When the media fog looks eerily familiar

If I had to describe myself at 20, this is what I would write.

A hyper-verbal, defensive, funny, and skinny skate betty. A poet, thin-skinned and capable, ambitious and in love with the idea of love. A lonely girl from a big family who was open to everything and acutely aware that, at any moment, the next man I met could be the one to change my life.

Back then, I didn’t understand all of this. Back then, the world was brightly new, as if each person and place I stumbled across was coloured and voiced like a cartoon and it was all I could do to eat it up as quickly as I could. Back then, I didn’t know that all of this was a perfect storm. Back then, I could never have predicted that the next man I did meet really would change my life.

I’ve written about young women pushing at the limits of their sexuality before. We all know how young women choose to experience risk. And we all know that they deserve to do that in safety. But that safety isn’t guaranteed, something we’ve come to understand even more vividly in the last three days. I’m not going to write about the specifics of anything that has been in the Canadian media, but what I am going to write about, frankly and without shame, is how I was once a young woman trying to figure out my own kinks, and how that ended.

We can talk all we want about consent, or violence, or consent and violence in combination with each other, but these conversations are nothing without women saying, clearly, how those two things have marked their bodies and minds and lives.

In the summer of 1997, I was a few weeks away from turning 21. I was a very particular kind of late 90s girl. I had pink-dyed pixie hair. I managed the poetry section at the bookstore I worked at. I wore big pants and a wallet chain and drank Guinness. Maybe you saw me, or someone just like me.

I was also deeply worried that I would never fall in love, while at the same time attracted by the idea of sex for fun. I had had relationships before, all of which had lasted no more than five weeks. Most of the boys I had dated were sweet and the things we did together were pleasant, if not exactly mind-blowing. By 1997, I thought I knew what feminism and sexual freedom meant, and, academically, I probably did. I wanted to fall in love, but I also didn’t. I wanted to know what a relationship based on sex alone might be like, but I was also a little scared. There seemed to be a palpable cloud of change enveloping me wherever I went; I often felt like I was teetering on a cliff and it would take just one man, the right one, to grab my hand and convince me to jump.

He found me. He followed me down the street on his skateboard. I gave him my number and our first date, which wasn’t really much of a date, was strange and beery and punctuated with silence and odd proclamations about the Armageddon and surfing. But he was handsome and tall and athletic. So we met again a few days later.

By now I knew our relationship was never going to turn into love. I just didn’t like him that much. But I thought he might be a fun partner, someone with whom I could finally have the kind of sex I had been reading about in all those goddamned poems I stared at every day. The kind of sex that left you rubber-jointed and silly, that walked a knife’s edge between easy and painful. I thought I could do that. I thought I felt safe enough.

When the sex started, it was without pretense, and it hurt. I asked him to stop, and he told me he wouldn’t and that it would get better. I asked him to stop again and he refused. I drew my arms back to push him off me, and then he began to hurt me in earnest, on purpose, for another 45 minutes. I stopped saying no. I stayed silent until it was over.

I saw my body during this time with the clarity that only comes when you’re in great pain. He was beating the shit out of me, in places that no one who saw me in clothes would ever notice. That body didn’t seem to be mine but I knew it was, and I wanted to die. At the time, I was five feet four and 110 pounds. He was six feet three and weighed just under 200.

When he was done, he chatted to me like this was normal, like I wasn’t breathing jagged breaths and shivering, curled up naked on the edge of a mattress. Eventually, I put on my clothes and saw him out. I dragged myself back to bed and immediately fell asleep, the smell of his sweat still on my sheets. I didn’t even care. I just wanted to sleep.

Several hours later, I woke up in a new kind of pain, the kind that blinds you, the kind that allows you to see the blood pooled around you, but numbs your brain so that you can’t process what all that blood actually means. I tried to stand up and fell down, three times. My sister took me to the hospital. I didn’t tell her what had happened.

The doctors and nurses, every single one who saw me, asked me if I had been raped. I said no. They clearly didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me either, but it was the truth, at least, I thought it was the truth then. In my head, the fact that I had decided to have sex with him before we had ever touched cancelled out any refusals I might have expressed while he was hurting me. After all, I could have pushed him off me, right? Well, except that he was twice my size.

I went home in the morning. I went on with my life, with school and work and friends. I dated again, met my husband, got married, gave birth to my son, wrote some books. I thought about silence, about how my desire to experience just one thing used to feel like a sin that needed to be punished and how fucked up that was. I remembered, sometimes, that man from the summer of 1997 and wondered how he might remember me, if he did at all. I walked through the next 17 years still learning, but safely, what I wanted from love and sex and companionship, and I cursed the fact that I learned so much from an experience that was so, so painful.

All of this is something that I haven’t been ashamed of in quite some time. I’ve written about it before, in fiction and on this blog. I’ve spoken about it at conferences and with friends. But, right now, in the middle of a tornado that is inciting discussion about sexual politics and gender and the power of media, I wanted to be bigger about it, to draw for people a more detailed portrait of a certain kind of young woman who ostensibly gives her consent, but whose experience doesn’t feel very consensual at all. That young woman may never speak to the police, she may never speak about it to anyone, but she deserves our sympathy and consideration. I was that young woman once. I know how she feels.

3 thoughts on “When the media fog looks eerily familiar

  1. Jen, thank you for your candour, your bravery and your beautiful words describing this experience. In your phrase “…and I cursed the fact that I learned so much from an experience that was so, so painful” alone, you’ve given me a lesson about my own life. I’m sorry that it was this type of experience that led me to your blog, but I’ll be coming back. May you sleep well tonight. Warmest regards…Kristina

  2. Yes just because some level of consent is granted doesn’t mean someone has a blank slate to hurt others. Sending lots of healing energy to you and all others.

  3. Pingback: Some things I read this month | The Remainder Table

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