I Apologized to My Attacker…Repeatedly.
By: Kelley Silver
Tags: Sexual Assault, Rape, Metoo, Trauma, Friendship

This is not a rape story.

I was not raped, so I’ve never felt my experience mattered. I’m writing this because I’ve finally realized it does. Not in the same way, perhaps, but for me it does matter.

Well over a decade ago, a dear friend of mine called me to come over around 2 AM. It was a college town, we were both night owls, and we had no sexual interest in each other at all, or so I thought. It was the middle of summer, so I wasn’t working (I’m a teacher). He wanted me to take him to Waffle House because he was too drunk to drive. He was an alcoholic, so this too didn’t surprise me. These are the types of friendships one has in a college town.

I arrived at his apartment, and he was shirtless. I told him to go put on a shirt, and we would go. He insisted I come in and listen to him read some of his writing. This was something we often did. He fancied himself a writer, and I sat through many a marathon reading session. At some point he stopped reading, and as we were chatting I saw the look come across his face. I saw it. I said aloud, “I can tell you’re thinking about kissing me. Don’t do it. I don’t want you to.” He laughed and said the thought hadn’t entered his mind. We kept chatting. We smoked cig after cig and talked about anything and everything. He read and read and read some more. Hours passed. I kept telling him, “You still have that look on your face.” He assured me I was misreading.

Before I knew what was happening, in the middle of a conversation, he planted one on me. I did not want this. He had/has been with so many women that the very thought of it repulses me. Yes, he’s an attractive man. Mysterious, talented, artistic, etc. He has bedded hundreds of women, but I did not want to be one of them. We wound up on his bed, making out. I didn’t want to, but if I’m being honest, all I could think of was, “How do I stop this without ending the friendship?” and “How do I stop this without making him angry?” To be totally blunt, I remember thinking, “How do I get his tongue out of my mouth?” and “Sweet Jesus, his stubble is burning my face.” When he reached for his belt, I finally found the courage and said, “I don’t want this. I want to leave.” He started mumbling about how it was okay and how it wouldn’t hurt our friendship. I reached for my keys. He grabbed my keys and put them down his pants. He was forcing me to stay. I wish I had gotten up, walked out, and called a taxi, but it was the middle of the night, and I was too scared. Uber didn’t yet exist.

I think he saw my face go blank. I think that’s what did it. When I feel threatened or unsafe, my face loses its jovial nature, and I just go robotic. I sat stone-still, unresponsive. He finally took my keys out of his trousers and said I could leave, but only if he could walk me to my car. The whole walk to the car, I was frantic to escape. The immediate danger was over, but I wanted away from him. He started begging and crying about how he didn’t want to lose my friendship and how I was the only woman that mattered to him except for his sisters. I found myself — apologizing to him. “I’m sorry, I never should have come over in the middle of the night. I should have left when I saw you were drunk. I’m so sorry. I won’t let this ruin our friendship,” but he knew that was a lie. He kept saying, “It’s already different. I can feel you being different.” His tears only made it worse. Dawn made everything blurry, and the chirping birds sounded like hecklers. I cranked the car, indicating I wanted to leave, but he just kept yammering at me with the door open.

He didn’t want it to be different. Of course it was different. He had heard my wishes, ignored them, and made me feel frightened. He had ruined our years-long friendship and made me feel gross.

I called the very next day and scheduled myself an appointment with my GP to get tested for EVERYTHING despite only having kissed. I got tested again every three months until I felt clear. I take great solace in the fact that my body’s cells have probably all been recycled by now, so he hasn’t touched this body.

I have always considered myself one of the lucky ones. One of the women who’ve lived free of sexual violence. I was never date-raped. Never touched by a creepy uncle. Never attacked by a stranger lying in wait in the bushes. Never pressured into sex by a boss. I told myself this was part luck and part because I was so smart and cautious. Also, I was overweight, and I told myself that helped. I knew, empirically, that women of all sizes, shapes, ages, and degrees of consciousness get raped, but I told myself that being cautious was still smart, and I do believe that.

I’m sure some of you are thinking to yourself, “Kissing? This chick is upset over kissing?” I know it’s minor to some people, but to this day the number of people I’ve kissed is fairly small. I am incredibly judicious about who touches me. I did not want to kiss him. I did not want him to kiss me. I verbalized such, and he ignored it. For me, it’s the most threatened I’ve ever felt. The closest a man has ever come to forcing me.

I know, in my brain, that I am not responsible for what happened that night. But in my heart? I still feel I should have made better choices. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been friends with him at all once I learned about his past. Perhaps I should have turned down his request for Waffle House. Perhaps perhaps perhaps. It took me YEARS to end that friendship. Even after he moved away, he just kept calling. He would send dozens of DMs if he saw me online, begging me to engage. He wanted to be my friend. He wanted what we’d had, but for me it was over. It had been over. He was no longer my friend because friends respect boundaries. I finally shut that door this past year with a loud bang, and he angrily vanished into my past. I sometimes worry he will show up on my doorstep, drunk and angry.

I’m ashamed to say I blamed myself for far too long. But not anymore. It took the #metoo movement for me to really understand the concept of victim-blaming. I did nothing wrong. I didn’t “ask for it.” I specifically, emphatically asked for the opposite. I would say I miss him, but I truly don’t. I miss the time before. The years of platonic friendship and trust. I miss what we had before he ruined it. I miss my friend, but maybe he never really existed at all.