As a young woman with Asperger’s Syndrome I still struggled with basic life skills like staying organized, paying bills, getting places on time. I acted cute and ditzy, copying certain slapstick characters off popular sitcoms, so that I seemed to be playing down the importance of things rather than struggling to cope. I made an art of seeming detached from any social concern, which was how confident people seemed to be. But in reality I was twenty-three and couldn’t keep up with life the way that other people my age did. I met a couple of people who I started hanging out with, who had a social circle which I was invited into. Being around their friends was like being at a club on a guest pass. I was never really a member of the group.
One night there was a party. Large groups still made me anxious, and, as I usually did, I quickly drank too much and got nauseated. One of the guys at the party offered to let me sleep in his room. I crawled between his sheets and as my stomach settled my fatigue got stronger. I woke up in a state of disassociation. My dress was around my waist and a man was inside of me. It wasn’t like sex. It was like watching someone engaging in the completely solo act of relieving themselves in my body while I just lay there motionless. Only it continued happening even as I gradually regained consciousness.
As the reality of the situation dawned on me, so did the fact that it was already too late, and in an attempt to hang on to my sanity I clung to that disassociated state. I stared at the pattern on the sheets and allowed myself to be lost there. Wandering around in a mental daze, I tried to contextualize. To rationalise. To do anything but experience what was happening in the moment. But the feelings crept in, slow and muted. Not like the clear screams one would expect in a moment of such violation.
“Regardless of my choice to not let it affect me, it was there. At the core of me.”
I wish I could write here that I fought back. I wish I had been the girl with the dragon tattoo. Except I didn’t want that. I had worked so hard to convince myself that people weren’t scary. I didn’t want to spend my life being angry. I didn’t want more to process. I couldn’t deal with more. I wanted to be Zen. I would fight for being Zen. So I very aggressively clung to my passivity. But sometimes Zen just isn’t possible. No matter how I tried to convince myself I just wanted for that moment in my life not to be taking place. But then there was another thought that kept me from reacting.
I had had sex in my life with many people I hadn’t really cared for. At times I had bartered it for friendship. Sometimes just for company. I had enjoyed it despite the fact that I was often using it as a tool to keep from having to be alone. It seemed unfair to say that, this time, because I did not enjoy it, and did not agree to it, I was entitled to complain. Like the right to care about my body was something I had given up and was no longer entitled to. I had to get through this quietly. Not make it a bigger deal than it was on its own. My only escape was if I could really believe this wasn’t important. Then I could move on. Tomorrow I could be someone else. Tomorrow I would be someone who took care of herself. Who was clean and entitled to respect. Tomorrow the world could start being safe again.
After he was done, I went home and showered and went to my own bed. I lay there trying to convince myself that I had left it behind in that room. But really I had brought it with me. Regardless of my choice to not let it affect me, it was there. At the core of me. In a most personal place, growing like a fungus, moving from his bed onto mine. Taking over everything. I felt disgusted and so many other things. I felt anger, fear, grossness, sadness, loss, and fear again. More fear than I had ever had. And most of all I felt ashamed for letting it happen. Why hadn’t I screamed? Voiced or not, a scream was there in my throat making it hard to breath; so instead I cried. I lay there crying and gasping for breath until I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the events were still there playing over and over again in my head. As I lay in my bed processing and feeling everything, the question came down not to what was right and wrong but what I could live with now. Calling it “rape” felt melodramatic. Plus, without a doubt, it would be harder for the authorities to help me than not help me. The man had been friends with others at the party. I had been a there on a guest pass. No one had heard me scream, since I hadn’t. Everyone would be on his side if I tried to speak up. They would say that I was flaky and awkward. That no one knew me that well (or they would think that and then say something more discrediting). I thought about the questions the police would ask me. Why had I been drinking so much? Why had I been in a stranger’s bed? What had I expected? I knew from experience that being blamed for your own suffering was a trauma in itself. Not telling was the only way I could protect myself now, so I stayed quiet.
