Illustration by Ren O’Hare
Content warning: sexual assault, mental health issues, and religious intolerance
I always found such beauty in a first kiss; the sweet build-up which manifests itself into the most adorable sign of interest in another. A first kiss is what opens the door to anything else that is to come between two people, and I treat it with that same respect. It’s a big deal, and it’s worth more than we give it credit for. The first kiss you share with someone often sheds light on how the rest of the relationship is to go: the awkward and goofy one that shows you that you can laugh things off and be lighthearted, the “that-just-did-not-feel-right” one that tells you to abort mission, or the perfectly timed and easy one that gives you faith that things could work out. A first kiss is personal, and it’s real.
When I was sixteen, my first kiss was stolen from me.
One Saturday evening, my older brother invited his friend to join us for dinner and to stay over for the weekend – something this friend so often did. For the sake of anonymity, I’ll call his friend John. John’s mother had passed away a year before, and, after that loss, he spent more time with my family, ingratiating himself to becoming one of us. It got to the point where I saw him as family, and I would have considered him nothing short of a brother.
After dinner, things changed. We returned home, and I went to the living room to continue watching Friends, desperate to witness the “We were on a break!” scene once more. As the sun fell behind trees, darkness overcame the room, the only light illuminating from the television. Perhaps it seems to be an odd detail to hold onto. Putting the pieces together in my mind now, it makes perfect sense that I wanted to disappear, to have the darkness consume me and rid me of the pain I was to endure.
John sat next to me. Nothing suspicious or abnormal, simply part of the typical night he spent with us. My brother relaxed into a separate chair, his view blocked by a lamp in between the couch and where he was sitting. I suppose that detail becomes moot as his girlfriend, who had recently undergone a surgical procedure, called him. As my brother stepped out of the room to take the call, John took action.
His chilled fingers clenched tightly around my wrists as he attempted to pull me into him. Since I had never been kissed, I didn’t really know what to expect, but I knew it was hardly forceful. I backed away, confused and completely grossed out. Instead of taking the embarrassment of rejection on the cheek and leaving, John’s hands slid up to my neck, clenching into a tight grip and forcing my face close to his. I still remember the strain I felt days later from my attempts to pull myself from his forceful hold. He kept one hand covering the front of my neck, forcing me back against the couch, and he slid his other hand up my shirt, violating my bodily integrity with each motion. This went on for ten minutes.
I heard the door open, and I was sure that my brother would take care of the entire situation when he would inevitably see what was happening. Instead, John lept off of me like I was diseased and sat quietly, as if nothing occurred. This was my chance to escape. I ran up the stairs while tears welled in my eyes; I felt my throat grow narrow, the way it does before you break down in sobs. I walked into my room and closed my door. Immediately, I called my best friend and asked her if I could come over, the tears now streaming down my cheeks. While I could not articulate what had occurred, she knew something awful had occurred and told me she would be waiting for me when I arrived.
As I hung up the phone, my door knob twisted. It was John. He entered my room, pushed me onto my bed and resumed his position. As he undressed himself, I knew that I was next and I mentally prepared myself for what was about to happen. Just when he had his hands on my waistline, unzipping my jeans, my brother called out for him, confused on where John had gone. He got up, slapped my behind, and told me to never tell anyone.
The aftermath was more difficult than I expected. I was beyond ashamed of what happened, and I felt disgusting. I couldn’t tell anyone who I was close to, not because of them, but because of my own feelings on what had happened. People who experience this kind of assault react differently. Some may feel the heavy weight of guilt for “allowing” this to happen in the first place, coined “victim blaming.” That sense of shame entered my life that day, and it took years to overcome; however, I was comforted by the fact this is a normal, common reaction to trauma. I wish it were not so, that women immediately understood that a man going too far has nothing to do with her. You are not accountable for another’s actions. As simple as it seems, when you are going through it, understanding this notion feels like climbing an insurmountable mountain.
Beyond the guilt I felt, I was confused on how my relationship with this person could turn so sour in one night, or how he thought that what he did was okay. Yet, I was more embarrassed that in the moment, I froze. I did not help myself. I squirmed and tried to escape his grasp, but I never yelled for help. I said stop to him, I pushed his hands away, but I never screamed. I just froze. The question “Why?” still remains unanswered, and my confusion has never been met with closure.
Following the trauma, I experienced several panic attacks. I ended up in the ER, not being able to breathe. My mom sat next to me, worrying sick and still not knowing a single aspect of the story. The doctors understood that something was wrong, and they injected me with some long-named medication that would help me calm down. They had an idea that something personal had occurred, but they did not ask more questions. There was a car-wreck scene flooding the ER, which I thought was more important, so I just kept quiet, as I would eventually do for years. We left within an hour.
The panic attacks stopped, but my feelings did not. As I write this now, I still initially want to get angry at myself. I ask myself: ‘why didn’t I report this?’, ‘ Why didn’t I scream?’ It’s a natural reaction to feel that shame and victim-blame even yourself. It has taken me years to overcome my initial ways. This was far from heckling or throwing rocks on the playground. It was an assault. I did not want it to happen, and it was not my fault.
When I told this story to a few friends after the incident, they did not believe me, or they thought I was being over-dramatic. They couldn’t see the pain I felt or understand what I was going through. The guys who I was once close to looked at me differently, and most of them stopped being my friend, fearing that I would concoct stories about them. It saddens me that the small-town won: the fear that word gets around, and a ruined reputation being the most harmful thing possible. I hope to be a part of a cultural shift that encourages women to speak their truths and not wear the scarlet letter society attaches to them.
This kind of experience often follows you. Since my assault, I have struggled to find a relationship with someone. During my first year of college, a friend turned into more than a friend, who then berated me for being religious. He told me that my religious beliefs were fake, and thus that my principles were ungrounded. That definitely showed me his true colors. Once I removed him from my life, he stalked me, he followed me, he called non-stop and reached out to my friends to find my location, telling them he wanted to find me to “talk.” Disinterested in experiencing anything close to my previous assault, I reached out to a counselor for help. Having them deal with the situation, I was removed from it all together, and I thought it was done. Instead, the narrative flipped quickly–I became the psycho girl who could not handle anything, who forced this guy to go to consent training because I was holier-than-thou.
Rumors spread through different courses, and I became a laughing stock. To me, none of this was a joke. It is so unfortunate the way such a private matter became not only falsified, but made so public and intrinsically linked to shaming.
I have learnt, however, that this kind of experience does not have to consume you. You can change the narrative. There is a massive silver lining to what I experienced. I now know how to defend myself. I know how to legally approach intimacy. I know where my lines are drawn and what to do if someone crosses it. I know that freezing in moments such as these is normal, and I know the importance of having conversations about consent. I know that sometimes people jump on a bandwagon because they do not know better, and that shaming someone can be easier than facing facts or grim realities. I know that things work out the way they do for a reason. I know what it is like to be respected by another romantically, and I know that there really is sacredness in a first kiss, one that I will always admire and cherish.
For further information, guidance, and support concerning the issues raised in this piece, please see:
Dublin Rape Crisis Centre: https://www.drcc.ie/
Samaritans: https://www.samaritans.org/
TCD Health Services: https://www.tcd.ie/collegehealth/promotion/sexual-health/
TCD Counselling Services: https://www.tcd.ie/Student_Counselling/
