The (Broken) Vagina Monologues: Part 3
This is the slightly crappy, intense one. The normal hilarity will return next time, but I felt it important to get this bit out on paper (or pixels) to give a true and honest representation of the whole condition. TW: rape, abuse, police incompetencies etc.
So let’s rewind to first year Uni Codie. With very short, bright pink hair, and braces (God, I was a catch!) low self-esteem but a high tolerance to alcohol and not much need for sleep. I was also very naive.
Without getting too into details (because no one wants to hear that) I was raped and sexually assaulted in my University bedroom by a guy I knew. It was the middle of the night and only one other person was awake in my halls (we were both night owls and spent many a night watching awful films together when neither of us could sleep). I sort of told him, but it’s hard to put into words and as someone who was always making jokes, it was easier for us both if we sort of laughed it off. So that’s what I did.
For two years.
The more I learnt about consent, the more serious I realised this was. And the more I realised it wasn’t my fault. But I decided to move on as best I could and bury my head in the sand - great tactic Codie.
Eventually, something in my life changed which meant I would have to see him more often. I decided it was time to report it incase the same thing happened to anyone else. I should mention that it was just a week after my Dad had suddenly died, because I figured, why not do everything all at once eh?!
Reporting the rape was one of the worst experiences of my life. I was made to feel like I had done something wrong as I was questioned for hours. After having to relive one of my least favourite memories over and over, I was visited in my halls by two detectives. Sherlock Holmes they were not. They basically told me that it was a waste of time and nothing would come of it. I felt pretty damn hopeless at that point.
On the bright side, I channelled all that anger and hurt into campaigning for more consent awareness and better conversations about sexual assault without victim blaming and inclusive of all genders.
So that’s where myself, my amazing Physio Katie and my lovely sex therapist Tim (spoilers for later!) think this broken vagina lark stemmed from. Not from the assault itself but having to relive it.
This is annoying for a number of reasons. Not least the fact that Steven is the most considerate, respectful and downright lovely guy. He would never do anything to hurt me and although my mind knows that, clearly my body doesn’t want to listen. Sigh.