I Was Raped And I Had No Idea

It took me 30 years to realize I wasn’t a slut.

That morning, I woke up in my dorm room, fully clothed. My head was pounding and my vagina was aching.

My last memory was of my boyfriend’s friends laughing and cheering as they surrounded me. *Cody, my boyfriend’s best friend, was between my legs.

I tried to get up but couldn’t lift my head or move my body. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew it was something terrible.

It took me three decades to realize what had happened — I had been sexually assaulted, most likely raped.

The blurry night

The afternoon was supposed to go without any incident.

My girlfriends and I were invited to Cody’s house to watch the Super Bowl, something we did every year. This time my boyfriend couldn’t come. He was visiting his family abroad.

“Cody told me everything,” my boyfriend said when he called me that afternoon. “You cheated on me!”

“I must have blacked out,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I attempted in vain to piece together what happened. My girlfriends and I were hanging out in Cody’s room, drinking and chatting.

And then the next thing I remembered was Cody perched between my legs, grinning as his friends surrounded me. I told him that part, too.

But at 19, my limited understanding of rape meant I was to blame. I thought perhaps I got so drunk that I lost my inhibitions and seduced Cody. But why? And why were his friends around me?

Something felt off. It was uncharacteristic of me to get so drunk or to sleep around. But for the next three decades, I buried this part of my life so deeply I forgot about it.

Besides, who wants to remember an incident that branded you a slut around campus? That contributed to a breakup? That became so unbearable that you had to transfer to another college?

Even my girlfriends thought I let it happen by drinking too much or hanging out in Cody’s room, although they were there, too.

It was the 90s — no one blamed the boys and my boyfriend continued to hang out with Cody.

At the time, the understanding was sexual assault or rape only happened with a stranger lurking in the dark alley waiting to pounce on you. Rapists were bad guys, not cool college bros like Cody.

Then the #MeToo Movement changed everything.

Something shifted, no exploded, in me. It was as if my body could finally release the trauma it had held for so long. I read tweets of brave women coming out of their shells.

And as I did, I saw a flashback of the incident, felt a flood of tears, and a voice inside me said — He sexually assaulted you, most likely raped you.

Unacknowledged rape

My experience is something many victims of sexual assault go through. Research shows that it may take years or even decades for victims to realize or accept that what happened was sexual assault or rape.

Psychologists call it “unacknowledged rape. Research shows that 60% of female college students — a staggering 1 in 6 women — have experienced unacknowledged rape.

This is primarily because women don’t associate rape or sexual assault with someone they know, like a date or a boyfriend. Plus, the media depicts rape or sexual assault as “stranger rapes,” despite research showing that more than 90% of survivors knew their attacker.

Studies also show women are more likely to label it rape when the perpetrator is a stranger, if it involves physical force or a weapon, or if the woman has been under the influence of alcohol.

No wonder rape is the least reported of all violent crimes on college campuses.

In my case, everything checks out — he was someone I knew. I had been drinking, and no physical force or weapon was involved.

But at the time, I didn’t think it was sexual assault or rape. I thought I was a slut who cheated on my boyfriend.

When #MeToo happened, I became more aware of what constitutes rape or sexual assault, and that what happened to me was not okay.

It also opened my eyes to the kind of guy I was dating — he chose to believe his friends over me and continued to hang out with a guy like Cody who slept with his girlfriend.

The aftermath 30 years later

When I realized I could have been raped, I was angry at myself — furious for not standing up for myself, not reporting it, and not calling Cody out for his deplorable actions.

At the same time, I felt compassion for a teenage girl who didn’t know better and a society unaware.

But realizing I was sexually assaulted or raped doesn’t make it any better — Cody and his friends most likely harmed more girls because I didnt report it.

I feel like shit wondering how many more girls he has assaulted.

And I want to tell my husband that I’m a victim of rape, but my throat clenches. My heart beats faster and I freeze every time I try to.

I’m taken back to that moment: I’m walking on the college campus and everyone’s staring at me. I hear whispers. I see my girlfriends and as I get closer to them, they disperse, avoiding me.

I hear the echo of my boyfriend laughing with Cody as he wraps his arm around his shoulder.

I wish I could go back in time. I wish to right the wrong. I wish to give a big hug to that frightened young girl.

Overcoming the stigma of being a victim is difficult. There’s shame and regret.

And no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn’t my fault, it’s likely that I still blame myself — only if I didn’t go to his room that night, only if I didn’t drink, only if I had left earlier.

But I know that letting things boil inside is unhealthy. So I decided to tell my husband — in the way writers do — by having him read this piece.

Then he asked me if I wanted to talk. I wanted to say yes, but I said ‘no’ in that firm definitive way that he knew he shouldn’t keep asking.

I’m afraid talking about it will bring back all the yucky emotions I felt that day. I don’t get it; I know it wasn’t my fault, yet I can’t talk to the one person I trust, my husband.

To come to grips with it, there was something I needed to do — write my ex.

I searched for him on Facebook.

Within minutes, I found him — older with his wife beside him and their two young daughters in front of them, smiling for the camera.

I messaged him:

Hi xx,

This is June. We were dating in college (in 1993) and broke up over an incident that happened with your bestfriend at the time, Cody. I’m writing this because I realized what happened that night and I need to tell you.

You were abroad to see your family. I went over to Cody’s house with xx and xx. It was the Super Bowl. Your friends, xx, xx, and xx, and some guys I didn’t recognize were watching the game. I and the girls were, too, until we got bored of the game. Cody said we could hang out in his room. We watched a movie in his room and drank. I probably drank three bottles of beer that night. I remember Cody coming into the room and hanging out with us as we came to the end of the movie.

Then the next thing I remember is waking up to see your friends around me as I lay on the bed. Cody was between my legs, grinning. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t raise my head or move my body — I remember telling you this.

I’m sure now that I was sexually assaulted or raped that night by him. I’m unsure if your other friends were involved, too. I have no evidence except for how I felt the next day. It hurt down there. It’s possible that I was given a date rape drug because my head was spinning, I couldn’t move, or speak, and I hadn’t drunk that much.

You called me after finding out what happened and broke up with me. You called me a slut, screaming how I cheated on you. You continued to hang out with Cody and your friends. The whole campus knew about it and I was branded a slut, forcing me to leave the college. That wasn’t right.

I’m writing this to clear my name, once and for all, and to tell you that it wasn’t my fault. I was taken advantage of and then the story was planted that I cheated on you. That was far from the truth.

I was young then. I believed everyone around me. I thought I really did cheat on you. I thought I slept with your friend/friends. I was confused, no doubt, but I believed you and others.

I wished you had supported me and come to my rescue when all the others abandoned me. But, most of all, I wish you had called out Cody. You thought we had sex. Why would you continue to hang out with a friend like that?

This is in the past now. There’s nothing we can do. I needed to say my side of the story.

~ June

He has seen the message but hasn’t responded. I don’t expect him to. At least, I said my piece.

Now the real work begins.

*Name changed to protect privacy