It Felt Rude to Say No
Content warning: sexual and emotional abuse, grooming
I once heard that when you finally get some sort of stability within your life and when you are enjoying the perception of control, that’s when the root of all your previous struggles flood back into your current existence. It takes a safe and happy emotional environment for the damn to truly break. My adolescence and early adulthood now make sudden sense and I’ve spent the last few years putting all the jigsaw parts together in order to see the bigger, uglier picture.
After unconsciously blocking it out for 12 years (an interesting experience in self-preservation), I began to put a label on what happened during our relationship. It is fantastic to reflect on the extraordinary lengths my brain went to protect me from what happened. When the curtains of truth began to open, it wasn’t a ‘light bulb moment’ per se, but more of a slow tapping on a brick wall with a hammer: a wall that I started building as a teenager, a wall which became sturdier through regular sexism and further relationships with the opposite sex. Media reports around this subject have only consolidated what I am struggling to believe, reconcile and accept. I can barely say the name of it out loud and even to this day, it still does not fit right, the last jigsaw piece is warped and doesn’t want to complete the puzzle.
As you grow up, you learn about it in the news, on the TV and in magazines, however my experiences did not relate to the stereotypical versions I had read or seen. That doesn’t happen to small town, middle class girls anyway. Therefore, deliberately or not, my experiences with you remained nameless for years. I am someone who relies on logic and order to keep my head above the water, therefore I’ve found it incredibly frustrating that I can’t present the effects your crimes have had on me in a viable structure. My inability to formulate a coherent narrative has made itself evident in the various anxiety disorders I present with, through what I say in various therapist offices, my relationships with men, my perception of women, my relationships with alcohol and occasionally food. The effects have been so complex, ingrained, inter-changeable and inter-connected that it’s difficult to know where to start. However, I’ll try. If there is anything that the last few years have taught me, it is the need to keep trying.
Girls of my era were warned against dangerous men. Our Fathers took us aside and explained that there were men out in the world that wanted to hurt us. My Dad told me if there was a hint of an approaching struggle, I was to go straight for the testicles with my kneecap and peg it. These men, and women, exist. But the dangerous men we weren’t warned about, were men like you who seek to ruin young girl’s lives with inconsistency, manipulation and a complete lack of disrespect, who are wolves dressed up in sheep’s clothing. Up to this point, I followed my Dad’s advice. I knew not to get into a stranger’s car. I promised my Dad I would never get into a car unless the owner of it knew the pre-arranged password we had both previously decided on. Don’t get into cars with anyone without your parent’s permission. Yet, I did. I’d only known you for a few hours, but I got in the car.
I was always an anxious and shy child. I had an extremely comfortable upbringing, with supportive parents and endless opportunities. But I also experienced a huge amount of early loss which I dealt with by retreating into myself, writing my diary and ignoring avenues of help or support. I failed to develop healthy and appropriate strategies to control my anxieties. Before we met, I was already suffering from low mood, anxiety, existential dread, a poor locus of control. When we met, you were studying at our high school situated in a small, quiet, suffocating village.
Nothing exciting ever happened in our area, I had already made the decision that I would grasp onto any excitement that was thrown my way, that I did not want to lead an ordinary life; I wanted drama, like I saw on the TV. You were just the tonic for that. On face value, the village did not have a scandal of its own, however behind our closed teenage bedroom doors we were dealing with nightmares. But if no one talks, who is to know?
The village would win “Britain in Bloom’ competitions and the flowerbeds plastered over our traumas. ‘Pillars of the community’ would grab our teenage arses, older men would shout at us out their cars, yet we believed this was normal, this was part of becoming a woman, that we should be flattered that a man had felt the need to take time out of his busy day to make a comment about our A cups.
The summer we met, there was a thick and heavy heat wave at the end of June. This was the summer of 7/11, Tony Blair had just won a third term as Prime Minister and Live 8 concerts took place all over the world. I was 14 and had just finished my Year 9 SATS. I hope you’ll remember this if you ever have a 14-year-old daughter. I went to church on Sundays with my Mum, I loved reading books and I played the flute. I liked watching Dawson’s Creek and writing short stories or poems. I loved all things Winnie the Pooh. I still do.
You wouldn’t have known this. You never asked or showed any interest in discovering more about me as a person. Before you’d come over, I would put all the soft toys and the blanket I had as a child in the cupboard so you could not see my enormous immaturity. Despite the fact I had gone through puberty whilst in primary school, I was mentally and emotionally a child. Just because I had tits, it did not mean I had the legal ability to consent.
Inevitably, at this stage of emotional growth, I was thrilled by your attention. After a year of standing in our school’s cafeteria and giggling at all the older boys with my friends, the realisation that it was you who had just added me on MSN and that an older boy was taking time to talk to me, a skinny, pale girl in year 9, was that of a pure joy I had never felt. You were all so totally unattainable that I was even more enamoured. I stank of vulnerability. I realise now, you didn’t see fireworks when you looked into my eyes, but I ticked all the boxes of the young and easily manipulated.
