My high school sex education class covered everything from how to put on a condom to the various, horrific STDs you could catch if you had premarital sex. On rare, special occasions, our teacher, who doubled as the football coach, would roll in one of those old T.V.s, the ones with the straps, and we’d watch an “educational” program featuring campy high schoolers from the early ’90s acting out awkward teen sex scenarios. We were taught that sex should be feared. Or, to quote the great Tina Fey: “Don’t have sex, because you will get pregnant and die!”
Sex wasn’t a taboo in my family. I never hid anything from my parents; I didn’t have to. Our single-story house didn’t really allow for much sneaking out or secrecy anyway. I’ve been openly bisexual around them since I was 16. My parents warned me about the dangers of teen pregnancy. They taught me about safe sex, my father advising me to “always keep a condom in your wallet.”
But, for all the lessons and openness and acceptance I was fortunate to have growing up, there was one thing my parents couldn’t teach me: how to survive life after being raped.
The apartment was dark and cramped, but well-decorated. A queen bed was in the center, occupying most of the room. New York apartments, right? The smell of cheap beer and stale cigarettes hung in the air, coming from an ashtray that held what could’ve been days or months’ worth of cigarettes. I shouldn’t be here.
“Can I get you a drink?” My head nodded, on autopilot, and I took the beer I was offered. I was 18. Much of the conversation remains a blur; questions were racing around my head, bouncing, pounding off the sides. “Where are you from? How long have you lived here? You’re 18, right?”
I chugged my beer. I wanted to move this along, to get away. He offered me another drink. This time, his choice. I said yes. I didn’t know what else to say. The taste and smell overwhelmed me, a taste I learned later was absinthe. My head went cloudy, and my words began to run together. I shouldn’t be here.
“I want you.” I didn’t want to disappoint him; this was what he was expecting. If I just shut my eyes, maybe it would be over quickly. I shouldn’t be here.
“Sorry-” was all that escaped my mouth before he picked me up and carried me to the bed, a lamb to the slaughter. Even now, I wonder what would have happened had I been able to finish that sentence.
“Take this, it’ll help you relax.” He shoved something towards my mouth and nose, and I felt my nostrils burn, my vision turning black at the edges. I should not be here.
But I couldn’t leave. There is nothing more terrifying than when you’re no longer in control of your body. I felt betrayed. I thought my silence said “yes” even though I was silently screaming, pleading “no.” For a long time, I blamed myself because I didn’t say no.
After he finished, he let me take a shower. I asked him how old he was, trying to make sense of a senseless situation. “37.”
It was raining outside. I hailed a taxi for the first time. The streetlights blurred into fuzzy orbs, casting a hazy glow over the street. My eyes were barely open when the cab pulled in front of my dorm building on the Upper East Side.
“What happened with the guy you left with last night?” “We hooked up.” It was easier to play dumb than to try and explain when even I didn’t know what happened. I wasn’t raped; boys can’t be raped.
This thought process led me into a self-destructive cycle of alcohol and drugs. When the nightmares started months later, all I wanted was to shut them up with my next fix. Nobody questioned the thin, red lines that reappeared on my arms. Nobody questioned the bottle of Adderall that appeared next to my bed one night.
Nobody asked if I was okay.
This cycle lasted a year. I tried to return to some semblance of normalcy, but what is normal when you feel like a stranger in your own skin? My life became split into “before” and “after.”
In my sex education class, I never learned how to be a victim. I learned to not rape women. I never learned how to mourn the loss of myself. I learned how to be a man.
If people only wanted me for my body, then that’s what I would become. My self-esteem plummeted as I thought I had nothing to offer except for my body. A self-fulfilling prophecy. I was 18.
It took a long time for me to stop blaming myself. To look at my reflection without crying. To not automatically flinch when someone would touch me.
No number of lectures can prepare someone for sexual assault. We learn how to avoid it, not how to live with it after it happens.
I’m 21 now, and I’ve learned that some lessons you have to teach yourself. I’ve learned that you don’t get over being raped. You learn to live with it and move forward. Most importantly, I’ve learned that it’s okay to not be okay right now. I’m living. And every day, I continue to heal. For now, that’s enough.
