Fine Again

20 years ago, in 2004, I was raped. It is one of the few things I grieve to this day, and if I am to be truthful, I did not want to recount the story. But the reality is that even though it is hard to pinpoint how commonly autistic women are sexually victimized, some have claimed a ballpark estimate of almost half of the female autistic population. This journal is a lot of things to me, but the main goal is to process my life under the lens of my autism, while using the small voice I have to add my story to the collective narrative.

I am incredibly naive. I remember being even more so as a young lady. I lacked awareness of my own body. I was always told I was ugly, so I figured I had immunity to unwanted attention. Yes, there were minor incidents at the dorms—an inappropriate touch on occasion—but I seemed not to process it, and it never went beyond that. I was not a prude, but in many ways, my mind was so young that had I understood how ignorant I was, I would have… I don’t know, slowed down? I was too fast and broke my heart getting caught in the whirlwind of false promises.

In the summer of 2004, I was in the midst of an ugly breakup with the first person I loved. I didn’t eat for weeks and spent my days dragging myself to class before heading to my room and crying. I remember playing solitaire to try to calm my heart from the crippling anxiety. My friends were there—some using humor to console me, some empathetic to my pain, some helping with practicalities like convincing me to have a slice of pizza. The notion that I was free caused some to flirt a little, but I was too despondent to register it.

One night, a male friend invited me to his room to have a few drinks and just distract me. I thought nothing of it. This man had let me play Nintendo on his old NES, as a brother would. His girlfriend was there too, and I knew her well. I don’t remember anything. I know I became drunk and blacked out. I feel so ashamed of being so stupid. I’m sensitive to drink, and I put myself in a horrible position. I can’t remember much beyond a hazy memory of him on me before passing out. Things only became clear upon waking up the next morning, half naked in his bed. I also remember dragging myself to my room in tears, and sitting in the tub as the scalding shower water failed to clean me. My head and body hurt. I remember going to my bed, hiding under the covers, and feeling waves of shame. Again, for being so stupid. I had spent so many weeks grieving the loss of my ex boyfriend that to lose my dignity too made me in turns numb, angry, and depressed.

I didn’t press charges. I regret that every day. What if he victimized someone else? I was so scared no one would believe me. I told my friends, but the person kept his relationship, continued his education, and got married eventually. I’m over it, though I went through years of reckless and self-destructive behavior before I finally settled down. I became promiscuous in that era—some desperate instinct to give myself control over my own body. I felt that every new lover was going to push me further away from the man who took what I didn’t want to give him. I refused to emotionally connect or trust anyone, an unfortunate burden that I carry to this day. I assumed everyone wanted to take, so I made sure I took first and that I took as much as I wanted. But it was never enough. The wounds refused to heal and I just became more insatiable. In retrospect, it’s a miracle that I survived between the increasingly stupid decisions and the depression I fought. I think that’s why sometimes I feel that I am strong, though I’m also weak, sensitive, young, naive. I don’t remember the sun rising on my pain in a gradual way. Like most things one grieves I remember thinking about a little less every month that passed by, until the wound was hidden from sight. I hurts when I prod it, but thankfully it lays mostly forgotten.