This has been bubbling up in me for some time
now.
I feel the need to share, now more
than ever, because rape is still
readily accepted in our society.
Feel free to click on the links I've inserted throughout this blog, as they contain stories that hit close to home. To many of you, this story will be shocking, as I have not openly shared my experience outside of my inner circle of friends. Some of you will recognize who I'm referring to, and some of you will continue to believe that I was a willing participant, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
Evil lurks in the most unlikely places. Who knew that a tiny little seed of talent
would grow a monster rather than a star?
Who would have guessed that the cocky boy, sitting at the piano in the
high school choir room, was more dangerous to me than a stranger on a dark
street?
I remember the events leading up to that night, as if it
were yesterday. I was wearing a white
fitted tank top, faux suede brown pants (I loved those pants), and strappy sandals with a chunky high
heel. I was your typical invincible 17
year old. I had gone to downtown Madison with a couple of girlfriends, where we ran into some guys from high
school. One of the guys was having a party, because his mom was out of town. He had just graduated (this was the summer
before my senior year) and he asked us to join them. We had nothing better to do, so why not?
We arrived at the party, the only three girls there. I remember taking a couple of shots…I vaguely
remember kissing the boy whose house we had gone to…and then, nothing. Complete blackness until the next day….I had
never been drunk before. I had no idea
that losing over 12 hours of memory was not a normal part of drinking.
.
The following morning, my friend sat me down, and filled in the gaps. She said she wanted me to hear it from her,
rather than through gossip. Apparently I
had gone to this boy’s bedroom, and had sex with him. Do I remember it? No.
Was I a willing participant? In
that condition, absolutely not. Was I even conscious? I have no idea. After
being in his bedroom for a while, he came out to tell my friends that I had
vomited blood, was unconscious, and he was unable to get me dressed. The friend who was telling me this story was
the one who put my clothes on, and the boys at the party tossed me into the
backseat of my car, shutting the door on my leg a few times before successfully shoving all of my parts inside.
While my friend was driving, I had a seizure, and
as a result of the seizure, shit myself. Not pretty, but
an unfortunate part of this unfortunate story.
My friend took me home, unsure of what to do with me. She got me cleaned up, and poked at me for
the rest of the night…she poked at me each time I stopped breathing. This friend, saved my life.
As the gossip spread, my entire world shattered. In the version of the story that circulated
through my small town, I was a slutty girl who got drunk and had sex with a guy
who had a girlfriend. According to
rumor, I was a willing participant. In
reality, he told his friends before we arrived, “I’m going to get Emily Miller
drunk and fuck her.” I found out later, that he had never had
sex before, and wanted to figure out how to do it, because he didn’t want to
have sex with his girlfriend as a “virgin.” His actions were completely premeditated.
Rather than try to correct the story that was going around,
I descended into darkness.
I started making myself throw up, trying to purge the self-loathing
within. I went from the honor roll, to
truancy and barely finishing high school.
I told my guidance counselor about the assault. She advised me to keep quiet, seek therapy,
and not press charges. This was in the
late 90’s, and courts ripped young women to shreds if alcohol was involved in a
rape allegation. She was concerned that
I would be victimized all over again. At the time, I agreed with her. As I've grown into this experience, and the clarity that goes along with that process, she robbed me of my closure. I have had 2 different mental health professionals tell me that this was actually illegal, because she was a mandatory reporter. As a health care provider, yeah, I would have acted in advocacy of the victim rather than perpetuating the fear of victim-blaming.
I had been accepted into the University of Minnesota, as a
pre-med student. By the time I left
home I was so damaged emotionally, that there was no way I would be
academically successful. I lasted two
trimesters at the U of M, and moved back to Madison to piece my life back together. I was throwing up 5 times a day, and knowing
that I was profoundly ill, saw a therapist twice a week. I had the presence of mind to see my therapist
through this entire process, because I knew I had to fight, or let my demons
kill me. I often wondered why I survived that night, considering the medical events that occurred, and I clung to the belief that there was a reason I survived.
During the years that followed, I partied, drank too much,
and behaved erratically. I burned
bridges, and scorched personal relationships.
I knew I was out of control. I
was hurting the people I loved, but couldn’t help myself. I looked at other women who had been
assaulted under violent and dangerous circumstances. I told myself, “At least I don’t
remember. It’s not like I was raped at
gunpoint, or molested by a relative." I told myself that I was lucky, all things considered, and I would not allow myself to be a victim.
It wasn’t until I was 21, almost 4 years later, when the
darkness started to lift. For the first
time since the incident, I felt like the person I used to be. I loved life.
I laughed freely. Adventures outside
of Wisconsin presented themselves to me, and my whole world changed. I started to take classes at the local community
college, and the idea of becoming a nurse took hold.
Eventually, I moved to California, where I finished nursing
school. Recently, I completed my bachelor’s
degree and am on track to start a nurse practitioner program in January. I married my best friend, and together we are
in the process of building a life that I never would have dreamed was possible
as I navigated my darkest days. In the
last few years, I have learned to forgive the person who did this to me. Without him, many of the beautiful things in
my life would not exist. How would
things be different if I had never gone to that party? Who knows?
Does it matter? No. What evil was he battling that made him think
his behavior was justified? His road is
far longer and darker than mine…
My suffering led me to help others, to be compassionate and loving during a time of need. I survived to give back, and I'm grateful for each day of this spectacular life.
I’m sharing this, 17 years later, because my experience is
alarmingly
commonplace.
Every week there’s
a new story about a teenager who was at a party, raped, and
left for dead.
I thank God that my assault happened before
the era of social media.
Small town
gossip eventually dies down, but the internet is forever.
If pictures of my assault had been shared all
over Facebook and Instagram,
I don’t know how my story would have ended.
Evil lurks in places where good parents and a
happy childhood offer no protection.
I want to send a message to the new generation of sexual
assault survivors. You will get through
this. The road to healing is long and
dark, and this time will reveal who your true friends are. Love yourself. You are worth so much more than you know. One day you’ll wake up, years later, and
marvel at what your life has become. I
can’t say that the process of healing is easy, but I can say that it’s worth it
in the end. I want to hug you, cry with
you, and tell you it will all be okay.
When you come out on the other side of this, use your strength to help
others, and know that you are a survivor and not a victim.
