My Story

RissaWook
I want to open up about my trauma. I want you all to know because it is no
longer something that I give a single crap about you knowing anymore.
Why? Because it doesnt matter anymore. As much as it hurts to hold onto,
as much as it hurts to remember the details, it doesnt matter because it
happened. Its in the past. And I want you to know.
I want you to know that a guy I met at a frat party sexually assaulted me in
my bedroom last year.
Its not the typical story of aggressive force, roofies, or intoxication. Its one
where he built trust with me. Its one where he used my fear and timid
nature to get what he wanted. Its one where the fine line between consent
and the pain he inflicted crossed a boundary. Its the type of story that
should make people consider the nature of their intimate relationships.
Its the type of story in which I INDEED ASKED him to come over.
A story where I INDEED wanted to sleep with him.
Where I INDEED disrobed him.
Where I INDEED initiated the sex.
Its the type of story where I was enjoying the intimacy until I realized his
sucking and kissing were bruising my neck and lip.
Its the type of story where I did say NO.
I did say YOU ARE HURTING ME.
I did say YOU ARE ABUSING ME.
To which he laughed in my face, lied about how he would stop and
continued.
To which, he then asked if we could finally engage in sex.
To which I didnt know how to answer.

To which I froze. To which I knew I should have said no, because this guy
did not respect me. He already hurt me. He doesnt have a condom. No. I
barely know you. Just a few thrusts, he says.
Just let it be over. . . let it be over.
I didnt count his thrusts. I just looked down at my body. Im sorry. Im sorry
I let him invade you. Im sorry I gave him what he wanted.
Thats it. He had his thrusts. He gets off the bed and puts his pants on.
Thats all he wanted of me. He has to go. I see my neck and lips in the
mirror. Im sorry. Im sorry that you had to hurt. You had to bleed. Im sorry.
Over a year later . . . And it doesnt matter. It doesnt matter because . . .
now I know this is not the first time. This isnt the first time for me.
This most likely is not the first time for him either. But it doesnt matter.
This story does not matter because there are more of HIM out there. And
there are more of ME out there.
~~
As you may know by now, I am very vocal about my attraction to feminism. I
am very vocal about my attraction to social justice. If you dont know why
by now . . .
Well . . . there are millions of people out there. Ordinary people out there
who have no idea that manipulation and abuse are extremely traumatic.
Millions of ordinary people go through their lives thinking this is romance.
Its not. Its damaging. And its the major reason why Ive been having such
a hard time finding myself.

You see, nobody tells you that this may happen to you. That as a woman,
when you grow up and go to college you have a 1 in 4 chance of this
happening to you. That as a woman, this statistic is probably bullshit. That
as a woman, the sexual harassment starts young. That as a young girl, I got
spanked my both a student my age AND a teacher against my consent.
You ask me again why I need feminism.
You ask me again why I am so pro-social justice.
Because I am angry. I am sad. I am tired. I am hurt. I continue to hurt. I hurt
for so many that I know.
I hurt for so many women that I know. I hurt for my family members. I hurt
for my friends. I hurt for the people I dont know. I hurt for the people who
have a higher statistic of risk.
When I look out into this world, I see big politicians saying we deserve it.
Why do we give them so much power?
I am scared.
I am scared because the guy who raped me had power. He misused that
power to abuse me. He misused that power for his own satisfaction.
He left proof.
He left proof that I was too embarrassed to document, because in this
world I need proof to show that my body was invaded.
When I look into this world, I see apathy. I see apathy in people who refuse
to see the sources of abuse and violence.
I see people blaming the victim.
I see people killing the victim.
I see the victim screaming to the cameras, STOP. Stop killing my father.
Stop killing my mother. Stop killing my family. Stop killing my friends.

What people see is the JUST the screaming. What people see is JUST the
protest. What people see is JUST the defiance. What people see is JUST
the profanity.
NOT the context. College has given me an eye-opening experience where
I have discovered what the context is.
And many of you are right. Its not necessarily race or gender or social
status or age or sexual orientation.
Its power. And the misuse of it against these groups of people that other
people from the past chose to categorize and segregate. And its been this
way. And if you dont think its still happening, look out into the world.
And if you only see the screaming.
If you only see the protest.
If you only see the defiance.
If you only see the profanity . . . you are missing the context.
You are missing the abuse.
You are missing the misuse of power.
Because like in my story, it happened behind closed doors.
But it does not matter because what trauma has taught me is how to
identify it. What it feels like. What I see in the world right now is trauma.
But unlike what Ive ever felt because I see death. I see destruction. On a
massive scale.
And I continue to see apathy.
I continue to see the people with power misusing it for their own
satisfaction.
Misusing their power to get what they want, with every intention of getting
it by any means.

I see Donald Trump at the front lines of what has become a political circus.
A rapist. An abuser.

Rhetoric. Appeal to the people. Weaken the other people. Manipulation.

Abuse. Invasion.
Im disgusted.
Im disgusted because the world is scaring a lot of people and people
laugh in apathy and indifference.
Maybe theyre scared?
Maybe theyre accepting this as it is?
Maybe it doesnt have to be this way?
Because I dont want people to lay back and let abuse happen to them like
it happened to me. Because I dont want people to look at themselves and
see the damage that someone has done to them. I dont want people to
carry that weight that it happened to them.
Ive always been an angry girl because I didnt know things. I didnt know
why things were the way that they were. Now I am an angry woman
because I am learning. I am seeing. And it makes me angry.
My anger is my fuel to find ways to make it stop. My anger is my fuel to get
me through. My anger is my fuel to help and care for others. My anger is
my fuel to make a difference in this world.
But most importantly, my anger is the reason why I wont give up.