It’s the doctor that referred to me and my mother as his very own real life Barbie dolls anytime that we were in his office, ensuring me that he would be waiting for me to turn 16 (I was 5). It’s the man next door telling me not to wear a vest top in the summer because my (barely existent) cleavage made him uncomfortable ( I was 10). It’s my uncle in law telling me that i’m going to be a little stunner, just like my mum, when i’m older on account of my ‘developing body’ and ‘sultry eyes’ (I was 11). It’s that same uncle seeing me at my Dads wedding 10 years later and licking his lips as he uttered ‘so this is Tash all grown up’. It’s the boy at school that grabbed my hand and tried to force it down his trousers. It’s the middle aged man that came behind me and my friend as we were walking through the city centre and putting his hands down both of our tops (were were 16).It’s the step dad that sexually assaulted me. It’s the group of boys spreading that I was a slut because I WOULDN’T sleep with them, with their girlfriends helping along. It’s one of those same boys climbing into bed with me whilst I was wasted, trying to sleep the alcohol off at a house party that I assumed I was safe at on account of their being at least 30 people, including friends there. That same boy insisted on kissing me, trying to take my jeans down as I was saying ‘no’ and it took for another party dweller to come into the room and ask what was going on before he would stop. It’s the male friend that I tried to tell about the incident the next day, to which he told me to stop as he didn’t want to think of his friend as a rapist. It’s the delivery driver that took my personal number from his company after I had ordered a pizza and attempted to call me numerous times to ask me out, after blocking his number, he proceeded to then sit outside my house instead. It’s the married CEO of Derby’s only ’boutique’ hotel, who would get drunk and call me on reception every evening, making some rather rude propositions. It’s the operations manager that I went to after, that told me to keep it to myself and he will ‘sort it’. It’s the barber that saw me one time outside of my local gym and proceeded to stalk me for months after, unable to understand why it was making me uncomfortable that a literal stranger was following me home from work at 10pm, with nobody around, him insisting that it was normal and he just wanted to be friends. It’s the boyfriend that kept me out in the streets for two hours in the middle of a particularly freezing British winter at 1am in the morning, screaming at me, telling me that i’m a snowflake because I wanted to leave his house after he lobbed at cup at me, knowing full well that I suffer from both Reynaud’s and cold urticaria. It’s the taxi driver that was called that night that drove off after my ex boyfriend dragged me away from the car, refusing to get me get in. It’s that same ex boyfriend that strangled because I refused to unlock my phone again for him (I had already handed it to him, unlocked and let him have a look through it) and then he told me afterwards that he would kill himself and it was all my fault. It’s his mother that heard everything and proceeded to disappear for a few days, never acknowledging that it happened. It’s that same ex boyfriend that threatened me with a defamation case after I outed the abuse, threatening to send texts to my work and telling me that it could all go away if I continued a secret relationship with him. It’s that same ex boyfriend that forced himself on me whilst he was drunk after I had let him into my flat. It’s the boyfriend after him that I moved to a third world country with after he pretended to be on my side, on women’s sides and that I can rest, recalibrate and heal out there. It’s that same boyfriend that then would cite typical gender roles as being important, renouncing both the feminist ideology and LGBTQ community that he was heavily invested in prior to our relationship. It’s that same boyfriend that started spouting that abortion should be made illegal. It’s that same boyfriend that admitted to me me that he used to get off on one of his ex girlfriends rape, that he watched porn in which an elf girl got raped by thousands of orcs, that he liked to see women humiliate themselves. It’s that same boyfriend that asked me to act like a lifeless ragdoll for him, knowing that I had been raped. It’s the same boyfriend that allowed me to support him whilst he sat at home and let me work my yoga job on a bad ankle for months after I had asked him rather diplomatically to try and find temporary job to help us keep a roof over our heads and support more than one meal a day. It’s that same boyfriend that tried to control what I wore, who I spent my time with and my eating habits, allowing me to get sick in the process, watching me drop to the floor unable to breath (I ended up coming back to the UK with an iron, b12 and magnesium