November 2017*Content Warning: traumatic and explicit descriptions of sexual assault, drugging, rape culture, blood, hospitals, obsessive compulsive tendencies.  By Sara Onitsuka AFO Staff *Content Warning: traumatic and explicit descriptions of sexual assault, drugging, rape culture, blood, hospitals, obsessive compulsive tendencies. The Real Monsters I’m still afraid of monsters under my bed And just the other day when no one was home I hid I hid because of the clowns. I thought I saw one Out of the corner of my eye In every window, It was there. I’m still afraid of scary movies And I can’t watch the walking dead They’re ugly and make creepy noises, And sometimes I think The zombies might come for me While I sleep. But let’s be real All of that is imaginary When I’m crying in my room It’s not Because of them. When I’m crying Washing my hands raw Burning my back with scalding water Sobbing, Scrubbing, Scrubbing away, When I think I’m unclean And that my room is unclean And the world is unclean When I’m shrinking into myself? It’s not because of them. It begins with the men At the club Grabbing me Caressing me. Hey baby Why are you alone It’s the guy who used me for sex Basically Who got his 15 minutes in, His first fuck And then cheated on me Like it was nothing. (Like I meant nothing). It’s the man who didn’t use a condom Even though we agreed to. Who only asked If I wanted to use one after I protested. I protested And as he kept fucking me He smirked and replied, “Oh…they're in my bag. Should I get one?” Real monsters exist Outside of fantasy And imagination, And a monster forms In many strains. A monster rots in those who think I owe them sex, It festers in those Who take the drunkest girls home, It reproduces in the ones Who defend the others, Who delude themselves into thinking The monster now permanently seared into skin In that buddy of theirs Is just a removable mask. A real monster coerces you Smooth-talks you A real monster charms. Convinces you everything is okay A false sense of security Only broken when the façade is over. By then it’s too late - The monster haunts you, It invades you, It eats you from the inside out. And as much as you desperately Desperately try, You can’t wash the inside of your body away. Those are the real monsters. The ones who don’t even know They’re monsters. So take a look In the mirror. Look again. Do you see it? -written October 23rd, 2016, a month after I was sexually assaulted _______________________________________________________________________________________________ A year and a month ago, I was sexually assaulted while studying abroad. I met a guy on Tinder and we agreed to go to a hotel room for a hookup. I had been talking to him for a while over text and Tinder, and had laid out exactly what I wanted. I thought I was being safe. After we checked into the hotel and swiped into the room, I drank a little bit of wine, but not much more than a couple sips, out of a small paper cup. He immediately started kissing me aggressively and undressing out of his work suit, but that is mostly all I can confidently recall. The next part happened so fast. Suddenly, without allowing me any time to stop him, he was in me. Without a condom, even though I thought we had agreed to use one. I didn’t know what to do besides ask, “What happened to the condom?” He didn’t seem to care, mentioning it was in his bag. Looking back now, this was probably his plan all along. Regrettably, I stayed the night. We did other things. We ordered food and watched Netflix. After the whole ordeal, I realized I was bleeding, but I didn’t leave. Rather than being upset at him for making me bleed, I was somehow embarrassed at myself. Though it had stained my clothing and the bedsheets, I covered it up as best as I could so that he wouldn’t see it. I slept in my own blood until the morning, when I hurriedly changed and left. In a separate incident a year ago, I was drugged. I was visiting Vienna, Austria, and went to the bar in the hostel where I was staying. It only took a split second of eye contact for this man to approach me. We talked about our lives for a while, and he offered to buy me a drink, which I accepted. Eventually, he invited me to come outside and accompany him while he smoked, but I said that I wanted to go and sit with my friends. About half an hour later, my friends and I went back upstairs to our room and I hopped in the shower. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, but I tried to ignore it, thinking it was probably something I had eaten. However, immediately after stepping out of the shower, I became extremely dizzy and nauseous. My world spinning, I grabbed the sink in front of me to steady myself. I don’t know what happened after that, exactly, but I woke up on the ground, still naked, unsure of how much time had gone by. I got back up and attempted to continue my normal bedtime routine, but I became dizzy and passed out again. After the second time of waking up on the floor, I panicked. Somewhere in my racing mind, I felt I had been drugged. I remembered the story of a friend who had nearly died because of the combined effects of date rape drugs and alcohol. I was scared I was going to die there naked on the bathroom floor, and pictured not only how tragic, but how humiliating that would be. I attempted to put my clothes on, and passed out again on the floor. Finally, after (I believe?) the third time, I was able to change and stumble out of the bathroom. I tried to piece together what happened with my roommate’s help - she said she had heard periodic thudding in the bathroom for maybe about 10 minutes. I was initially reluctant to go to the hospital, but I decided that I might regret it later if I didn’t. Altogether, I sustained only minor injuries: a scrape on my back and on my brow, a bruise on my head, and a very minor concussion. But the doctors couldn’t tell me what happened to me. One doctor asked whether I simply couldn’t handle my alcohol. They found no traces of drugs in my system, and whether that was the drug passing too quickly or whether it was the hospital’s fault, I still to this day have no proof that I was drugged. All I know is that two unspiked drinks over the course of two hours would not have caused me to faint. I recount this not to retraumatize myself or others, but because I want to add my story, in all its complexity, to the #MeToo movement that took off on Facebook and other social media platforms last month. Though there are some very valid criticisms of the movement, notably that folks should not have to share their stories to prove sexual assault is an issue, I do think that these types of conversations, and a breakdown of the stigma on the topic, is important. Watching this movement unfold, and passing the one year mark of these traumatic experiences, I would like to reflect on my experiences. Not only to add