I Need You to Know about What Happens in the 48 Hours after Being Raped

 

I said no, I asked him to stop. I even said please (Picture: Getty Images)

Everyone talks about the event.

That life-altering moment of helplessness that is being sexually assaulted.

Mine happened one non-descript morning in March, five years ago now, as I woke to him violating me.

The ‘him’ in question was someone I’d been on a first date with the night before. We’d met on an app and, after he’d made me feel guilty about how far he’d travelled to meet me, I’d finally relented and said he could stay at my house.

 

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I’d made it clear I didn’t want to have sex with him.

He was twice my size, leaning his full weight on my neck and collarbone, which felt like it was about to snap.

I said no, I asked him to stop. I even said please.

Then the asking turned to struggling, then pleading, until the pleading turned into just trying to breathe.

 

Then I went silent, and I let it happen. Every ounce of energy I had went into attempting to stay conscious.

But, sadly, that’s something you’ve heard hundreds of times over in the news. What you don’t hear about is the 48 hours after, when you’re alone, trying to feel human again.

Five years on, I still have those nightmares

For me, those 48 hours began when he finished and left. I walked gingerly to the freezer, got a packet of peas and iced my neck in silence.

 

A text came through on my phone from him.

It read: ‘You’re welcome for a good time.’

I cried.

Over the course of that day, I scrubbed my skin raw. I showered three times. I stripped my bed – I just wanted him gone.

Now I know what you’re thinking: ‘How silly, she washed away so much evidence’. And you’d be absolutely right.

But no one gives you a guidebook for when you get raped. You don’t get taught that at school. So I’ll tell you, don’t do what I did.

 

 

Even though you’re going to want to scrub every single part of them off your skin and you’ll feel sick at the thought of them inside of you, don’t shower. Don’t wash your sheets or clothes. Bag them up in case you want to try and get justice.

 

Next, I did the only thing that seemed logical when you’re in pain: I rang the doctor.

She referred me straight to my local SARC centre – a sexual assault referral centre – and nothing could’ve prepared me for what that was like.

These centres offer confidential medical and practical support to people who have recently been raped or sexually assaulted.

As well as giving you free STI and pregnancy tests and getting you medical help for any injuries, they also offer forensic medical examinations.

I went the next day, it was the earliest appointment they had – that should tell you something.

 

I showered three times. I stripped my bed – I just wanted him gone

They told me they keep all the evidence they collect for seven years, in case you decide to file charges, but they do not involve the police unless you expressly say you want them to.

You’re probably thinking it looks like a doctor’s office or hospital. You’d be wrong. In fact, I struggled to even find it.

It looks like your average two-bed semi-detached house, just next to (but not connected to) a police station. Anyone watching you walk inside would think you were going to a friend’s house, not a SARC.

I was led up to the interview room, which was entirely wrapped in plastic, so the only DNA on that sofa was mine, and, well, his. I had to go over those two hours in excruciating detail, describing everything. I didn’t cry, I had nothing left to give.

 

That Wednesday morning was meant to be spent having brunch with my girlfriends, exchanging gossip over a glass of bubbly and avo on toast.

 

 

Instead, after the interview, I had a date with a Hepatitis B vaccine and an internal exam.

I was the only one in the centre, besides the nurse and crisis worker. I didn’t feel frustrated or angry that this had happened to me, I simply felt empty… inhuman almost.

The truth is, sitting in that sterilised exam room you will never feel more contaminated.

 

 

 

 

What’s worse is you have to sit and let two more strangers probe every part of your body, as if you haven’t been violated enough already.

It’s like TV shows make it out to be; every shred of evidence has to be collected, in case you want to endure a demoralising trial. Of course, DNA can be much more easily collected if you haven’t washed since the assault.

The three showers I’d had in eight hours after it happened had rinsed most external DNA evidence down the drain.

What I couldn’t wash away were the injuries. Pictures were taken of every cut, bruise, scratch, and rip. The injuries were measured in width.

I had bruises on my thighs, collarbone and neck. I had chest tenderness, small cuts on my scalp from where he’d been gripping my hair so tightly.

They took internal DNA swabs, so I hadn’t totally shot myself in the foot, I guess.

But then, once the exam was done, the two women led me to a private bathroom. It was bright and warm, and a nice hot shower awaited me. There were fresh fluffy towels and a care package of toiletries and essentials.‘

 

 

‘Take as long as you need’, said one of the women.

 

Then, for the first time within two days, as I let that shower water scorch my skin, I started to feel clean.

Clean of the initial assault. It gave me a brief respite from the lingering anxiety and stress that had begun eating away at me.

That night, as those first 48 hours drew to a close, I had my first nightmare. It was his face as he did it to me all over again.

Five years on, I still have those nightmares. Far less frequently now, but they still come.

In the year after my rape I became reliant on Zopiclone to sleep.

The truth is, in those initial 48 hours, you may feel inhuman, like an empty shell of your former self, but that’s so much better than what comes after.

After those two days are over, that’s when it really starts. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the feeling of being horrendously dirty every time you sleep with someone. The crippling anxiety of going on a first date.

 

I’m not stronger for it. It didn’t happen for a reason. It just happened.

 

It took me a couple of years, but I told my parents. I’ve never reported it though, and I never will. I admire those who do, but I know other women who have and nothing has been done.

Plus I don’t want to look at his face or be anywhere near him ever again.

I felt a lot of guilt about this for a long time. After all, what if he did it to someone else? But I’ve had therapy and I’ve come to the conclusion that no pressure to take action should be placed on victims – we’ve already suffered enough.

So, now you know what it’s like when you get to the part where people don’t want to read on.

Now you know what happens after.

 

Source: Metro.co.uk