The Story I Thought I'd Never Be Able To Tell
Of all the stories I have ever told, there is one story that I thought I'd never be able to tell. But as I have felt the love of those close to me surround me, I have been able to tell my story to a select few.
**Warning: The following content may trigger some readers and may be inappropriate for younger audiences. View discretion advised.**
August 29th, 2015.
I can still remember what I was wearing. Pink striped tank top, jeans, sandals. My hair was short and curled. My makeup was simple.
I had a friend who had gone through an operation and I was visiting him to check up on how he was doing.
I didn't expect to be sexually assaulted.
I was forced down and held tightly against his mattress as he kissed me and groped me. I struggled to free my hand to move his hands away from my breasts, my butt, my crotch, the zipper of my pants. I was physically forced into having my tongue in his mouth - when I certainly didn't want it there - and felt like I had no control. "No" seemed to hold no weight. I kept saying that I had to go, I was trying to find my escape. I was told "You keep saying that," and the hold on my wrists was tightened. I felt humiliated and used, despite not having sex. When I was finally able to leave, I was followed to my car and spanked as I tried to get in. As I drove home, my lip throbbed from the pain of being bitten and scraped up and my neck felt dirty from the trail of tiny hickies left behind. I felt branded like a cow.
When I finally got home, I ran inside and hid in the bathroom - where I cupped cold water in my hands up to my lip to reduce the swelling and ease the pain. I fixed my hair and redid my makeup to cover the already forming bruise on my lip and the hickies higher on my neck where a scarf wouldn't cover. I then made a daring dash to my room to change my outfit. I didn't want to be in those clothes anymore and I had to change into something that would merit wearing a scarf. A SCARF. In AUGUST. In CALIFORNIA. I was desperate to cover it up and I boiled that whole weekend because of it. Because I was too scared and felt too broken to tell anyone.
I then proceeded with my evening plans and attended a friend's concert. I felt void. Empty. Cast aside. I tried to laugh along with my friends but struggled to feel right. When invited to join them on a late night In N' Out run, I declined saying that I should get home because it was late (when I already had permission from my parents to stay out). When I got home, I texted this friend saying that I had also been feeling sick (which is true, but was a side affect of my trauma) and said no more of what had happened. I struggled to fall asleep that night and just stared into the darkness, too emotionally shocked to even cry.
For the longest time I thought it was my fault. I thought that because I had been in his room to check on him that I had made this happen to myself.
When I finally shut it mostly out of my memory, or at least somehow convinced myself it wasn't that serious, I basically forgot about it. Left it in the dust.
But I never conquered it. It dragged behind me for over a year. I became scared of leaving doors unlocked and frightened when touched in any way that could remotely remind me of my assault. One day at college, some GIFs popped up on my phone that triggered me and I tossed my phone away from me and sat on my bed in the fetal position whilst trying to recover.
Now I know that it's not my fault. That "no" should have been respected no matter what happened leading up to it.
I thought that telling my story would make others ashamed of me. But now, as I have received an outpouring of so much love from those close to me, I feel empowered in sharing my story. Not just to get it out and help myself to get over it, but to connect with othervictims survivors of sexual assault and help them move on.
To all survivors: It is not your fault. It was never your fault. It will never be your fault. You will eventually heal and be okay. I am here for you.
I also want to add, while this was not my personal experience, that it is not bad to have sexual desires and that being sexually assaulted or even raped is not a punishment for feeling such desires.
Don't be afraid to talk it out, because it will help you heal. It's okay to be selective in who you tell about it at first. It's scary. It hurts to relive in story form. In any form, really. But I promise you will get an outpouring of love for your battle scars.
I haven't given up.
I won't give up on you, so don't you give up.
Keep Pushing Forward.
With Love,
Emma Partridge
**Warning: The following content may trigger some readers and may be inappropriate for younger audiences. View discretion advised.**
August 29th, 2015.
I can still remember what I was wearing. Pink striped tank top, jeans, sandals. My hair was short and curled. My makeup was simple.
I had a friend who had gone through an operation and I was visiting him to check up on how he was doing.
I didn't expect to be sexually assaulted.
I was forced down and held tightly against his mattress as he kissed me and groped me. I struggled to free my hand to move his hands away from my breasts, my butt, my crotch, the zipper of my pants. I was physically forced into having my tongue in his mouth - when I certainly didn't want it there - and felt like I had no control. "No" seemed to hold no weight. I kept saying that I had to go, I was trying to find my escape. I was told "You keep saying that," and the hold on my wrists was tightened. I felt humiliated and used, despite not having sex. When I was finally able to leave, I was followed to my car and spanked as I tried to get in. As I drove home, my lip throbbed from the pain of being bitten and scraped up and my neck felt dirty from the trail of tiny hickies left behind. I felt branded like a cow.
When I finally got home, I ran inside and hid in the bathroom - where I cupped cold water in my hands up to my lip to reduce the swelling and ease the pain. I fixed my hair and redid my makeup to cover the already forming bruise on my lip and the hickies higher on my neck where a scarf wouldn't cover. I then made a daring dash to my room to change my outfit. I didn't want to be in those clothes anymore and I had to change into something that would merit wearing a scarf. A SCARF. In AUGUST. In CALIFORNIA. I was desperate to cover it up and I boiled that whole weekend because of it. Because I was too scared and felt too broken to tell anyone.
I then proceeded with my evening plans and attended a friend's concert. I felt void. Empty. Cast aside. I tried to laugh along with my friends but struggled to feel right. When invited to join them on a late night In N' Out run, I declined saying that I should get home because it was late (when I already had permission from my parents to stay out). When I got home, I texted this friend saying that I had also been feeling sick (which is true, but was a side affect of my trauma) and said no more of what had happened. I struggled to fall asleep that night and just stared into the darkness, too emotionally shocked to even cry.
For the longest time I thought it was my fault. I thought that because I had been in his room to check on him that I had made this happen to myself.
When I finally shut it mostly out of my memory, or at least somehow convinced myself it wasn't that serious, I basically forgot about it. Left it in the dust.
But I never conquered it. It dragged behind me for over a year. I became scared of leaving doors unlocked and frightened when touched in any way that could remotely remind me of my assault. One day at college, some GIFs popped up on my phone that triggered me and I tossed my phone away from me and sat on my bed in the fetal position whilst trying to recover.
Now I know that it's not my fault. That "no" should have been respected no matter what happened leading up to it.
I thought that telling my story would make others ashamed of me. But now, as I have received an outpouring of so much love from those close to me, I feel empowered in sharing my story. Not just to get it out and help myself to get over it, but to connect with other
To all survivors: It is not your fault. It was never your fault. It will never be your fault. You will eventually heal and be okay. I am here for you.
I also want to add, while this was not my personal experience, that it is not bad to have sexual desires and that being sexually assaulted or even raped is not a punishment for feeling such desires.
Don't be afraid to talk it out, because it will help you heal. It's okay to be selective in who you tell about it at first. It's scary. It hurts to relive in story form. In any form, really. But I promise you will get an outpouring of love for your battle scars.
I haven't given up.
I won't give up on you, so don't you give up.
Keep Pushing Forward.
With Love,
Emma Partridge
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