I came out to him. Then he raped me.

after two years, I don't want to be silent anymore

Strong content warning for sexual assault, substance abuse, self-harm, and eating disorders.

Author owned photo (2023)

We sit and smoke together in my office beneath the open window, legs entwined. Between tokes, we watch as sheets of rain transform our street into a river. Earlier that month, flooding in our neighborhood had caused significant damage to his car, and it was a constant worry on top of many worries. We’ve been expecting this storm and have prepared the best we can. Now all we have to do is wait for it to pass and hope there’s no collateral damage.

It feels like we’ve been waiting awhile.

One of us has to say something. I know it will be me, because doing so is the only way I can put an end to the nauseating feeling that has been torturing me for weeks. Months? Years?

I think I’m gayer than I thought, I manage.

The seconds stretch before us like dark, still water.

answers

I didn’t discover that I was queer until the age of 28, when I spent three months in eating disorder treatment during the beginning of the pandemic. My new friend Teddy had given me their copy of Untamed by Glennon Doyle, who I had never heard of at that point.

The book introduced me to the concept of compulsory heterosexuality, and I realized that maybe the reason I had only pursued relationships with men was because I hadn’t been presented with any other option. Glennon’s story — of growing up evangelical and spending her 20s and 30s making herself as small as possible at the expense of her authentic self — resonated with me. When I reached the chapter in which she decides to leave her husband for a woman, I found my eyes welling with tears.

I finished the book in two days. Soon after, I joined a LGBTQ+ support group run by hospital staff. For the first time in a long time, I had something else to think about besides the fact that I was almost 30 and didn’t know how to feed myself.

Soon the answers started trickling in — only whispers at first, but whispers that would culminate in waves of discomfort, hitting me without warning and leaving me gasping in their wake. Memories resurfaced, except this time I was noticing things I didn’t before. There were so many signs.

Occasionally I would let myself daydream about getting out of treatment and dating women. I’d stop dressing for the male gaze, reconnect with my body, and maybe — after becoming my best, liberated self — I would meet someone.

Of course, fantasies only last so long. Any excitement I felt upon peeling back another layer of my identity was swiftly replaced with doubt, and often guilt. The guilt was the worst.

Not so fast, it said. How could this be real? You’ve only been with men. You’ve been faking it this entire time, and you’re probably faking it now.

In the absence of my usual toxic coping mechanisms, I started putting words to paper in order to get them out of my head. The night staff would perform their routine room checks and find me journaling furiously in the dark.

There has to be more than this, I wrote from the lumpy hospital bed. I want to explore life outside of cages.

disassociation

After treatment, I could have changed everything. But I didn’t.

I had come close to the truth, but the truth scared me.

Because it scared me, I felt ashamed.

Because I felt ashamed, I pushed it back under the surface and tried to ignore the panicked bubbles that arose — a reminder of the thing I was drowning.

I had a series of summer flings, all with men. It just happened that way.

I started using drugs again. Later, I would cling to my addiction as the reason I continually failed to enter into and sustain relationships, refusing to entertain the possibility that I was simply pursuing the wrong gender.

My bulimia returned. Despite the jumpstart afforded me by treatment, something held me back from committing to recovery. Dating had forced me to play an active role in acknowledging my body, and I came to the frustrating realization that I was nowhere near ready to accept myself.

So I fell back into self-immolation. I once more mistook numbness for comfort, seeking redemption through diminishment and disassociation.

Months passed that way.

the beginning

I am fresh off the heels of another disappointing entanglement — and decidedly not trying to start anything serious — when I end up noticing Brett while swiping through Hinge at my parents’ house.

The reason I notice him is a large flag hanging in the background of one of his photos, which belongs to an obscure shoegaze band I love and have recently purchased tickets to see in Richmond.

Brett is as happy to accompany me as I am to take him. While his quiet demeanor makes him difficult to read, he and I quickly connect over being awkward introverts, and the walls come down. He’s two years older than me, but feels like an emotional equal. When we drive two hours to Richmond to see our band, he gives me an asthma attack from laughing too hard at his dumb jokes. On the trip home, we stop for gas station milkshakes and I order double chocolate. I don’t think about purging.

My cat runs to greet him when we get back to the apartment and my heart swells. We move in together after a month.

depression

I should have seen the signs.

