Why Didn't You Tell?

Okay, I’m not going to beat about the bush.  I've alluded to it in a couple of posts but, apparently, not clearly enough.  When I was 17 I was raped.  By a boy in my year at high school.

I've had many people ask me about it since they found out, so I’ve answered their questions and been as truthful as I can in this blog.  Why?  Well, in the hope that other young girls in a similar situation read it and don’t feel so alone.

How did you get yourself into the situation in the first place?  

• Q. You were wearing a short skirt?
• A. Nope.

• Q. You were wearing a low cut top?
• A. Nope.

• Q. You were flashing your badge/boobs/other female parts?
• A. Nope.

• Q. You were pissed out of your face?
• A. Nope.

I was being a normal human being!  Having a laugh, flirting, chatting, having a few drinks.  Having a usual night out with folks my own age.

What happened?

A 'friend' told me he was having a drama with his girlfriend who had told him she was pregnant.  I empathised and said "oh my god, really, are you okay?"

He asked if I would go outside with him for some fresh air to talk it through!  Of course I would, why wouldn't I?  He was a friend going through a drama!

So...what happened?

Well, we went outside and talked about it.  Then it was decided we needed to move further away from where everyone else was.  We kept walking until he stopped and started crying.  I gave him a cuddle and told him it would all be okay.  Next thing I know, I'm on my back, outside, in a carpark type place.  I'd had a few drinks so was really struggling to push him off me.  

What were you thinking as it was happening?  

Well, for a start...

“holy shit I'm wearing a ‘popper stud body’ over my 2 pairs of pants that are holding my stomach in, what if he tells people I was wearing 2 pairs of pants?”

...was the first thing that came into my brain.  Then,

'holy fuck, what if I get pregnant...' 

...was the next thought.  Then

'what if I get AIDS...'  

 ...was the next thought.

I voiced these concerns at the time in a slightly hysterical manner and he said 'it's okay' and shoved his condom-covered penis in my face to prove he was being careful.  Phew, that's okay then! 

At the time I thought, 'I've had a few drinks', 'this is my fault', 'I should've been more careful' 'but wait, he's my pal OMG wait what'?! 

Why didn't you report it?

• Because I'd been drinking.  
• Because my Dad was dying of cancer and didn't need the hassle.
• Because my wee sister went to the same school and didn't need to hear it.
• Because my Mum had my Dad to look after and didn’t need the extra pressure.
• Because I had my exams coming up and wanted to do as well as possible under the circumstances. 

How did you cope seeing him every day?

Wow, that WAS hard.  He and his friends made a point of singling me out every day and laughing at me calling me a ****** shagger (his name).  My only concern was that my wee sister didn't hear them or find out cos she would be really upset and crap at keeping it quiet and then my Dad would find out and that would stress him out and maybe make him die sooner and that would stress my Mum out!  It was really quite horrific thinking back.  Way more than a 17 year old should have to deal with! But deal with it I did!

Why didn't you tell anyone?

Seriously?  Have you not read the last few questions and answers?  My Dad was dying - did he really need the extra drama? My mum was nursing my dad, did she really need the extra drama?  My sister was 14 and watching our Dad die slowly, did she need the extra drama?  I had my exams to think about, did I really need the extra drama?

Were you a virgin?
Aye.

So, what happened, after…?

I remember me and my Dad, Mum & Sis went to the pictures on one of Dad’s ‘good days’ and there was an advert on the screen for Timberland Boots and it was a man running through hills of sand, muck and muddy fields etc and I remember my Dad saying “Oh look, that's Helen coming home with her new boots on...”  I didn't have the heart to tell my Dad what had really happened to my boots* so I just took the row for 'walking through fields in them'!

* the new boots I got  for the party were suede and by the time I got home the next day they were wrecked - mainly cos I'd been made to lay in a puddle of mud for a fair chunk of the night.

Anyway, I passed my exams and moved on.  That's it really...

...Until about 13 years later when I had a bit of a hissy fit over something really trivial and it all came out!  My mum and sis now know about what happened.  I'm sure my Dad knows too, even though he died as I turned 19, literally. 

I know it wasn't my fault.  I know I'm not a bad person. I know I did what I thought was right at the time.

Would I do anything differently?  Nope - I'd like to think that I would encourage anyone to report their rapist/attacker/abuser every time but you know what, sometimes that isn't the right thing for the victim!

Imagine if I'd have reported the guy - suddenly I'm in the middle of a rape trial being accused of being a drunk and asking for it because I went outside with him…

• My Dad was already dying a slow, painful, cancerous death
• My Mum was already stressed more than a wife and mother ever should be
• My Wee sister was already crying more than a 14 year old should ever cry in their whole lifetime… 

Really, would reporting it have been the best thing for my family?

What have been the repercussions?

Well, my (now) ex-husband really struggled to cope with it.  The fact that I was hit in the stomach during my rape did not sit well with him because as far as I was concerned I was only punched because I was heinously fat.  I now know it was actually just to shut me up. 

