Posts Tagged promiscuity


Each life is a story, structured with a beginning, middle and end. It is a work of collaboration: the author changes. As babies, we are carried by others who write our lives for us, who determine what we shall wear, when we shall eat, and even what we will be called. Gradually we grow, and we learn that we can have some control over our lives; we reach teenage years and realise the importance of autonomy and freedom. We start to consciously mould our own personalities, and that is when we truly become authors of our own lives for the first time.

At that age, we tend to assert our new-found freedom somewhat falsely; we rebel against the previous authors and embrace whatever they would not choose for us. But that limited experiment in self-definition is powerful, and we greedily indulge again and again. We gradually shape ourselves more: we decide on a career, we develop tastes in music and literature, and we choose our friendships. We create ourselves, and we decide on a plot for our stories, for our lives. “I am going to be a successful children’s book editor, and I will spend my twenties living in an attic bedsit in London.” Whether or not this comes true is far less important than that I decided on that plotline for myself.

That is why acts of sexual violence are so shattering. Someone else’s brutality threatens to derail the story that we want to tell, and it sweeps our power and confidence from us. At 18 I was bullish, confident with men, and sure of where my life was heading. Then in fifteen minutes one night in Malta, my world was ripped apart. My life was irrevocably changed, and my personality altered immediately – although you’d have to have been looking for it to notice as an outsider.

I would be lying if I said that before the rape I was some wallflower – I have always been a terrible flirt, and I had kissed my share of boys. But I was very clear at 18 that I wanted my first time to be with someone I loved – indeed, my now-lapsed faith had persuaded me to wait until marriage – and instead, a selfish man deprived me of the right to give my virginity to someone I chose. Having said that, as far as I’m concerned I did lose my true virginity to the first man I loved, a few short months later. What is important is how you choose to view experiences, and I refuse to give that hotel clerk, Mark – his name badge was glinting at my eye level continuously as he moved on top of me  – that honour. So that was the first time that my authorship was removed by him. And then it continued. Unbeknownst to me on any kind of conscious level, most of my actions then became dictated by him, and that experience.

I grew suddenly reckless, going out of my way to walk down alleyways at night, talking to strange men. I didn’t realise it then, but looking back I am clear in my mind that I was doing my very best to stick two fingers up at him, to state defiantly that he had not scarred me. In fact, I was giving him the power by letting him write my story. Similarly, once on my gap year and travelling I was no victim rocking slowly against the wall of a darkened room. I was a near alcoholic who partied every night and slept around. Contrary to tradition, I reacted to rape by becoming incredibly promiscuous. I don’t mean that I had occasional one night stands. I mean I slept with four people in one week. I hasten to add that that was an abnormal week, but still. I was out of control in a very dangerous way.

Why did I react like that? Theories differ. Perhaps, as with the dark alleyways, I was trying to say that I was just fine. Perhaps I was trying to take back control of my sexuality. Perhaps I was trying to convince myself that the rape didn’t matter, because sex wasn’t important, it was run of the mill.  It could be any one of those ideas, or a combination, or something utterly different, and I may never decide. However, what I have learned since – after doing lots of digging online, because it isn’t easily found – is that my reaction to rape is not a singular experience. Plenty of women attempt to get over it by sleeping around, but we never talk about it. This has to change – I thought I was thoroughly alone, but instead, untidy experiences were being hushed up. It is so much easier to sympathise and pity a mute agoraphobic than a drunken slut – so those are the life stories that get printed.

I digress. My promiscuous behaviour continued when I reached university, and only gradually started to get better halfway through first year – which is exactly the time I first told a friend about the rape. In other words, as soon as I took control and began to be the author of my life once more, I prevented the hotel clerk from dictating my life. Thank heavens I went to a university like Durham, which has a total of four clubs surrounded by a close-knit community. That meant that my behaviour was easily found out – and no one likes to be called a slut, no matter how true it is – and that I was limited in my opportunities to go off the rails. Durham has some drugs, but in a very innocent way compared to a lot of unis. I am convinced that if I had gone to Leeds or Nottingham, with a big city culture and lots of ways to get into trouble, I would have been a drug addict within months. In fact, the sometimes irritatingly welfare-based nature of Durham saved me, and helped to put me back in charge of my life.

I gradually got better – I still have bad days, such as when after receiving particularly bad news about a relative, I started drinking at 10am and rounded it off by sleeping with a pseudo-ex who I knew was a prick. Occasionally I have panic attacks where I lose control, and if I’m struggling with something really huge, my gut always tells me to reach for the wine and the nearest penis. But by and large, this thing which dominated me for years – and which will always be a part of me – is now in the background, no longer  steering me. My personality has been irrevocably changed, but not necessarily in a bad way. Dealing with my rape has helped me to find a resolve and strength within myself that I had no idea of. And the self confidence that I now have is utterly different from the one I had at 18. Now it is quiet, determined, and in some strange way, very peaceful. I have a faith in myself that I can deal with anything, and it is that knowledge, more than anything else, that has helped me to regain my authorship.


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The original article

I thought I might as well include it, so you can see where it all began.


As I look back at my three years at Durham, there are some obvious things that have shaped my time here: DUCK, Palatinate, my course, my housemates. There’s one more too, that stayed hidden from view, but that defined my university experience perhaps more than any other.

