The Four Reasons Women Don’t Come Forward, I Know Because They Kept me Quiet

I was raped in high school when I was sixteen years old and I never told another soul about it—mostly—until two years ago.  Even now when I write or talk about it I feel disassociated from what happened.  Like that sixteen year old version of me is someone I know but not really me.  The few times I’ve connected to that version of me I couldn’t stop myself from physically shaking.  So I keep her at an arms-length.  Because I’m not a victim (even though I am) and I refuse to be consumed by anger (though I’m furious).  Truthfully I would have died with my secret.  Truthfully some days I wish I would have.  But an incredibly brave friend of mine came forward with her story.  When I read it on Facebook I felt the shaking start because I knew who she was talking about even though she didn’t name him.  Turns out there are nine of us from our small New England town who were victimized by this predator—that we know of.

So as much as I wish I didn’t have to drag out my sixteen-year-old self to have her help me explain why we—and so, so, so, so, so many women—tell our stories years later instead of in the moment I feel a sense of duty to do it.  Because women I love have wondered out loud in front of me why women wait to disclose.  And I get it.  But we have good reasons and I hope you’ll read this with an open mind.

1. When young girls are raped by someone they know and trust they often don’t have the ability to conceptualize of it as rape.  When I was sixteen and was raped I couldn’t say the word rape.  I told one of my friends the next day that I didn’t want to do it.  Years later when visiting that same friend in Seattle, where she is a cop, I mentioned to her in a conversation that I had never wanted to have sex with the boy who raped me and she reminded me that she knew because I had told her after it happened.  In my sixteen-year-old brain I believed that because I stopped fighting this boy because he was hurting and terrifying me that implied consent.  I also know now that denying the act protected me as much as it protected the rapist.  It’s much easier to call rape a miscommunication than have to bear the burden of being re-victimized at a trial or by a society which tends to stand by young wealthy white boys with their whole futures ahead of them.  Boys will be boys, after all.  Now as an adult woman I realize that if someone kicks a puppy until it is cowering and whimpering in the corner that doesn’t mean the puppy wants to be in the corner.  I lost my breath when reading a recent article about Chessy Prout, a young rape survivor whose mother stated in the article that Chessy didn’t realize what had happened to her.  She didn’t even have the language to name it.  And I got it.  Because all I could say for twenty-six years is that I “didn’t want to.”  But when that means that I didn’t want to have sex and someone forced me to anyway, that is most definitely called rape.
2. We have everything to lose. At age forty-two I wanted to stand up for all of us nine victims.  I didn’t want my friend Caitlin to have to be our only champion, suffering the harsh judgement all by herself.  But the thought of having to tell my husband, my mother, my father, my brother, my friends, and someday my sons crushed me.  I thought everyone would support me but I wasn’t positive so that’s a big gamble right there.  Also, it feels so dirty and gross to admit it.  And I had to consider that I have a good life.  Am I jeopardizing everything for something that happened twenty-six-years ago?  Is it enough that it is the right thing to balance out all that I have to lose?  For me the answer wasn’t clear and I still struggle with how far I go.  Because on the one hand I have two sons who count on me to provide for them but I also have two sons who need me to lead by example.  But it is a struggle.   Every. Single.  Day.
3. And I have nothing to gain. Because very few men are held accountable with meaningful consequences for their actions.  It’s a concept called social proof.  Women don’t come forward because they see that the risk isn’t worth the pain and lack of reward.  My truth hurt the people closest to me and ripped off the nasty scar tissue I had developed over that deep psychological wound.  But it hasn’t translated into any kind of consequence that I’m aware of for my rapist.  He is still selling commercial real estate in metro Boston and living his life believing he is untouchable.  And he kind of is.  This is true of most sexual assailants.  So did I do the right thing?  Was the non-reward worth my sacrifice?  Was it worth my family’s pain?  Is it worth reading the nasty things loved ones post on social media about how women like me are liars?
4. I came forward now because someone has to stop him from victimizing again. When wrestling with the decision to come forward there was a lot of guilt that I had to reconcile.  This predator had nine victims in a small New England town.  Could I have saved them if I had been braver?  If I hadn’t been in denial would there be less victims.  The crushing answer is yes.  And while I was working through the pain of long lost chances I realized that sexual predators don’t just wake up one day and decide they are done.  I was sick to my stomach realizing this monster still had a buffet of young girls to victimize—and that two of those girls were my friend’s daughters who lived in the same town as this predator.  Panicked I called her and made her promise never to let her daughters go to this man’s house.  It’s not perfect but it’s the best I can do. So is it enough?  Should I have just stayed quiet? Have I made things better?

All I can do is hope that the answer is yes.

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October 1, 2018 by Nicole Corning | 1 Comment