deficiency, the untreated anaemia being particularly frightening as my heart was struggling to pump oxygen around my body). It’s the same boyfriend that refused to wear condoms, that kept on ejaculating inside me after I had repeatedly asked him not to because I could not access the pill in Dominica, resulting in me finding out I was pregnant and having to make one of the hardest decisions of my life in terminating it whist I was in the UK and him calling me a monster for it (not willing to look at the fact that having his child would cause me nothing but pain, or the fact that we are in the middle of an economic and housing crisis, with many single parents struggling and the fact that he would never meet his child, still being out in Dominica and would take no responsibility for the child either). It’s that same boyfriend that told me that I had caused a scene and embarrassed myself on a night out, when 6 witnesses can confirm that there was no scene. It’s the 62 year old women that I confided in who then used my vulnerabilities against me, telling me that the collapsing, the ankle issues were all in my head and that I could meditate them away, whilst also insisting that the reason I get sexually harassed so much is because I need to work on my presence, to which my boyfriend then agreed, also asking me how I could let myself get raped by my ex. How I could let that guy in and penetrate me. It’s that same boyfriend who accused me of ‘lowering the vibration’ after I had asked him to get rid of any compromising photos of me. It’s the manager of a well known restaurant on the island that showed me a video of himself masturbating and insisting that I should have an affair with him, getting angry when I call him our, refusing point blank. It’s the same 62 year old woman telling me that I should have punched him after I confessed that all I did was walk away and pointed out that I was alone with him in the restaurant, that he had admitted to taking coke and that I had had a 6ft 2ers hands around my throat before and it wasn’t an experience that I would like to repeat. It’s the well known local artist that lied to me about his fiance being home after we had arranged for him to teach me how to do face and body painting, getting me in his flat alone, I made my excuses and quickly left. He told me afterwards that he had watched porn and masturbated to the thought of me when I left. It’s the 62 year old man that met me approximately 3 times at a local hotel, the conversation barely making it past general chit chat about the UK, for him to then message me and try to convince me that we were perfect for each other, that I should go and spend some time with and he knew the first time he saw me that there was something magical between us (I was 32). It’s the man that told me he wanted to lick my butt hole right in front of my boyfriend. It’s the taxi driver that drove me off down a secluded bush road, who started to shake, sweat and stutter as he told me he was nervous because he had never had such a beautiful girl in the car. It’s the men that would try to me, stare at me inches away from my face or pull me back by my backpack because I didn’t acknowledge them.
The question as to why most of this was never reported? For starters, most of this is so normalised that you’re conditioned to think that it’s not a big issue. When you have friends telling you to stop talking about it because they don’t want to believe that somebody they know is a potential rapist, you wonder if there is anybody that will listen, will take you seriously. When you have people telling you to keep something hush hush, or risk losing your job and ruining a marriage, you’re both scared and guilted. When you have another woman, an older woman, someone that you had previously looked up to that the reason that you get sexually harassed is because YOU need to work on your presence and then your boyfriend agrees, you start to wonder if you brought it all on yourself. When you know that even if by some miracle, the police do take you seriously and it goes to court, every attempt possible will be made to discredit you. I’m certainly not the perfect victim, people will ask why I allowed myself to get so drunk that I put myself in a position to be molested. People will ask why I stayed with an abuser, citing that it mustn’t of been that bad. People will delve into my history, see that yes, i’ve sent nudes, i’ve enhanced my cleavage on nights out. I’ve had more than one abortion. But most of all, it’s because for a lot of this stuff, I don’t have evidence. I can’t prove what was said or done behind closed doors. But the thing is, I know what happened and what was said, and so do they. I would say it’s a victory that they have to live with themselves, but the reality is they don’t care. Their behaviour enabled for years, just like Brands. Enabled by the women that claim to be advocates against this very thing.
Do better please.
