I have been raped by three different men, in three different seasons of my life. Three. Different men. One ordinary woman. Well, actually, I’m pretty special, but, hey...
At sixteen, my “sweet” boyfriend of three months decided to take things much further, without my consent. We were kissing in his bed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been there, but until then, he had felt safe. The act took seconds, he put his full hefty body weight on my ninety pound body and attempted but failed to fully penetrate, despite my tears and protests.
Just one paragraph to describe something that has sat for years as trapped trauma in my body.
I’d always planned to speak about my experience but procrastinated. The truth is, I guess I must feel elements of shame in others judging my story. But 2025 is the year I have to let go of all that. So here goes.
Gìsele Pelicot has shone a light a culture which needs taking apart. My feed is testament to that, with story after story of both men and women who have been violated.
The prevalence of sexual violence relies on the relative safety in which predators operate, because of the secrecy surrounding it due to the shame we carry. Although it makes for unpleasant reading, it is only by openly sharing our experiences with others that will we give survivors a safe space to be heard and hand back the shame where it belongs; with the perpetrators.
I feel deeply let down and frustrated by women who make false claims in an attempt to defame the reputation of presumably jilted lovers. The law quite righty expects robust cross examination in order to establish verification. It is precisely because of this fear, of the spotlight, of having to go through reliving the ordeal, that most victims do not step forward.
I am sad that most young people know it is essential to cover their drinks in case they are roofied. I certainly didn’t expect to have to do so, as a woman, then in my forties, in a private members club, having a business lunch with a man in a suit.
I wanted to secure this business deal. It would mean I could relax about money, at least for the next couple of months.
We arranged to have lunch in the beautiful courtyard of my private members’ club. The meeting started off fairly well. The man seemed friendly, but it’s not unusual; I often speak about creating rapport, and although there seemed to be a very subtle element of flirtation from this man, it certainly didn’t make me uncomfortable. The sun was shining. He ordered a bottle of wine.
The day was hot and sticky, so I made sure I was also drinking plenty of water along with the wine. The man refilled my glass and I drank a glass or two with him. I was ready for coffee and mentioned ordering it before I went off to the bathroom. When I returned he proffered another glass of wine, which had already been poured, and I accepted it.
I do not remember the next series of events clearly, but I will try as best as I can to share them now. I felt the effects of alcohol, but like I had drunk three bottles, not three glasses. When we left the restaurant, I couldn’t feel my feet on the ground. I must have been walking, because we moved from one location to another, but I cannot remember how.
He took me to a hotel, and had me use my credit card to pay for it, on reflection, this meant there was no trace, but even if there was, I just looked like another pissed up trashy vampy tramp, having an afternoon of kinky sex with my married lover.
The next thing I remember was that I was naked, and underneath him, which was extremely unpleasant, because he was very fat and sweaty. I knew he had penetrated me, but I just didn’t seem to care. This is the thing that still fascinates me to this day. It was incredibly surreal, like I had totally dissociated. I just didn’t care. I knew he was raping me, but it was as if I had consented. I just lay there, unable to do anything. Then I started to feel ill and began to throw up with such violent force as if my body knew it must purge the poison. He let me up, as there was now vomit spewing in all directions. I couldn’t see or hear with any clarity but somehow I knew that unless I got myself upright, I would likely choke, so I managed to get up, even though my head felt way to heavy for my neck, which felt rubbery and useless.
I think he must have dragged me to the bathroom, where I didn’t have enough control to hold my head over the lavatory, instead, I literally redecorated the walls and floor with the contents of my stomach. Somewhere amid this chaos, the man let himself out of the hotel room.
I lay there on the linoleum, crusts of vomit forming around my mouth and sticking to my matted hair. I don’t know how long I stayed there for. It must have been several hours, perhaps about three or four. I couldn’t move. The pain in my head was unbearable; the worst head pain, like an axe in my skull. My ribs were sore from heaving. At that point, I had no idea I had been drugged. I just berated myself for such idiocy; believing I had allowed myself to get drunk and be seduced... or at best; how was I not savvy enough? Why didn’t I protect myself? such patriarchal conditioning, such utter shit. It’s not the truth. It’s not what happened.
Eventually, when I could finally stand up, I took a shower and put my clothes back on. There was no evidence in the room of this man, other than an envelope, screwed up, and cast into the waste paper basket. I wonder now, if that was the container of the drug, but because I was still in such a stupor, I didn’t think to take it with me.
Before you ask, no, I didn’t report it. After all, I did agree to sit in the sunshine, with a man, all afternoon, drinking wine... These date rape drugs are often recreational cocktails, and it could easily be argued that I had voluntarily taken them. They can make you very ill, but they also leave the system fairly quickly, leaving frustratingly little evidence.