When we met, he was unemployed and living with his parents, spending his days smoking weed and listening to records. At least he doesn’t drink, I told myself. At least he’s got good taste in music. At least he likes cats.

When he moved into my studio, I realized how rarely he ventured into the outside world. He had no friends and was not close to his family. When he finally got a remote job at a call center, he set up camp at my kitchen table and stayed there all day wearing a pair of headphones. I’d leave for work in the morning and come back to find him exactly where I’d left him. We’d heat up chicken nuggets and fries in the oven and smoke a bowl while we watched The Office, his favorite TV show.

This became our nightly routine.

My lease ended and we moved into a bigger apartment, which helped for awhile. He got a job managing a golf store in Virginia Beach, which finally got him outside. I was working a marketing job in Portsmouth and was getting paid more than I ever had in my life. Is this what it felt like to make it?

The months wore on. Discontent began splintering the edges of our domestic facade. He’d come home complaining of being overworked. I’d come home complaining of being undervalued. We started waking up two hours earlier so we could smoke in the morning before facing the slog of capitalism. Sometimes he made us frozen waffles with vegan margarine and sugar-free syrup. How lucky was I?

At first, we’d had sex often. While I have never enjoyed penetration, I have always been addicted to the feeling of intimacy I never otherwise managed to cultivate with my male partners. Afterward, he’d wrap me in his arms and we’d fall asleep, my existential anxiety momentarily soothed by the feeling of closeness, of belonging.

As the pressures of our lives intensified and depression returned, I found more and more excuses to avoid the bedroom. Sometimes he could convince me by focusing on my pleasure, which made me feel guilty for not reciprocating. Resentment began to form, as is the natural way of things.

He began drinking beer here and there. I’d been sober from booze for four years at that point, and was initially concerned. When we met, I thought he shared my avoidance of alcohol. But wasn’t I being unreasonable? What kind of girlfriend would I be, projecting my own issues onto my partner? Didn’t he deserve to unwind after a long day at the job he now hated?

But I hated my job too. Didn’t I deserve to unwind?

This is when I began to abuse Benadryl again.

the end

By July of 2023, I was fairly certain that I was not attracted to cis men, but didn’t know what to do about it. Just months earlier, I’d been considering proposing to Brett. We weren’t in love, but so what? Isn’t that what people did? Maybe I need to get past the urge to blow up my relationships, I wrote in my journal. Maybe once I push past the discomfort I’ll finally be happy.

Then I found out that he’d been sending dick pics to strangers on Reddit.

I’m sorry, he’d pleaded, meeting my steely gaze with tears in his eyes. I have low self-esteem. It’s hard for me to feel confident. It isn’t personal.

Like the people pleaser I am, I forgave him. But sex became even more infrequent. It no longer felt like I was living with my best friend. In a desperate move, I surprised him with an orange kitten which I placed on our bed in a paper bag with the words “WILL YOU BE MY DADDY?” written on it in sharpie. I filmed his reaction, which concluded with us kissing. The facade had been fortified. All was well…wasn’t it?

Cut to that rainy day on the couch.

I don’t think I’m attracted to men, I say.

To my surprise, he’s calm. Do you want to open the relationship? he asks. I wouldn’t mind if you started seeing girls.

Of course he wouldn’t, I think to myself, surprised at my own bitterness.

I don’t think so, I finally say.

We both know it’s over.

purgatory

Our landlord tells us that our lease has renewed automatically and that we’re stuck here for another year. We decide to remain roommates. I buy a cheap twin bed and move into my office. We still smoke together every morning and every night. Once or twice, we have sex. The last time, I cry. He starts dating here and there. I get involved in activist groups and make some queer friends. Life moves on.

descent

It is December 2023. My descent into isolation, depression, and addiction is now undeniable. I quit my toxic job with nothing lined up because I am suicidal and don’t care. During the day, I lie in bed sobbing, convinced that everyone in my life would be better off without me.

Brett witnesses helplessly but stays out of it. We aren’t a couple anymore. What is he supposed to do?

On New Year’s Eve, he comes to sit on the edge of my bed. I have just sent a text to my queer friends telling them that I won’t be able to join them for the evening festivities after all.

I just want relief, I sob to Brett. I want to overdose on Benadryl.

Don’t do that, he says, putting his hand on my leg. I hate seeing you in so much pain.