to the public dialogue, but also to document, for myself, my slow but sure healing process. I share my story primarily to reach other folks who are in a similar situation or have shared similar struggles, which was the original purpose of the movement started in 2007, by a Black woman named Tarana Burke. In Burke’s words, “It was a catchphrase to be used from survivor to survivor to let folks know that they were not alone and that a movement for radical healing was happening and possible.” These two cases of men exerting their dominance and toxic masculinity upon my body were terrifying and degrading. With each act, they took away my autonomy and my sense of control. I somewhat expected the degree of trauma that resulted from this. However, I did not realize how hard it would be to feel any shred of validation. I have friends who have almost died from the combination of drugs and alcohol, and I have friends who have been violently raped. As I weighed our experiences, it was difficult to feel validated in my trauma, given the pressure I felt to compare my experiences to that of others. I began to interrogate myself, asking the same questions the world would and continues to ask me: How could my experiences possibly compare to my friends’ experiences? How could I be taken seriously? Should I have this much trauma, or am I overreacting? Am I allowed to consider myself a survivor? Was I sexually assaulted, or was I raped? Should calling something a rape be limited to more aggressive or serious instances than mine? Am I allowed to define these experiences for myself, even if there was no proof? Why did I stay the night after I was sexually assaulted? Why am I so weak? How much of this could I have prevented had I been more careful? And even - why am I questioning myself like this? I am a feminist, but do I sound like one right now? Am I a hypocrite? Why must I be so unfair to myself? I never expected that I would feel like such a fraud or an imposter in communities of sexual assault survivors. I wanted those spaces to be reserved for people who went through something legitimately traumatic, which I felt, despite experiencing considerable trauma, my situation did not qualify as. I became fixated on the need for validation from others, affirmation that I went through something worth having trauma over. I was angry that I did not have proof, and would never have proof, of being drugged, although that wasn’t something I could control. I was angry at myself for doing everything wrong after I was sexually assaulted: drinking alcohol, staying the night, not standing up for myself, and initially not recognizing that I was sexually assaulted (just having a bad feeling about it). I felt these bad choices contributed to my not being taken seriously by others. I wanted sympathy but I felt I wouldn’t get any because of my weakness and inaction in the moment. My own condemnation and invalidation of myself prevented me from healing, a realization I have only very recently come to. Another realization I’ve had is that other mental disorders and challenges in my life have added to the trauma. I have never been officially diagnosed with any mental disorder (mental health is another area in which I invalidate myself), but my anxiety and obsessive-compulsive tendencies have snuck their way into these experiences. Although my contamination Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) symptoms are not typically too disruptive to daily life, they have impacted my processing of these two situations. Everything about them was unclean: waking up on the disgusting hostel bathroom floor, and thus feeling dirty the whole time at the hospital until I was able to return to the hostel the next evening and shower. Sleeping in my own blood. And, though I do not subscribe to the notion that casual or premarital sex makes people impure, a man penetrating me without a condom, without my consent, making my insides feel contaminated. What do you do if the dirtiness is inside you? Even now, a year later, I struggle to write this. If I allow myself to think about it for too long, I will feel the need to clean myself out again. It is clear, a year later, that I still have major healing to do. I do not know how long it will take for me to stop panicking when I think about what happened. However, I have made progress. I have learned that stealthing, the act of removing a condom or not using a condom when it was agreed to, is just a euphemism for rape. I have stopped seeking closure that I will never get. It was unhealthy for me to continue to pursue a resolution; it made me feel stuck. I also know that I am far, far from being alone in the confusion and invalidation I have felt. While a year ago I might have been unsure of how I fit, and might have been hesitant to contribute to #MeToo, I can confidently say now that I have a place in this community of survivors. I am still learning how to survive, and still adapting to the challenges brought on by these incidents. Healing is not linear. And that is okay. To all the folks out there who might be in a similar situation, I see you. Although everyone must process in their own way, I hope you can take something from my story. Lastly, I would like to offer some advice to one-year-ago me, who could have benefited from what I know today. The night I was drugged, I took a photo in the hospital bathroom. I see pain, confusion, and exhaustion in my eyes, but I also see defiance. In offering advice, I speak to the person I see in this photo:  When your adrenaline fades, you will begin the long process of healing. During it, you will question yourself relentlessly and attempt to justify your trauma. Please know that your trauma is valid no matter how objectively bad the act was. Just as healing is very different for everyone, so is the level of trauma we experience. It is okay to feel destroyed. It does not make you weak. No one knows how strongly you have been impacted but yourself, and therefore no one gets to authoritatively comment on how you should respond. Forgiveness works for some, but not for everyone. Forgiveness need not be permanent - it can be rescinded - and anger comes in unexpected waves. Do not force yourself to forgive the men that did this, ever, but especially before you forgive and show compassion to yourself. Details of the situation, no matter how small, might add to the trauma beyond the act itself. Sometimes, the details can be the breaking points that drive you over the edge. Pre-existing mental health conditions might add to it too. I know you think the world is a scary place. In your fear, you now cannot help but see a rapist behind every man’s eyes. Despite society’s persistent attempts to harden and reduce you, you are vulnerable and powerful; you are soft and defiant. These are not contradictions. I love you.
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