Please Say "I Believe You"
TW: Sexual Assault
The most important thing that anyone can say to a sexual assault survivor is “I believe you.” It may sound trite or even stupid to say this. You may think to yourself that it’s obvious they’re telling the truth. But it always helps to hear other people confirm that your reality is true.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told parts of the story of my sexual assault to friends, my therapist, or to a police officer, only to feel sure that they don’t believe it. What do I think they believe?
That it’s my fault. (Because it’s on me to stop unwanted physical contact, to slap his face or walk away or scream.)
That it was just a date gone wrong.
That I have some grudge against this guy and am trying to get back at him.
That I’m just mentally ill and have all the facts confused.
That this is just a normal situation and that other women would just figure out how to deal with it without needing to call the police or name it “sexual assault.”
That if there wasn’t penetration, then it’s just a bad experience with a person of the opposite sex.
So, yes I need to hear you say that you believe me. That you believe that it happened the way I describe it. That you believe I’m not exaggerating. That you believe it was sexual assault. That you believe that it was wrong for me to be treated this way. That you believe that it wasn’t my job to resort to physical violence to have bodily autonomy. And maybe also that you believe that a woman’s life and needs and desires are at least as valuable as a man’s, because I grew up in a world where that wasn’t always apparent.
When I ask if it was my fault that I didn’t do the right facial expression, or that I misinterpreted the intentions of the man I thought was just an acquaintance, I need you to say that it would never have been my fault to be treated this way, that a man is never justified in doing this to a woman. Yes, even if she is autistic. Even if he thought that she felt the same way he did. Even if he had just paid her for a book of hers that he bought.
When I tell you that I didn’t report it to the police for a full year, when he reappeared at the venue where he had found me the first time and asked friends about me, introducing himself as my friend, I need you to tell me that it was brave that I reported it to the police at all, because less than ten percent of women can even do that, at any time. Because they are afraid and because they don’t think anyone will believe them.
When I tell you how humiliating it was to listen to and answers questions about which exact parts of my body he touched, under or over clothing, and which parts of his body he made my hand touch, in the police interview, I need you to be indignant for me. I need you to do that because I can’t. I felt as powerless and as mistreated in that interview (with another man) as I did in the assault. And that’s exactly why most women don’t do it.
When I tell you that I still have the letter from the DA that says that they are choosing not to prosecute because they think there is no likelihood of conviction, I need you to be angry for me. I need you to tell me what to do with that letter, because I have no fucking idea. I can’t throw it away. I’m not going to frame it. And I knew that he wouldn’t be prosecuted when I started. I knew that he had too many friends in the system. I knew that I was only doing it so that when the next woman is brave enough to report, she will see that there was someone before her. She will know she wasn’t the first. Because this is what he does. It wasn’t her. It was him.
I need you to speak to me gently, and not to touch me without asking first. I need you to make sure that I feel safe. I need you to do things for myself that I’m not able to do right now. Because I’m still in pain. I’m still afraid it’s going to happen again and again and again. I still can’t trust anyone, because there were so many layers of betrayal around the one, central one.