It Happened to Me: I Was Raped (x 3)

I didn’t realize that after I was raped the first time, I became a walking billboard to future rapists and abusers.

Announcement:

I love this writer and I won’t say anything more about it and just let you read for yourself, if you want to. I do want to tell you that the special guests I've been hinting at who will be stopping by our Sassified events March 18 and 26 so far are the ones and onlies, original Sassy staffers Christina Kelly, Andrea Linett, and Mary Clarke! Don’t be nervous - they're very nice. But get excited and do tell me in the comments who else you would like me to invite, if there's anyone in particular. I can't wait to see you all there!

Love, Jane

PS Subtle attire reminder, if you’re up for it.

PPS Let the title of this story be its own trigger warning, and if you do read it, join me in appreciating the hell out of Jade for telling it in the way only she can.

By Freema Jade

A current photo, which I tipsy texted to Jane after I decided to grow out my bangs.

The first time I was raped was very confusing. I was 17 years old, and I had already experienced more sexual violence than most people care to acknowledge exists.

If you are reading this and work for a publishing company, please give me a book deal, because it does exist, and we know that people love nothing more than reading about women being sexually abused (ahem, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo).

To summarize and grossly simplify it for the purpose of this piece: I was sexually assaulted when I was 13 by my friend’s 19-year-old boyfriend.

I dealt with the pain of this by finding my own adult male boyfriends to “protect” me. Or, more aptly, after I was assaulted the first time, I inadvertently became more visible/desirable/accessible to other predators as prey.

But by the time I was 17, I felt those days were behind me. I had recently fallen in love with someone my own age (for the first time ever), and he even went to my school. He had blue eyes and shoulder-length, dirty blonde hair. No more adult men with jobs and apartments and roommates and drug problems. No more memorizing the statutory rape laws (no idea if it’s different now, but it used to be: “14 is the legal age of consent unless the adult is in a position of trust, dependence, or authority” – only now do I realize that all adults are in a position of authority to a child, example 78587585586548 of how laws keep nobody safe). I digress.

For the first time in my life, I felt like a real teenager. It was bliss. Briefly.

Me at various stages between 13 and 17. It’s crazy to me that adult men were not ashamed to date someone in Jr. High. I remember the first time I met one of these adult boyfriends, and he went pale and then started stuttering “1985 (the year I was born), I remember 1985.” It didn’t stop him from “dating” me. I wish other adults had spoken up more. I don’t remember anyone who knew being concerned for my well being. I hid it from my parents obviously, but what about all the other people who did know and didn’t say anything to me about how wrong it was. Or didn’t say anything to the men having sex with me.

That day, I had gone to my friend Andrew’s house to hang out with him and a couple of other mutual friends. Andrew was the ex-best friend of one of my aforementioned adult boyfriends, John, who I had dated for about a year and a half when I was 14 and he was 21.

At Andrew’s we were having some drinks, smoking some weed, and watching comedy shows. I was mainly paying attention to his two Rottweilers, who were the sweetest. I was on my period and had brutal cramps, so I was also taking t3s (Tylenol with codeine).