Not My Fault

Names have been changed. 

At the beginning of freshman year, I started hanging out with new, cool people who liked the same alternative music I did. I was so excited for a restart from the bullying I endured in middle school. 

I managed to leave my social fears behind me, and I became a social butterfly. For the first month or so of high school, it truly seemed that my life had changed. One of my new friends, Alysa, was good at talking to guys and making new friends. I wanted to be just like her. 

One fall Friday after school, I ran into Alysa and she was with Oliver, an older boy who was popular and intimidating. Alysa and Oliver talked me into inviting them and my best friend Sam back to my house. The four of us went up to my room, huddled together on my bed, and ate marijuana gummies.

Soon we were as high as four silk kites. Oliver sat next to me, up against my bedframe, while the other two sat at the foot of my bed. Oliver and I found we liked the same things, and he told me quirky animal facts, which I liked. At 10 pm, my parents announced it was time for everyone to go home.  

Oliver texted me later that weekend to spark a new conversation, about music, influencers, and all sorts of things. Then he called me, and from casual chats we moved to facetime calls that lasted for hours. Slight, awkward compliments became full blown flirting. A change was beckoning through the air. I felt so excited and special; a guy had never told me I was pretty before. 

We talked at all times of the day, updating each other on our whereabouts. We certainly seemed like a couple; he was almost exactly like a boyfriend. My friends assumed we were already dating, and I thought so too. 

A week or so later, Alysa, Oliver, and I, plus my friend Hannah, planned another hangout. We went back to my house and took edibles again, a little more than last time. Alysa and Hannah were laughing to themselves while I settled into a conversation with Oliver.

He got touchier, grazing my arms and legs, something I wasn’t used to. I was surprised, but I felt lucky that out of everyone in that room, he chose to do these things with me. It’s never been me before. The hours went by quickly, and now it was nighttime. Alysa needed eyedrops, so we all left as a group to buy some. On the walk to CVS, Oliver whispered in my ear that there were things he wanted to do when the others were gone. 

Naive and flattered, I smiled nervously and walked alongside him. When we came back to my house, the others didn’t stick around, and suddenly it was just me and Oliver sitting on the edge of my bed. He asked if I wanted to make out. I’m not sure if I really wanted to or if I was just excited that I had the option. He was my first kiss, and it wasn’t that pleasant. I was still high and my mouth was all dry.

After that, we started acting like a real couple, and I was overjoyed. We hung out basically every day after school and talked on the phone or texted every night. It all felt so real. He introduced me to his friends, and I introduced him to mine. 

About two weeks later, my mom told me she was going to Canada for the weekend, and that I’d be staying alone in the house. I invited Oliver over while she was gone. 

Not Who I Thought He Was

We decided we would have sex for the first time. He brought these little gray mushrooms, and we took them together. They made me feel unlike anything else. We decided together not to have sex, but he did something else that I worried could make me pregnant. Then the vibe/mood changed. I was deep in this strange trip, and he became weirdly distant. He seemed disgusted with me. 

Near the end of our hangout, he announced that this would never become anything and he was just passing time with me. He left me in my home, still tripping, still scared. 

He only texted me over the weekend one time, offering to bring me Plan B. I felt worthless and no longer wanted. 

Three days later, Oliver texted and told me to meet him downtown. Stupidly, I obliged. Hannah was with him, and I could tell something was wrong. He didn’t look like he wanted to see me. He swiftly pulled me away from Hannah, into a Trader Joe’s, and I got happier, thinking he wanted me to go shopping with him. Then he guided me toward the public bathroom and closed the door. 

He then asked me for a particular sex act. I was disappointed, but I was afraid to say no because he seemed forceful. I did it, but made it very clear I didn’t want to; he noticed that and didn’t care. Near the end, he asked me to do something else—I firmly declined. He grabbed me and did it anyway. I went frozen and stiff. I scurried myself to the sink while he said quietly behind me: “Sorry.” Almost as if he was laughing at me. 

I am more aware of other girls who might have gone through this, and I let them know that I am a safe person to talk to.

As we left the Trader Joe’s, he walked quickly away without saying goodbye. Hannah was waiting outside, and she could tell that something was wrong. I was too embarrassed and ashamed to tell her what had happened; I just said that he did something that made me feel weird, and she consoled me. I smoked marijuana with her to make myself feel better.

