was time time to break up.
We struggled with college and eventually dropped out. We found a journal kept for a class taken during that time and it was hard to read.
We only admitted that night was rape a few years ago, 20 years after it happened.
We were at a friend of a friend’s home. We were on the bathroom floor, drunk and vomiting into the toilet. He brought us water and lead us to his bed. We were ok with kissing but didn’t want to go farther. We gave in because he wasn’t hearing no. We woke up ashamed and covered in hickeys. We cried in the shower when we got home. We blamed ourselves because we had said yes eventually. It took years to realize what happened to us wasn’t ok.
We were molested by our cousin from the age of 9 to 13. We were raped by our boyfriend at 19 and gang raped at 23. We rarely revisit these hurtful past violations to our body, mind and spirit. We are very affected by what our body has been through. We ponder a lot more lately on the past. We just want to forget and hurt no more. We find it hard to love our body because it’s so broken. We pray God will heal us.
We thought he was our friend.
We let him in through our bedroom window.
We didn’t want to kiss him the first time but let him anyway.
We told him to stop but he was too strong.
We had bruises for weeks and convinced ourselves they didn’t hurt.
We continued letting him use us afterwards.
We told ourselves we loved him, that he loved us.
We believed him when he told us we were slutty, that that was why he chose us.
We stayed with him because we were lonely.
We saw him with another girl and let her believe it was our fault, not his.
We couldn’t be intimate with other men for years.
We needed to write this, to read this to remember that although we may have been ‘bad’ victims, what happened to us was real and it hurt.
She was my girlfriend and he was a guest at a family party.She got hammered and passed out and so did his girlfriend and he chose to rape my girlfriend while his was there unconscious.We are going to court for assault causing bodily harm and he deserved what he got.We might go to jail but I will do anything for her because I love her.He treated her like a piece of meat and we made him the victim.He is such a coward and she had a strange attraction to him abd that hurt like hell.We are doing better now and he is going to court for sexual assault charges.The crown is not supportive and even put blame on her.Fuck victim blame!