One night, after we’d been together for a few months, I drunkenly told him about having lost my virginity to rape in college. I broke down describing the assault, vividly reliving the trauma and humiliation I’d repressed for years.
As I laid my soul bare before him, his face took on a calm, controlled rage.
Legitimate assault: Silencing victims through invalidation and devaluation
It was the first time I’d ever admitted the words aloud. Naively, I believed my partner (a police officer himself) would help hold space for this burden that had been crushing down on me for years.
It was too early in our relationship for me to recognize the danger in his expression, but I’d come to know it all too well. I hadn’t yet mastered the art of contorting my own reality to predict and pacify his moods.
Instead, I misread his anger as cleansing, protective; the rage surely aimed at the man who’d assaulted me.
Foolish.
Sexual history: Punishments for past relationships
Throughout our five-year abusive relationship, he’d regularly interrogate me about my previous sexual history, mining for anything he could later use against me. He’d act like it was a normal part of getting to know one another, however, in time I came to understand he was manufacturing weapons behind the thinly-veiled facade.
I’m sure he felt he’d hit the motherlode that night. It was exactly the kind of ammunition he’d masterfully twist into my irresponsibility.
My promiscuity.
My stupidity.
My inability to survive on my own without him.
My fault.
By the time I realized my trust had been misplaced, it was far too late. Any attempt at having privacy or boundary setting became something I was hiding from him. Any forgotten detail was an inconsistency obviously indicating deceit.
And mistreatment by former partners? Well, I had no one to blame but myself.
Looking back, of course he had to silence me. If I was willing to talk about my past abuses, it meant I’d be willing to talk about his abuses.
And he couldn’t have that.
Abusers supporting abusers
Still stonefaced, he informed me that what I described couldn’t have been rape because I hadn’t said no, hadn’t reported it to the cops, hadn’t screamed or fought for my life.
I fell silent, shocked to hear my own intrusive thoughts coming from the mouth of someone who claimed to love me so passionately (when it served him).
He doubled down on this uncontested claim, saying he’d rather I die fighting than allow myself to be raped. To be soiled.
The conversation was officially shut down with his vow that if I were ever legitimately raped, he’d be so disgusted he’d never want to touch me again.
Guess it didn’t count when he was the one doing it?