*TRIGGER WARNING REGARDING SEXUAL ASSAULT. 18+ LANGUAGE.
It's taken me so long to finally type this. It's hard to get the words to say what this all means to me. The truth is, it's taken over a year to even realize that I was affected by such an event. Not to mention I didn't even realize what had happened until I was sitting in my room, at the beginning of being in lockdown from COVID, utterly alone. Scrolling on through an Instagram feed I stumbled upon, looking at images of individuals sharing why they never reported, wondering how such terrible things could happen to innocent people who never asked for it, when I realized how it could happen. Because it happened to me; I was sexually assaulted.
The words are more or less still terrifying to write (I can't say them out loud), and the fear of my ex-boyfriend finding this and calling me a liar is very real. Maybe because I once agreed with him that I was a liar, and called myself one in poems written about and for him. After all, didn't I say I would have sex with him someday?
Well, this is my story. A story I've shied away from and hidden in poems and therapy sessions. My story I could barely share sitting in my bishop's office. Here we are, for all the world (or those who bother to come this way and read) to see and hear.
Sometime in the end of Spring 2019, I matched with a boy on a dating app. We began talking-like legitimate conversations that lasted days. I thought I had found this amazing guy. And he was for a time being.
I hated BYU-Idaho. I was dealing with a lot internally, and the thought of dating someone on campus honestly just sounded terrible. I wanted to rebel. I hated going to church as it was, and there was a part of me that wanted to show God I didn't need Him. This guy wasn't LDS. He also wasn't pressuring me to have sex with him (at the time) like the 20 or so other guys who's first lines were, "DTF?" (Down To Fuck for those who might not be familiar with the lingo of Millennials and Gen-Z's). The bar was already pretty low, I suppose.
Anyway, we met in person (I convinced him to drive from Montana, where he lived, to Idaho, where I was). We got sushi and he went along with my inability to eat in front of anyone (meaning he looked away once when I asked him to because I was too self-conscious to eat a bite in front of him), and he opened the door for me. We talked pretty comfortably and I was excited about the idea of having him as my boyfriend... Except that I hadn't kissed anyone since I was 16, a fact he later found out that night. Needless to say, we drove for a little, had our first kiss, he dropped me off at my door, and I went in to an apartment full of girls asking what had happened.
It seemed perfect. I portrayed a happy picture to everyone. On the inside, all I felt was loneliness. He bashed on my religion almost constantly. I was already in a bad spot, something he knew, and hearing what he had to say didn't make my life any easier. When I told him to stop, he just kept going. I was already angry at God, so eventually I just gave up and thought, "Maybe he's right. Maybe this is stupid and controlling. Who is anyone to tell me what to do with my life and my body?" He'd broken me down after essentially threatening that he was going to leave unless I committed to having sex with him. ("I can't be in a long distance relationship unless I know I'm getting something. That's how you create a bond. My love language is physical touch. I need that.") That led me to stare at the temple from a parking lot across the way and say to him, "I'll have sex with you." But I told him it wouldn't be then. It wouldn't be tomorrow. In fact, it probably wouldn't be until months down the road because I had no clue what to do about my religion and my trauma from it convinced me I'd go to Hell just because I had sex before marriage. I told him it would take me a while, but I'd figure it out. His response was essentially, "I'm not going to wait forever." Part of me wanted to scream, the other part wanted to cry. Why did he always have to pressure me? Why was it always "sex or I'm out"? Wasn't I more than my body? I was beginning to think I was no more than a hallow shell, a toy to be played with. He would always say to me, "Maggie, I'm a dog without a bone." And I was the bone he wanted. He always made these comments that made me feel like I was his property, always left his "mark."
