Why I stayed: One Star reporter’s story of sex assault, abuse,

Reporter shares her personal story of sex assault and abuse

Let’s call him S.

One night, he raped me in the back of his car.

The next day — a few hours later, really — we went to a festival together and had a great time.

A few months earlier, we were walking to his place in the early hours when, without provocation, he slammed me against a wall. Caught off-guard — because, really, who expects to suddenly get shoved with all of someone’s strength out of nowhere? — I hit the wall and then the floor, where he began choking me. I don’t remember how long that lasted, but I remember my vision becoming static-filled before he let go.

Although the details may differ, at its core my story is the same as thousands, if not millions, of people who have experienced sexual assault and violence at the hands of a partner. We are hurt by someone we trust. We have our dignity, our safety, our bodily autonomy ripped away from us We wake up, bleeding and bruised. And yet, we stay. We carry on contact and relationships with our attackers, as though nothing happened. From the outside, we look fine, if not better; the physical scars are easy to hide, and mental ones, even easier. For a while, anyway.

For hours, days, weeks, we stay. Some stay a lifetime. I stayed for months. But why? Well. Trauma’s a funny thing. You don’t know how you’re going to react during or after a violent incident until it actually happens. I always thought I was a fighter and would kick and scream and run straight to the police and do all the things victims of violence are “supposed” to do.

Turns out I freeze. In some situations, anyway. When you’re put in such a position that you feel worthless and vulnerable and weak and threatened, it can feel like the only way out is to just take it and hope it doesn’t get worse.

Lock yourself away in a part of your mind until it’s over. Don’t let your mind fully engage or process the physical sensations. You’ll break if you do.

I think it’s hard to reconcile the idea that someone who treats you well 99 per cent of the time can also be a monster in that remaining 1per cent. Who wants to believe that the charming boy you can talk to for hours and lets you cry on his shoul- der is also someone who will throw you to the ground like you’re a piece of trash? I certainly didn’t want to. And so, every time, after the initial shock of what happened wore off, I let the denial set in. I made excuses: He was drunk. He was angry. He just got caught up in the moment.

He apologized after, so that’s just proof that he didn’t really mean it, right?

I didn’t have the classic battered-girlfriend-black-eye or abused-wife-split-lip, so it wasn’t really that bad, right?

Assault is when you’re broken and bleeding and in pieces, not what happened to me, right?

Abusive relationships happen to other women. Not me. Right? Deep down, you know what happened was wrong. Or maybe you don’t realize it right away because it’s the first time anything like that’s ever happened to you.

Autopilot takes over because you’re confused and shocked and in pain. Don’t let yourself analyze what happened or let the gravity of it sink in. Get up, dust yourself off, wash your face. Carry on like normal. Keep talking. Keep flirting. Just keep going so you don’t have to stop and think and say, “That was messed up. That wasn’t right.”

The next hour, and the next day, and the day after that, and the week after that, and the month after that, it’s all kisses and cuddles and laughs and inside jokes and sweet nothings and that violent episode starts to feel so dreamlike and faraway that you start to forget it ever happened. Until it happens again. Rinse and repeat. Keep doing it over and over until it finally blows up in your face, one way or another.

It’s over. The fog of emotion clouding your vision gradually clears. Reality hits you harder than he did.

I think that’s why some people come forward about abuse long after the fact — not for “revenge,” or because they are a lover scorned, but because it can be hard to process everything as it happens. In retrospect, it’s easy to see all the paths you could’ve taken, but when you’re living it, you don’t have the luxury to sit back, weigh the choices and evaluate every possible outcome. You react, life reacts, the next chapter begins.

But now it’s over. Turn to your friends for support, because it’s too much of a burden to bear on your own. Some of them believe you. Thank God, some of them believe you. Others call you a liar.

“He would never do that; that doesn’t seem like him.”

“Why didn’t you just leave or call the cops?” “You must have wanted it.” “It’s sort of your fault. You got drunk with him.”

Some of them even start seeing him as the victim, because he paints you as a crazy bitch who’s out for blood. You learn not to bring it up anymore.

One in four Canadian women will experience sexual violence in their lifetimes. Coming to terms with being part of the 25 per cent is a bitter pill to swallow. But here I am. Here we are. Unfortunately, more of us will keep coming.

I’m willing to bet that a lot of us have messy stories that may be hard for people on the outside to wrap their heads around. Relationships are rarely ever cut-and-dried anyway, never mind the abusive ones.

But please, listen to us. Just because our stories don’t fit into narratives of how sexual assault victims “should” react doesn’t mean we consented. Just because we had rough sex with someone once doesn’t mean it’s fine every time. Just because we don’t end the relationship on the spot or run straight to the police doesn’t mean we were OK with what happened.

And just because we stayed, it doesn’t mean we weren’t hurt.