Shame

The worst part is the shame.  It doesn't make sense, when people hear you say it, because the worst bit is where he held you down, the worst part is where he took innocence and replaced it with an infection which festers even now, the worst part is how he hurt you, right?  No.  The worst part is the shame.

There's the shame that you weren't the one to take this to court, that you couldn't face standing in front of people and telling them how it happened, again and again, that you couldn't stop it, and knowing that they have the power to lift some of this trauma, this pain, or to damn you to a hell which they will call of your own making.

And you should never be ashamed of being hurt – that was his doing, not yours.

Before that, there's the shame that you didn't speak up, that you couldn't go to anyone and let it all tumble out, crying, because by the time your clothes were back on, you'd locked it down, already, because there was no way, no time to cope with it, no way you could think about it, because that would mean admitting it had happened.

And you should never be ashamed of being scared – that was his doing, not yours.

Before that, there's the shame that you didn't fight back harder, that you were unable to push him off you, that you couldn't overpower him, or that you couldn't fight back because you'd have to admit it was happening, you'd have to hurt someone else the way they were hurting you, because no should have been enough, because no one should have to fight back once they've already said no.

And you should never be ashamed that no didn't stop him – that was his doing, not yours.

There's the shame that no wasn't enough, that maybe you were putting out signals which meant your no was justly ignored, although you know there's no reason to ignore that no, that no one should ever force you into something like that, your pat out, your no was enough.

And you should never be ashamed of expecting him to stop – that was his doing, not yours.

There's the shame of submission, of lying strangely still and wishing you were anywhere else, wishing you believed in a god to pray to, wishing that wishes came true and when you opened your eyes, screwed up to stop the tears, you wouldn't be there, beneath him, because you'd been stronger, because you'd stopped it before you could begin, because he hadn't touched you.

And you should never be ashamed of coping however you could with trauma – that was his doing, not yours.

But before everything, there's the shame of being there.  You were there, you were complicit in his lust because you were alive, breathing, warm, and honestly you don't know if it would have stopped him if you hadn't been.  But you feel all the shame for being there, for being within reach, for being available to him, for leading him on, perhaps, or teasing, because everyone knows it would never happen without you being provocative.

And you should never be ashamed of being raped – that was his doing.  Not yours.