Blognonymous : Your Rape Isn't Funny (with addendum)

I ranted about Amazon's "Rape" t-shirts over the weekend and within a few hours of my post going live, the Blognonymous team received an email.  If you heard about the t-shirts and wondered what all the fuss was about, this puts it all into perspective.  Forget algorithms... what about the victim?  

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You're a young man, a young woman, an older woman, an older man. You're single, married, gay, straight, drunk, sober.

A party, your house, office drinks, a walk home. Somehow, you're alone with a friend. Maybe you flirt a little, maybe you don't. You never think about being alone with them, you didn't notice it happen. Maybe you know them well. Maybe it's your spouse.

They get nasty, maybe make a critical comment. You go to leave. They hit you - hard - with words or fists. You're scared. You're stunned. You're confused. You stand to leave and they grab you. 

You fight. You can tell from their breathing exactly what's going to happen. You're thinking, this can't happen to me, this is going to stop. 

You're feeling sick, dizzy, afraid. You want to scream but you're in pain and their weight is on your chest. You can't breathe. 

You're plotting your escape. Please stop, please stop. Your mind is racing while all the while the thick smell of an unwelcome body is pressed against you. 

Your shut your eyes tight, overwhelmed with desperate devastation, realising that you are simply not strong enough to stop this. You can't stop this. 

A stranger is forcing their way into you. Tearing. Stinging. Burning. Thumping. Stabbing pain that will not stop. You can't adjust to it, fighting it hurts, do they want it to hurt? Are you going to die? 

It finishes, agonising climax that fills you with pain unlike anything you've ever felt. Wincing, punching, burning, angry heat. It's your fault, you hear them say. 

They're gone. You're alive. Mopping pools of a stranger - or someone you trusted - off your thighs, streaked with blood. 

Shame. Disgust. Rinsing. Burning. Stinging. Thoughts of suicide. Thoughts of police interviews. Thoughts of blame. Thoughts of revenge. Thoughts of suicide. Thoughts of suicide. Thoughts of suicide.

Shaking. Vomiting. Crying. Numb. You play it in your head over and over again. You wonder if you said no enough, if you fought hard enough, if they know it was rape. Of course they do. 

You're not you anymore. You stay silent. Outside, on TV, in the news, at the pub, in your home, you hear laughing. Rape, they say, is funny. Rape, they say, is a joke. There's rape, they say, and there's rape rape. Maybe you thought that too, once.

But now you've felt it. You bear the bruises. You smell that body. You see those eyes. You hear that breathing. You feel the shame, the fear, the anger, the resignation. Not all the time, but forever.

Rape is not funny, it's never O.K, you're never O.K. It never washes off.

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Addendum  

I received another email from the very brave contributor of this post.  I feel as though I have to share it as it adds weight to the original post.

Hi.

I just wanted to say thank you so much to you, the Blognonymous team and every single person who helped spread the word and/or commented. 

Please pass on my heartfelt thanks for the delicacy, kindness, strength and support with which it was dealt. I have masses of respect for every one of you.

I saw the re-tweets, conversations, blog comments, FB comments etc and I feel like something positive has come out of my experience for the first time. 

If our collective efforts change the way just one person thinks, it will have made a difference. I hope it has.

Best wishes.