Wednesday, February 24, 2016

I blamed myself when my friend's brother forced my hand down his pants when I was 12, because I liked it when he put his hands down mine.

I blamed myself when a minister's son forced me to go down on him while he drove his pimped out Fiesta around town, because he'd threatened to rape me an hour earlier and I still got in the car with him. 

I blamed myself when I woke up at a party with the host's fingers in my cunt, because I'd drank far too much and by the time I realised what was going on, I was too embarrassed to shout for help.

I blamed myself when a friend raped me, because I'd fucked him before and loved it.

I blamed myself last year when a random bloke in a kebab shop grabbed my tits, because I was buying food to binge eat.

And I know that's utter bollocks. But I still do it. Every time some tosser violates my consent, I hang onto this ridiculous attitude for months or years that it was actually my fault, that I could have prevented it.

I blame myself because that's a lot easier than believing that it could happen again. I blame myself because I don't want to live in a world where I can do every fucking thing right and still end up with an unwanted cock in me.
If it was my fault, I can stop it happening again. I've got some control back. And sometimes that's a comforting thought.