Following years of re-telling our story to various counsellors and the police, I no longer wish to elaborate on what was hands down, systematic, planned, sexual and emotional abuse, which was cleverly disguised by the pretence of a relationship. I didn’t know any better. I was a child.
You’d often instruct me to relax. When people tell me to relax nowadays, my skin crawls. I learnt very quickly that saying, ‘stop,’ ‘no,’ and ‘I don’t feel comfortable doing this here’ was useless, redundant. I was silenced, my voice was useless. You taught me that my attempts at trying to show you I was uncomfortable were not important. Again, I hope you remember this if you ever have a 14-year-old daughter.
My diary entry following that first night paints the picture more than my words can today, “Thinking about it now, I don’t really want to write about it as it makes me feel ashamed. After about an hour and a half I said I was tired, so we started to sleep. I woke up at half 3 and felt so sick with myself. I just couldn’t believe that I’d let him do that to me, someone I hardly know. All I wanted to do was go home, I wanted my parents so badly. I broke off from his arms and slept at the end of the bed praying to God that everything was going to be okay.”
It was terrifying. I also wrote, “It felt rude to say no.” But I wasn’t being polite, I was being incredibly fucking passive. The day after that first night you texted me saying “I really like you. Sorry if I took things too far last night. Next time we can go at your pace.” I asked you if the age difference bothered you, to which you replied, “Can’t help who you fall for whether they’re 14, 17 or 45 lol.” You texted back, “I can’t stop thinking about you” and I burst into tears.
At the time, I assumed I was hormonal, or due on my period. The worst part is, I went back and I didn’t break it off. Even when you became relentlessly emotionally abusive – according to you, I would never amount to anything and would end up in the gutter – I stayed. It was terrifying, but I thought this was normal and believed I had to grin and bear it, this was growing up. I felt so lucky (and cool) to be involved with you. Responses to abuse are never black and white and they are never straightforward or linear.
I told very few people and even the ones I told, I did not tell the absolute truth. My refusal to speak should have been a red flag itself but I was very good at justifying my choices to myself. My teacher at school questioned my spikey attendance. I forged note after note in my Dad’s illegible handwriting that claimed I was arriving at school half way through the morning as I had been sick.
My teacher told me I could tell her anything that was worrying me, I smiled and said I was fine, a coping mechanism I continue to utilise effectively to this day. However, by keeping this mainly to myself, it meant that I effectively isolated myself to the point that no one could shed any objective light on the situation, and to the people that I did tell, the stories were conveyed as one big fun joke.
It is only now, with a professional role in safeguarding, that I realise if I was handed this case I would be extremely concerned. Alongside this failure to keep me safe, my high school also delivered the most pointless sex education, which did not even touch on sexual consent. To complement the lessons on STIs, boys should have been taught how to say, “I really like you, but I think we’ve drunk a bit too much so give me your number and I’ll text you tomorrow” or “do you definitely want to do this?”
I knew that having sex before the age of 16 was illegal. What I wasn’t taught was that it is illegal to have any kind of sexual contact before the age of 16, that in the absence of a clear, enthusiastic “yes”, it is sexual assault, that if you ask a boy to stop but they continue, that is also sexual assault, that even being pressured emotionally and physically to have sexual intercourse is sexual abuse.
The teenage brain undergoes an extortionate amount of upheaval at the age of 14. It is a time when the brain begins to wire up and remodel for adulthood. Your experiences in your teenage years shape your later adult functioning. There is a burst of activity and new neuronal circuits are made. Once laid down, these are difficult to change. If a teenager is abused, it is likely that they will constantly feel angry, exhausted, anxious and experience low self-worth. They are more likely to reach adulthood with a basket of mental health difficulties and an over-aroused amygdala, resulting in reaction over evaluation. Even the smallest difficulties (for example, someone saying something and then doing the opposite) provoke a huge physiological and emotional response, as if the trauma has reinitiated itself. Sadly, the amygdala does not know that the initial traumatic experience has ended. An individual is constantly anticipating further danger.
The summer holidays passed, the leaves began to wilt and fall to the ground, and we returned to school. Sometimes we were speaking civilly, sometimes we had fallen out again, but I was permanently exhausted and trying to ignore the utter dread in my stomach which was due to having to be educated on the same site as you and ultimately, seeing you daily.
A few months afterwards, my best friend (who I had avoided telling) confronted me about the rumours during an art lesson, I lost consciousness and fell to the floor. Your secrets will make you sick. I shoved all my diaries that mentioned you into the back of my cupboard and did not look at them again for 12 years.
By the next summer, you had left school. Consciously, I forgot, but I don’t believe my stomach, my muscles, my stress hormones or any other part of my body ever did.
My romantic life since then has mainly involved attempting desperately to never feel as small and powerless as you made me feel, trying to exercise control as much as possible, but repeatedly putting myself in similar situations, as it was all I knew, it was ‘normal’ to me. I didn’t realise I have my own needs and preferences which should be respected. I am fantastic at self-sacrifice.