I might as well just drink, I say. I don’t think I am serious, but I say it anyway. I expect him to shoot down the idea.

Let’s go to the liquor store, he says. I’ll drive.

Twenty minutes later, he is paying for a bottle of Tito’s at ABC. The whole drive home, I am keenly aware of the brown paper bag at my feet.

This is a really bad idea, screams my inner voice. I ignore it.

When we get home, I put the bottle in the freezer to get cold while I think about what we’re about to do. Four years of sobriety is a long time. But the night ahead feels even longer.

Promise me we won’t have sex, I insist. No matter what happens.

Of course, he says.

aftermath

When I wake up the next morning, I find myself lying atop the covers in my twin bed wearing Brett’s inside out shirt and nothing else.

I go to his bedroom and wake him up. Did we have sex last night? I ask, already knowing and dreading the answer.

He looks sheepish. Yes, he says slowly.

The last thing I remember is taking Benadryl on top of half a bottle of Vodka when he’d gone to the bathroom. I remember hoping I wouldn’t wake up.

Apparently he had asked to go down on me. I agreed. Then I told him to “just fuck me”, which he did. I began lashing out even as I slipped in and out of consciousness, biting and scratching at his chest. He shows me the angry red marks I left. I’m speechless. I don’t remember.

I stopped when I saw you were unconscious, he said.

I feel sick. I feel violated. I feel unsafe.

We decide that day that he should move out. But the damage has been done.

I finally break.

unwelcome

Two years later, I am one month sober. I’ve been writing again and have a small but loyal following on Substack. My friends love and support me. In just a few months, I’m moving out of this godforsaken apartment and into the city of my dreams. I have three jobs but no longer feel like I’m selling my soul. Things might actually work out.

It hasn’t been a cakewalk. Even though I’m finally out as queer and genderfluid, my intimacy issues prevent me from dating or acting on crushes. My eating disorder remains a thorn in my flesh, one that I will probably deal with forever. I can’t stop thinking about the assault—I have finally come to see it as an assault, thanks to friends and my therapist—and the role my body played. The role I played.

Several friends ask me why I still haven’t written about the assault, only spoken about it in vague terms. I tell them I’m not ready, I don’t want to stir shit up, I’m trying to respect his privacy. In doing so, I can avoid confronting what happened to me. I don’t have to think of how dirty I still feel, two years later. I don’t have to confront the monster under the bed.

Brett tried emailing me once, apologizing for being such a “shitty partner” but never once mentioning the rape or the fact that he’d been drinking a pack of beer nearly every day in secret while I was sober. I told him never to contact me again.

This is why, when my roommate tells me that he has moved into the apartment below mine, I think she is joking.

He’s been here for a few months, she says. He parks a block over because he doesn’t want to upset you.

I shake. Everything spins. My body seizes, then dissociates completely. I have the sudden urge to hurt myself.

Why didn’t anyone tell me? I manage to say. I’m trying to keep my calm, but I’m shaking.

He has every right, she says. It doesn’t have to affect you.

I want to scream. I want to punch something. I want to run away.

Instead, I shut down.

consolation

My sister and I are standing outside my car. It’s dusk, the brutal heat of the day finally succumbing to something palatable. I’ve spent the last few hours going over my options, unloading my torment, ranting against the injustice of it all. She’s horrified, of course. She thinks Brett is a loser, and rightly so. Hearing her say as much makes me feel better.

Please text me if you need to, she’s telling me, trying to hide the concern in her eyes. Even if you just need to sit on the phone in silence.

Earlier, I’d confessed that I wanted to buy a bottle of Benadryl and a pack of razors. She knows more than anyone how susceptible I am in times like these. But she also knows better than I how capable I am of overcoming them.

For the first time all day, I feel a rush of love. I embrace her, my younger sister who sometimes feels like an older sister, my first best friend, my future housemate. She believes in me. I have done nothing wrong. I’m going to get through this.

I will, I say.

As I drive into the sunset, the anger returns, but this time I let it fill me with energy. I don’t want to be silent anymore. I don’t want to live in fear of uttering my rapist’s name. I’m tired of catering to the feelings of a man who clearly does not consider mine.

When I get home, I let myself write.

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Christina Jumper (shey/they) writes about addiction, eating disorders, harm reduction, and other fun stuff. You may know them from Pickles and Vodka: a Mental Health Podcast. Their friends call them Chris.