I am sad that most young people know it is essential to cover their drinks in case they are roofied. I certainly didn’t expect to have to do so, as a woman, then in my forties, in a private members club, having a business lunch with a man in a suit.
The saddest thing is, this was not my first experience of rape. But, as I said, I knew the other two perpetrators, as they both claimed to be boyfriends.
When I was twenty-one, I fell in love with a man thirty years my senior. He was my Svengali, and he love bombed me until he possessed me. He also happened to be an extremely violent criminal with previous convictions. I slept with a gun above my head. There is of course, a back story, as I’m sure you, dear reader, are curious as to how a young woman ended up with man old enough to be her father, ah, and there’s the clue... The Bad Man became my abuser. Over a period of approximately two and a half years, he systematically took me apart. He controlled everything I wore, said and did, and reduced me to to an unrecognisable shell who desperately wanted to kill myself in order to escape, but didn’t for one simple reason. I was carrying his baby, and I couldn’t check out on a reason bigger than me.
Ongoing sexual abuse including rape within relationship is very real and is going on right now behind closed doors. Fear sounds like the scrape of a key in the door. I carry wounds and scars buried deep within me. I remember the hands around my throat until I was ever so nearly...
There’s little to be gained by describing what took place at that time but after one particularly brutal incident, I needed surgery, and was unable to deliver my baby naturally. I’ll leave that there. Also, people wrongly assume that all a person needs to do if they are orally raped is bite, that isn’t how it happens, especially if you know that person happens to have access to a loaded gun and isn’t afraid to use either end of it.
It is indeed sad but comforting to know we are not alone when we share our stories, but unless we do something about it, we carry residual trauma trapped inside, interfering with our ability to let go and enjoy our bodies sexually. I urge you to seek full recovery as your right, even if it is just with yourself; especially when it is just with yourself.
By commitment to healing, we take back the control. Accept that it’s not your fault. It’s okay to feel aggrieved that you must now do the work, but get over that part, and it’s bliss on the other side. You had no control over what happened to you, but you certainly do over how you think and feel and show up now.
We each have a right to access every part of ourselves, our universal selves, our conscious selves and especially our sexual selves, our greatest connection to the superconscious.
Women and men who have experienced sexual violence often retain the trauma. Unless processed, trauma literally it remains trapped inside of us, as Dr. Besel Van Der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps The Score.
My own recovery journey naturally developed into my practice of coaching, inner child therapy and spiritual healing, for the last fifteen years or so. I love helping women get over their loneliness of trauma and back in touch with their head, heart and yoni and see them come alive as they reawaken what was lost. Helping a man of nearly seventy finally get his teeth sorted out so that he could smile again after being orally abused as a young boy is one of my happiest achievements. It’s never too late to make the kind of quiet changes which will bring you peace. Survivors of abuse can act out in all sorts of ways to deal with the pain, and consciously or unconsciously use various coping mechanisms, from OCD to drug and alcohol abuse, from binge eating to starvation, frigidity to nymphomania, kink to perversion, to constant irritability, fatigue and low level depression and anxiousness to emotional detachment.
For a long time, I needed to push my sexual boundaries in order to feel excited but although I wasn’t actually aware I was doing it, during any kind of sexual engagement, I would dissociate. I’d be right next to myself, watching... I could enjoy it, my partner would enjoy it, but I was never there...
My goal, my fixation, my defiance, and finally my triumph was to fully integrate myself sexually, and make myself feel whole again. A healthy relationship with the self has given me a sense of self approval and an innate joy beyond measure. I have my spiritual godmother Louise Hay to thank for the continued reverence I find for myself. My own unfathomable journey continues to fascinate me and has become a source of curiosity as I lean more into acceptance and gratitude.
Although healing is an inside job, paradoxically, this particular kind comes only in intimate partnership, but only one where we feel safe and secure. With love, trust and belief, I was able to get back inside myself.
Until my last relationship, I would go through phases where I might feel unsafe, but exited, or safe, but unexcited and unfulfilled. I was sexually dissociated, but I don’t think I even realised it most of the time. I couldn’t actually get into my own body, I’d just make it look like I did.
But when I initially started to float away, this conscious and very special man helped me to be fully present and I let him in. For anyone recovering from sexual violence, it’s normal for the sympathetic nervous system to send a signal or two that something is happening and even though you resist it, most survivors will have a residual shield up somewhere somehow.
Through his presence and love I got back into my body, and I was able to surrender and unfold. I feel incredibly grateful to have experienced a momentary glimpse into the divinity of spiritual connection.
Sadly, we have now parted ways, but at least I know what is possible. If baring my soul gives hope to one person who feels the loneliness of trauma, please know I’m here, and ready to help you start the healing process, if you feel aligned with my work. Please message me or book a call. You could have a totally different year ahead.
Please find strength to forgive and courage to heal, because it is your birthright. Remember; however lonely the road, you are never alone.
Comments