I was sexually assaulted again. A couple weeks ago. It was a friend of a friend. It wasn’t as bad this time. He didn’t pin me down and try to rape me, like the previous guy did, but he did repeatedly grope me as I tried to sleep–while each time I told him to get away from me–and he eventually put his hand in my pants. And guess what?
It’s my fault. Again.
I’m making it up for attention. Again.
I’m making it up to get revenge on him. Again.
I must’ve been leading him on. Again.
I must’ve done something to deserve it. Again.
If it really happened, I would’ve screamed. Again.
If it really happened, I would’ve called the police. Again.
It’s my fault again. It’s always my fault.
And hey, bonus, here’s a new one: I must’ve fooled around with him willingly, then pretended it wasn’t consensual in the morning so my boyfriend couldn’t get mad at me.
These are the thoughts that people have had about me since I spoke up. These are the thoughts that people have had about me, because a man believed he was entitled to my body, and I told him no.