It took an awfully long time for me to start talking about this. It wasn’t that I denied it – I knew it had happened. I remembered him raping me. But I didn’t realise for months that I had been raped. I thought of it as I thought of eating fish and chips, or getting off the bus. It was something that happened a while ago, nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

Similarly, my behaviour during the following two years was normal to me – I knew I’d acted unwisely, but I didn’t attribute it to what had happened in Malta, my euphemism for the violation, the only way I ever refer to it. On my gap year, and in first year, I spent my time thinking that I was in control. I was a sexually voracious girl, I decided who I slept with, I was in control of my body. I was refusing to be thought of as a ‘victim’. There was something deeply shameful – not about being raped – but about letting myself be affected by it. I was Strong. I was Resilient. I would not let him take more of myself from me than he already had.

Some of what I’ve just written will seem bizarre. This is not the reaction to rape that we all expect and understand. When we read true life stories in Cosmo, or come across rape information sites online, we hear of rape victims retreating into themselves, withdrawing from their friends and family, becoming terrified of men, in some cases going practically mute. This is the familiar discourse on rape. Mine was rather different.

An article on grief I came across recently pointed out that “the brave thing to do is to let your feelings affect you. Because, in effectively saying, ‘I’ve been stripped by this’, you’re telling the truth.” So I’m going to tell the truth. In November 2006, I was violently raped by the reception clerk of the hotel my mother and I were staying in. It devastated me. It made me feel powerless, and it made me afraid of men. I pretended it didn’t – I purposefully and idiotically strode down dark alleyways at night, and I slept my way around the world, even though it physically hurt every time. I was as outspoken as ever, and I drank like a fish. I cheated on my beloved boyfriend in spectacular fashion, and it took me two years to tell him why it had happened.

In all this, I felt utterly alone. I am a 21st century girl, and when I was dealing with this, my source of information was the Internet. It is appalling what is not online. The familiar discourse of withdrawing, of shying away from life – that was alien to me. The narrow way in which we expect women to deal with sexual abuse stifles further those who have had different experiences. Rape is not an act of sexual satisfaction; it is an act of violence and power. It is an attempt to subordinate women, to terrify them into silence. When we as a society then tell them how they must react – or worse, when we treat rape as a taboo topic that should be kept quiet – we silence them further.

I talked to my friends and my family about whether I should put my name at the top of this piece. I decided anonymity was not the way to go: I, and people who have been through similar experiences, have nothing to be ashamed of. Whilst I am far from proud of everything I have done, I am proud of how I have dealt with this: I sometimes still have physical pain when I have sex, but I am capable of having loving sex with someone I care about; I am capable of talking about my experiences, of acknowledging how they affected me. It is true that I am a victim of rape – but that does not define me. Now, I still don’t talk about it much – not because I am ashamed, but because it is not the sum total of who I am. It will always be with me, but then so will a lot of things. I am a rape victim, a dancer, an avid reader, an editor. I am many things, and that one dark cloud dominates me no more than any other.

Those people who suffer something as humiliating and painful as rape – and those who have gone through other traumas like physical abuse or even the death of a loved one – deserve the respect of being able to talk about their experiences without being shunned or subdued. Women who have been sexually abused are remarkable: yes, they are victims of rape. But far more importantly, they are survivors.

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Why this blog?

I have friends who blog. Sometimes, like everyone, I feel a desire to rant and put my words somewhere Out There, but mostly I always felt that blogs were pointless unless they dealt with more than the minutiae of daily life. So now I have something to write about, that I hope might help other people. And now I blog.

When I was 18, and working for a human rights charity on my gap year, I kept getting ill. And ill. And ill again. The doctors couldn’t figure it out, except that maybe I was exhausted – so they shipped me off to Malta with my mum to ‘convalesce’. Looking back, the irony strikes with the force of a sledgehammer. While I was out there, I would read in the lobby of the hotel at night so as not to keep my mum awake when I couldn’t sleep. On the first night, the hotel clerk was friendly, brought me a hot chocolate. On the second night, he was friendly again, and I was naive enough to accept his invitation to have my hot chocolate in his office, where he raped me.

That’s the bare bones of the story. But the interesting bit is what follows – the revelatory stuff in life isn’t necessarily the traumas or the achievements themselves, but how we choose to deal with them after the fact. I didn’t think about ‘Malta’ – how I now refer to the rape – for months. Not once. I didn’t tell anyone for about 16 months. Then it started to gradually come out in trickles. And perhaps the proudest achievement of my life was the first time I really got up the courage to discuss it publically, in an article I wrote for the final edition of Palatinate, the Durham University student newspaper, in the year I graduated. That started what this will hopefully continue – talking about different reactions to trauma, and widening common conceptions of how we deal with rape.

“I’ve been stripped by this…”

The title of my blog comes from an excerpt of an article from The Independent that first inspired my article, and that I still think about every day. In a piece about grief, the wise Phillip Hodson was recorded saying “”In fact, the brave thing to do is to let your feelings affect you. Because, in effectively saying, ‘I’ve been stripped by this’, you’re telling the truth.”

The rape stripped me to the core. And it’s taken years, but I’m finally in a place where I can start talking about it. It’s important we talk about it, too. After my article appeared in Palatinate, girls I had never heard of or spoken to humbled me by emailing me and trusting me with their stories. For some, it was the first time they had told anyone what they’d been through. The first time you say the words out loud “I was raped…”, or put them on paper, or on screen, is a turning point in starting to face the experience, and I was so honoured to have been allowed to be a part of that process. My hope is that this blog will help to heal others too.

It won’t be utterly depressing though – I don’t have frequent enough revelations for this to be a totally rape-based blog, plus it’s important that all survivors of rape aren’t just that. There is more to me than what happened four years ago in Malta. So apologies, but the occasional rant about the scarcity of publishing jobs or my excitement over going to the Singalong Sound of Music might slip in occasionally.

And finally – just because I adore it – another quote from Phillip Hodgson: “After all, all tears end with a shudder of relief.”

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