I have persistently and relentlessly sabotaged relationships with ‘nice men’ because I cannot cope with positive experiences and found them deeply confusing. It has taken years for it to register that I have a lot more to give than what it was you wanted. When you are groomed and verbally abused throughout your first sexual relationship, it is difficult to learn that people may just want to be friends with you because they like you and they like spending time with you. That they won’t get cross and abusive if you say no to something.
I continued to behave in ways that added to my sense of shame, as shame was all I knew. Keep running, keep making excuses, pull the wool over your eyes, keep drinking, keep ignoring the feelings in your gut, keep men happy, be one of the lads, keep getting yourself into abusive relationships, keep telling everyone your fine despite this ever-expanding hole inside that you can’t quite put a label on, keep dancing; but don’t you dare stop, sit down and look your experiences straight in the eye.
You appeared again, when I was 19. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt; people can change. I quickly learnt I was wrong. During this period, I was drinking like a fish, could barely eat, was bursting randomly into tears, vomiting in the morning and bent over with stomach cramps. I wasn’t sure why I was so ill, I assumed I was maybe pregnant, but in retrospect my body and unconscious mind were trying to communicate to me that I needed to remove myself from this situation immediately.
A couple of months after this, I had my first panic attack, interestingly following an incident at university that had some similarities to the ones you put me in. What followed was years of various and fluctuating anxiety disorders, which upon reflection were all rooted from an intense fear of being trapped and/or losing control over my own body and environment. We bury the truth, but it manifests itself as depression, addiction, anxiety, a desperate need for control, to be in charge, limiting food portions, looking for the exits, exercising incessantly, ordering cupboards and hoovering the fuck out of your carpets. Just to be in control and never to be trapped again.
I’ve had more therapy sessions than I’ve had pairs of shoes and I’ve been medicated up to my eyeballs. I have got better at actually noticing and experiencing emotions/thoughts and not trying to drown them out with alcohol and substances (including positive emotions, which often do not feel deserved so are also overwhelming and uncomfortable). I have made progress but there is still work to do. There is still a little girl inside me screaming but her cries get quieter through daily reassurance and activities that a previous therapist recommended. My day’s success is measured by very small things that help me keep my head above the water. It is hard to heal when your identity is so entrenched by what happened to you, turning your back on the behaviours that helped you survive.
I am not a vengeful individual, I did not report you to the police because I wanted you to go to jail. I reported you to the police, and wrote this, to stand up for myself, to contribute to the conversation and to reduce the stigma surrounding sexual abuse. I did it for all the people who have said to me “well at least he didn’t hit you.” “At least” undermines our voices. Abuse is not a spectrum ranging from mild to severe. I pontificated over simply working to accept what happened or ignoring it, however was repeatedly reminded you made conscious decisions, multiple times, ignoring my requests. Why should I ignore this?
I did it for all the women who ever lived who cannot speak themselves. Women who are dead. Women who are silenced. Women who are too scared to speak. Women who are too ashamed to speak. We have been young, vulnerable girls who were abused and grew into women, still carrying the weight of what happened years ago. Little girls grow up into strong women, who fight for what they deserve.
What is most utterly heart-breaking is the sheer amount of women I have spoken to about this who have replied “I know how you are feeling. It happened to me too”. These are the stories we whisper to each other and there are a multitude of them. This has to stop. We are told “boys will be boys” and we try to ignore sexism, assault, comments, the memories, but it grinds into our bones and it is exhausting. Girls are brought out of the womb and expected to be non-confrontational, agreeable, demure, nurturing and if we are not these things we are over-reacting, crazy, too sensitive, too emotional, ‘on our periods,’ paranoid, neurotic, “it’s all in our heads.” To think that a few years ago my self-hatred was so impossible for my psyche to cope with, it became externalised to other women and despite being brought up by a staunch feminist, flourished into full blown misogyny. Women were hysterical and hindered, rather than helped, men.
The police rang on a morning in July to tell me they were not going to continue with the case as there was not enough evidence. I was prepared for this and relieved in a way, as I’m not sure how I would have coped with being in a courtroom with you and the stress of the process meant I was drunk most of the time and quite underweight. In an embarrassingly petty way, I was pleased that perhaps you had experienced a small amount of passing fear at being interviewed. I hoped that you felt like I did when I woke up at your house, unaware of where I was, who you were, and with no money to get home. Like the moment you trip, when you are realising you are falling and desperately deciding what to do next. But most of all, I felt proud that I had stood up for myself.
I am desperately coping, but also absolutely thriving, and days can pass where I don’t remember so vividly. But it’s in every step I take, still holding fort in my stomach, in the suffocating heat, on summer mornings and when the leaves turn to brown. I observe, I am safe, but it’s always there - it does not lessen but the space around it, and from it, grows. But I am proud, after everything, I am very proud. And I am trying, I am always trying.