Every time he touched me somewhere, I flinched. I didn't like the way he touched me and how many times I had to tell him no, or move his hands off me, but I was afraid of being alone, despite the fact I loathed when he called me a prude (which happened every time I said no to having sex or moved his hand from parts of my body), or blamed my religion for being the reason we weren't having sex. I hated it all, yet I couldn't leave. I pushed out all the bad, all the times I moved his hand and he moved it back, all the times he told me his love language was physical touch so we had to have sex eventually for us to last... I pushed it all away because I wanted to be wanted. And where else would I go? My religion offered no refuge. It brought nothing but anger and hurt. My roommates had no idea what was going on at the time and I was embarrassed to even bring it up for fear of rejection (I've heard enough conversations about "less actives" and how to help them). I definitely couldn't tell my friends because I had heard enough subtle (and not-so-subtle) complaints about me dating him. No one knew my struggle with depression, my religion, with him. At the end of the day, I was trapped. I couldn't find my way out, and most of the time I didn't really think there was a way out. I lived that period of time painfully ashamed of everything I was, so low I wondered if my life was worth living.
Every time we were together, he would say we were getting closer to having sex. "Not before long, you'll give in." I felt incredibly weak. My church had taught me that I was never to put myself in those situations, that I was to put off the natural man, that I had to resist that "temptation." So, the night it all happened-though I was sexually assaulted more than once-, I thought it was my fault because I was supposed to know better than to show up in his room at 10pm at night. I was supposed to know better than to be alone with him and kiss him laying down on his bed. I was taught to never do any of those things and that if I did I needed to repent. Therefore, it was my fault for letting him touch me the way he did, and I deserved to have that long drive from Montana to Idaho to plead for forgiveness from God.
Once he did what he did, and I finally found my voice that was stuck in the pit of my stomach, I told him I couldn't do it, couldn't go any further. And you know what happened? He broke up with me. And my heart broke. Not only did he legitimately violate me, cross every boundary I had set, he kicked me to the curb right then and there and I had no one to tell. No one to go to to say, "This is what happened. Is it my fault?" I had absolutely. No. One. So I cried on my way home and told God I was sorry. And I convinced myself I had to tell my Bishop because I had sinned.
I walked into his door and said, "I know I know better than this... but this is what happened." And I explained it. And what I got was, "Yes, you do know better." And then all the ways I should give myself to a fucking man before I give myself to him sexually.
I wonder if I had left the church then when I really wanted to, would it have all happened differently? That question haunts me. A year and a half later I still lie in bed and wonder. But when I talk to my therapist, when I told my parents, I said, "I think he would've done the same even if I had sex with him and I consented." Because physical touch was his "love language" and "that was the only way to create a true bond". That was his excuse. He would've always wanted more. No matter what, it would always be his fault. Because even if I had consented and then in the moment told him no, it still means no. No will always mean no. Silence or moving a hand, or anything else that I did or didn't say will always mean no. And (this one took me even longer to realize), I am not a liar. Just because I said I would have sex with him someday, doesn't mean I lied. I was coerced, mentally shoved in the direction of saying 'yes.' I was afraid. Even if that was the night I told him I was ready, and decided at the last moment I didn't want to, he would need to stop (the same goes both ways). But he would call me a liar and tell me I had said I would. Except, I never agreed to anything in that moment, never said yes as he moved his hands down my stomach to the top of my jeans. In fact, I moved his hand once and said, "No", but the second time was too afraid. I hated being called names.
It will never be my fault and I am not a liar. It took me so long to realize that. I carried guilt with me for so long. It was a burden and when I finally found the courage to share it with my therapist, with my parents, I felt courageous in a way I'd never felt before. Like this could finally have an end and I didn't have to be a victim forever. Of course, I'll always remember this. And it effects my relationships and how I date to this day, but it doesn't always have to rule over me. He doesn't always have to have control over my life.
This is my story. A somewhat jumbled retelling, but I think it's important to share because everyone, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, deserves to know they are not alone, and it is never their fault: It is NOT your fault. It is always the perpetrator. Never you.
I thought having said I would meant that when it nearly happened it was my fault. It never will be. That is vital to know. I am so grateful for my God-given love to write poetry because that is what saved me when I was first scrolling on Why I Didn't Report. I am grateful for a therapist who listens, for parents who heard me and felt my pain with me. I want to be that support for someone too. I am here for any stories, any experiences, anything. Adjusting Focus is a blog of hope and of understanding, listening, and creating a home for everyone. We never have to be alone.
Here is a poem from Alex Elle, a poet who's writing I have come to love.
---Maggie
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