I am a sexual assault survivor. Not victim, survivor. I survived an attempt to take my autonomy away and reduce me to the plaything of a friend. I survived an attempt to take away my humanity.
Gender roles say that I should be the aggressor in this situation. I was born male, and remain male. I'm straight. I'm white. Theoretically, I hold the power in this society. But no one overpowered me, you see. No one forced me to do something.
But when I said I wasn't comfortable, she told me I was just repressed. She said that if she told anyone all of the things I'd done and said to her, I'd be the one in trouble. She said she'd already talked to Student Life, that the RAs knew to watch for me, that I was a predator.
She said things. The genders were flipped. Everyone believed her, blonde and blue-eyed and small and smiling. She'd told the whole community her story, how men in the shadows had raped her as a child. Or used her in a prostitution ring. Or maybe just groped her. The stories kept on changing.
So I never said anything. She was standing next to my best friend at his wedding, smiling and nodding with her newborn child and her picture-perfect husband. They lead a church now, a church with young men who might nicely offer to hold a door for her as she carries equipment into the church. That's how it began with me. Politeness, a kind remark, simple courtesy. Makes you hesitate, sometimes.
Now, I'm sitting in the dark, afraid to really believe anyone when they say they're my friend. "We're just friends" sounds like "I will violate you and try to make you think you want it."
But I'm alive and I survived. That's enough, some days.