My Story

A friend told me last week that I had to tell my story. She told me that I had to talk in front of a room full of strangers and tell them why I was there. At first, I questioned it and I was angry. But then I finally realised why it was important for me to tell my story to all of you. I have to tell my story for the women and the men who can’t. It’s hard to tell your story when you feel like it was written by someone else. When you feel like someone else took control of your story. When you feel like it’s not yours, but theirs. Someone wrote a chapter that you wish you could rip out and burn and forget, but you can’t. You can never forget. I need to tell my story so that my voice is heard. Because having my voice be heard reclaims some of the power. Some of the power that was taken when he wrote my story for me. I need to tell my story for the people who carry around that weight every day of their lives.

I was raped. It took me a long time to be able to say those words out loud. And even when I did, I spoke those words like a robot. With no emotion or feeling behind them. I refused to acknowledge the weight those words carried in my life because I was too scared of what might happen to me once I did. It’s important for me to share my story because unfortunately, and it breaks my heart, I know I am not the only one in this room who has been. I know that there are other people here who have felt powerless. Who have felt weak. I know that there are other people here who felt like they didn’t have control over their own stories. I’m not here to tell you that I understand your story, because I don’t. No two stories are the same, and two experiences alike. But I know. I know what it’s like to be pushed. I know what it’s like to be choked. I know what it’s like to fight. I know what it’s like when you give up. When you stop trying and freeze. I know what it’s like when you surrender. I know what it’s like to be raped. I know what how it feels when you blame yourself. When you question what you could have done differently. I know what it’s like to lose your voice. I know what it’s like to be scared when someone touches you. I know how it feels walking home from the library at night looking over your shoulder every two feet. I know what it’s like not to be able to bring anyone home, or touch anyone, or trust. I know what it’s like to wake up at 4am feeling like you can’t breathe because you can still feel his hands on your throat. I know what’s it’s like to be scared of sex. But I’m here to tell you that rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power and it’s about dominance. He took something from me that night that I will probably never be able to get back. Because you don’t move on from rape. You don’t wake up one morning and feel fine. You don’t forget it. But one morning you wake up and you start to heal. The weight that you carry around gets just a little bit lighter. And the power you lost that night slowly comes back. You stop doubting and blaming yourself, and you start to believe again. Because you are not a victim, you are a survivor. And you fight. And you tell your story.

Tonight, I tell my story for me. I tell my story for me and anyone else in this room who once felt like they lost their voice. Because we will not be silenced. I tell my story tonight so that I can heal. What he did to me that night is just one part of my story. Just a portion; a fragment. A part that will not define me anymore. I tell my story tonight because it’s mine. And it deserves to be heard.