'Hubby' told me when we first met that he really liked flat stomachs!  It was pretty much downhill from there!  When I told him what had happened to me, he told me he couldn't deal with it and that he would still like me to have a flat stomach if possible.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not Bella Emberg, but having a totally flat stomach is not really top of my list of things to accomplish in my life!  

For some unknown reason, I married him.  He left me 55 weeks later.

So, are you blaming your rape for the collapse of your marriage?

Erm no… I'm blaming my twat of a husband for that!  Mainly because he preferred strippers and internet porn stars, bless him! (yes, yes I am partly to blame too but that's for another blog!)

Anyone who knows me properly, knows what I have been through and can deal with it.  Some people can't deal with it but that’s not MY problem! 

Do you hate men?

What a stupid question, really!  I love men.  To allow this incident to taint my opinion of men would be ridiculous.  To assume that all men are potential rapists means I have to assume that my Dad, my best male mates and future boyfriends are all potential rapists!  Not sure I have the energy for that much negativity!

Sure, men rape.  But, rape is not about sex, it’s about control.  Men get raped too.

It’s not about being skinny or fat or beautiful or ugly or smelly or feminine or masculine or gay or straight.  It’s about control. 

YOU take control and do whatever is right for YOU.

That’s how you take your life back.  

That’s how you refuse to let it pull you down.  

That’s how you tell the world you are strong and amazing. 

That’s how.

Here's A Funnel That Will Fit Your Fanny

So, months and months ago I agreed to participate in a research study for the Food Standards Agency.  I obviously have too much time on my hands as participating in a Breast Cancer study and trying to take over the world clearly leaves me with lots of time flapping about.

I had my first visit from a wiley wee woman in about November 2010.

She asked me lots of questions, showed me lots of pictures of sandwiches and took my blood pressure. Apparently my levels were elevated when shown pictures of doughnuts and Quavers.

She weighed me and measured my height and, according to the chart, I'm about 3ft too short.

She left with me a food diary to fill in and £30 in Marks and Spencers vouchers - not bad for an hour of my time mostly spent looking at food and holding my stomach in while she measured me.

I filled in the food diary for a week like a good girl.  The lady came back to pick it up and to chat through it.  I felt I needed to explain the 'Skips and Curly Wurly breakfast' day along with the 'Scotch Egg and bag of Frisps washed down with a Melton Mowbray pork pie and a can of Stella' day, but she told me it wasn't necessary and the information would just go 'into the pot'.

Fortunately, she didn't weigh me again. mainly because she had forgotten the harness attachment for the scales.

She left telling me that a nurse would be in touch after Christmas to do the next stage.

Sure enough, ole nursey called and a date was set for today (16th March).

She arrived at 12noon on the dot which was a nice excuse for another wee break from the last minute scurry writing of my latest forensics essay!  With my back being completely fucko'd it took me about 5 minutes to get to the buzzer to let her in.

I opened the door to a Nancy McPhee type individual and realised that asking if she had a prescription pad on her for some 'horse tranquilizer type pain relief' was not the best opening line...

She had me fill in a bunch of forms then took my blood pressure, then some blood, then measured me, then had me sign some sort of 'I give the world and his wife the right to sell this information to aliens and other non-humans for any sort of testing, biological or otherwise' forms.  Quite flattered an alien might be interested actually.

She then told me that I'd have to give her some pee samples and more blood in the next couple of weeks.

She got out a massive carrier bag and  'talked me through' the bottles she was going to leave with me for collecting the aforementioned pee in.

To say my mouth fell open when she presented the 'bottles' would be an understatement.

I was expecting the wee jars you get from the doctor which, granted, are quite hard to aim into and you end up having to shove a bendy straw up yourself to stem the flow, or mopping it up off the floor with a cloth and wringing it out into the bottle.



However, this was the other end of the ridiculous scale!

The big bottle, I swear to the big man upstairs, is the same size as a family car sized bottle of Castrol GTX.  She produced a slightly smaller bottle - exactly the same shape but 'hand bag sized'.  WHO HAS A HANDBAG THAT FUCKING BIG??

The piece de resistance was the accompanying funnel and jug.  I've never seen a funnel so big.  I asked if all ladies got the same sized funnel and she said 'I'm not sure, we do have different sizes and I guess they thought you might need a big one'.  She clearly wasn't being rude and had no idea that I was relating the size of the funnel to the presumed size of my fanny, but COME ON.  Someone somewhere appears to be under the impression that I have a fanny like a clown's pocket.   Not impressed.

I had a practice pee tonight and, although there was A LOT of the funnel that was unused, it did its job.

Proper pee day is next week.  I also have to go for 8 hours without food (only water) on another day, have no alcohol and then, immediately the next day, have more blood taken.

All this just to prove that Scottish people do, in fact, eat Scotch eggs, cheap pork pies, crisps, haggis and are partial to Stella and wine.

Realising this phenomenon =  money well spent I say!

SCOTCH EGG!

PORK PIE CITY!

CRISPS

MMMMMM

WILD HAGGIS

HAGGIS AFTER COOKING