I started to smoke more often after that, to stop flashbacks of the event in the bathroom from taking over. I eventually cracked and told Alysa what had happened. She decided to tell everyone at school. 

Before I knew it, kids were spreading rumors about me, describing me as a girl who gave her body away for drugs. It made me not want to go to school anymore. Not only did I have to hide from my assaulter, but people were coming up to me and asking bizarre questions.

“Is it true that you [REDACTED]?”

“What happened in that bathroom?”

Oliver eventually discovered what I had vaguely told my best friend Sam right after the assault, and he painted me as a liar. He had a strong reputation in my school, and nobody except my friends Sam and Hannah believed me. Hannah and Alysa were close, and I wished Hannah had stuck up for me more to Alysa’s face, but she did try to shut down the rumors at school.

Questions Swarming

It was November, and for the rest of freshman year the questions swarmed around me. People I thought were my friends asked me in an accusing way what I’d done. 

 People I’d met through Oliver told me I was overreacting. I wondered if I was the weird one. A lot of kids in my grade and a few sophomores kept insisting that I was lying and smearing him. It  seemed like people thought that I violated him just by defending myself. 

In those four months of questioning and harassment, I smoked weed every day, sometimes twice, usually by myself. At first, it helped somewhat. It got me to school, because I could get away with smoking there more easily than at home. I made new friends, and the only thing we did together was smoke weed. 

But then I fell into a deeper depression. It felt like a punishment having to see Oliver every day in the hallways, at lunch, and in one class, which I avoided as much as I could. Meanwhile, I’d gotten used to getting high as a way to cope, even though it wasn’t making me feel better. The addiction consumed the remainder of freshman year. 

I was able to tell my parents that January, and they freaked out. They were concerned, but there was blame in it too that I had let it happen. They worry about me more now. 

That summer, I kept smoking with my new weed friends. Sam smoked sometimes, but he cautioned me about going too far with it. Sometimes he said, “I don’t think you should smoke this much in one day,” or, when I was very high, “How are you going to get home like that?” and “You can’t get anything done when you’re that high.” His concern snapped me back to reality each time, but then I’d go back to smoking. 

Healing

The first adult who gave me good support dealing with the assault was my therapist. She’d been my therapist since the start of freshman year, but it took me about six months to tell her what Oliver did to me. The word “rape” had seemed too extreme, but she, and then other adults, confirmed my feeling that it was rape. 

I was talking to a new romantic interest at that time, spring of freshman year, and I wanted to talk about why I felt uncomfortable and scared about engaging with him. I was afraid of any sexual or romantic interaction; my OCD mind talking had told me that anything of the sort would result in “bad luck” or another assault. 

My therapist gave me exercises to help me deal with my anxiety around intimacy and to not disassociate, and they helped. It took a while. And then I did get into a relationship with the new guy, who turned out to be very understanding. I told him what Oliver did and how it affected me afterwards, and he was patient with my having flashbacks and freezing sometimes. He avoided things that might trigger me, and he showed me that not every guy is bad. 

He and I ended it for other reasons, but on peaceful terms, and I credit him for helping me heal. Talking to Sam helped too. The assault was never something I enjoyed talking about, but opening up about what happened and what was going on with me gave me the courage to keep talking and to keep pushing into recovery. 

By the end of summer, I wanted to bring my grades up. I started 10th grade with promises to myself that I would quit smoking, but it took me until spring semester to remain sober and improve my grades. As I worked on my healing, the gossipers at school moved on to new rumors about other people. I still had to occasionally see Oliver in the halls, and when I did, it always hurt.

Since then, I have had more normal and reassuring relationships with friends, boyfriends, and others. Each of them has changed my life for the better; each has recovered a broken part of my mind. 

I am careful about who I trust, and I am still working to fix some anxieties that still linger three years later. The flashbacks haven’t completely stopped, but they are rare. They line up more with my general mental health than with any specific trigger, which helps me move into intimate relationships and also reminds me to take care of myself in therapy and elsewhere. I have learned to use poetry and music as an outlet for my more complicated and hurtful thoughts. 

I also am more aware of other girls who might have gone through this, and I let them know that I am a safe person to talk to. There are a lot of us, and talking truthfully about it helps us all.

One thing I know for sure: What happened that day was never my fault.