Anonymous

By Fred

I am a gay man from the Netherlands. During a visit to London as a tourist the summer of 2009 my drink was spiked, I was robbed and sexually assaulted by a member of gang targeting gay men. I would like to share my experience appealing against the decisions of the CICA because this may be of use to victims of drug-rape.

I decided to apply for compensation two month after the incident when I realised the police investigation was not going any further. It was the only thing left for me to do.

My application was rejected by the CICA 6 month after applying. They wrote: “It was several days after you reported the theft before you then advised the Police of the sexual assault. l have considered whether his could be related to drugs, however, there is no evidence available to us that shows you were administered recreational drugs, or any date-rape type drugs.” By this time I knew of lab-results showing Diazepam in my urine so I decided to ask for a review. I also further explained the delay in reporting the sexual assault.

To my dismay my review application was rejected in this manner: “We have checked with the police who confirmed that you had a trace of diazepam in your urine….
… you did not see anyone administer anything to your drink ….
in addition, it is noted that you did not inform the police of the sexual assault allegation until around 4 days after you reported the theft.”

This was infuriating. “you did not see anyone administer anything to your drink” What kind of a fool was I taken for? My arguments about the delay in reporting were ignored. I was devastated knowing that appealing would entail attending a hearing. This meant going back to London, something very hard for me to do. In the end I did decide to appeal.

Later on I was sent the hearing bundle. I was shocked by part of the police report. “…the victim does appear delusional…” This confirmed my feeling that my allegation had not been taken seriously. On top of this I now read the officer’s comment to the CICA. “Mr B. stated that he was a willing party when ‘R.’ rubbed his groin. Mr B. did not object to this and in fact stated that he found it pleasurable. No complaint was made regarding the rub of groin but only the subsequent action…. The findings of the toxicology tests do not change my opinion of Mr B.’s allegation.”

Was this the result of being totally open and honest to the police in giving them a very detailed statement? He basically said I should blame myself for what had happened. From this I very much doubted my chances in appealing, as well as feeling embarrassed about the details shown.

By march 2011 the hearing took place in London. A caseworker from GALOP accompanied me for “moral support”. The hearing took 3 hours. Early on a member of the panel started questioning me in a rude way, using four letter words. My caseworker spoke out on this. This intervention did help, the tone was less sharp from then on.

I was lucky to have my case reopened by the police after I read news reports on similar cases 1 year after my incident. It was investigated by a different officer, I was able to get him attend to give evidence in my hearing.

There was a misconception both on the side of the police and the Authority on the effects drugging. The solicitor from the Authority claimed that the effect would be immediate, not gradual. This was vital to her argument; it would mean my drink was spiked after the sexual assault. This would have implications on the issue of consent.

Very important to winning my case was a “diary of events” I had written 5 days after the incident. The process of writing everything I could remember of the events on that night triggered my memory and made me recall the sexual assault. It also helped to piece together the events and filling in some of the blanks. From the start what had been foremost on my mind was finding out what had happened during the time I had “lost” due to the amnesia.

I advise any victim of drink-spiking to do like me. Write down on paper all you can remember in a chronological order. It helps to get back some sense of control. It may also help by giving more detailed information to the police for their investigation.

Part of the written reasons on the decision from the Appeal Panel:
“ His diary of events corroborates his statement .. the later reporting of the sexual assault to the Police, so far from being inconsistent, is entirely in keeping with what would be expected following the administration of Diazepam.
…There is no realistic possibility of Diazepam taking effect instantly upon being ingested… The history of gradually diminishing recall is much more likely”

From applying for compensation to finally winning my case in a hearing took 18 months. I am glad I did persevere. It was a very challenging but also very rewarding to finally getting acknowledgment on what happened. The money was less important but did come in handy.

It has helped me to cope with the incident. It was beneficial for my recovery. Ultimately [as with any crime involving sexual violence] it was about loss of power – control. Going through the process of applying, review and appealing has given me back a sense of control over my life. I did accomplish this and it has helped restoring my self confidence.

I do hope this information can help others going through this process.

By Sally Fraser 

I remember I had these weird acrylic nail extensions. My mum had paid for me to have them done so that I would stop biting my nails. I had painted them a pearly pale green colour. He had a bald head and I liked the way it felt under them. He had a hairy chest and I liked that too, under my fingers, under my tongue, wiry and salty. He was really sweaty and I’d never seen anything like it, and I remember him taking his glasses off and me asking ‘can you still see me’ and him chuckling and saying yes of course, I was very close up. He was stubbly, rough against my ghostly white skin. But he touched and kissed me perfectly, it was blissful. Yes, yes I definitely wanted this. Not just consent, I actually asked. Please. I want you.

I kept my clothes on, I wouldn’t have been confident being naked in front of someone until years later. My first proper bra. My most grown-up clothes. But still children’s clothes.

The pain was excruciating, it caught my breath and I wondered if I was going to be able to bear it till the end. There was one moment when he let his composure or whatever his not entirely genuine demeanour was slip and sounded frustrated, impatient: just relax. But I couldn’t, so I gently bit his shoulder and held tight.

Afterwards he asked if I felt safe, and warm and loved and I said yes I did and meant it, maybe for the first time. Over the months and years that would follow I would revisit that moment, I was foolish, I had believed someone who said they loved me, that I was beautiful and special. I only ever thought of it as heartbreak, his only crime was deception, not loving me, disappearing.

Until a few months ago, when I heard he had gone to prison. It turns out as you got older the girls didn’t, if anything they got younger. And money started changing hands. Suddenly everything looked different. Maybe I hadn’t been the incredibly mature and sophisticated young woman who had attracted an older man. Maybe this wasn’t a romantic tale of sexual awakening and empowerment at all. I started desperately trying to sort through my memories. Listening to his friend get angry with him and talking about statutory rape, and not knowing what that meant. The time, years earlier, sitting on his knee and him saying I was going to save myself for him. There’s a name for that isn’t there?

Now there is usually a time in the wee hours of each morning when I can’t stop re-visiting that unfolded sofa bed. It’s almost as if I am trying to look over that man’s shoulders and see into my own eyes, trying to trust what I was feeling. Genuine desire, love, lust; on my part even if not on his. But I keep watching and asking: was that a woman or a child? I had always believed it was a woman, the woman I became, I just became her earlier than most people. But if it was a child, then who am I now?

Leigh Dixon

I read your story in the Evening Post recently. It hit a nerve with me as I too experienced a similar incident after a night out with university friends. Unfortunately there is nothing unique about being a victim of a violent crime – what I would share and hope those who have a similar story could take solace, comfort or learnings from is around the feelings of guilt and sense of blame for which I continue to experience ten years later.

I am now coming to realise these feelings. Apart from minor scars I have no lasting effects – but the feelings of shame, embarrassment and a sense of harbouring a dirty secret continues to affect my ability to truly forget.

As a typical university student bonfire night was spent with friends, some drinks and a lot of laughs. After saying good-bye at their street end I continued walking towards home. I sensed someone following me only two minutes later, feeling uncomfortable I crossed the street – I heard the footsteps follow me and in that moment I knew that what happened in the next few minutes would be life changing. It sounds odd – but the sense of knowing was overwhelming. Instantaneously I blamed myself for leaving my friends, being too independent and forgetting that I didn’t have the right to walk home safely!

My attack was over within fifteen minutes and I was lucky enough to have managed to scream and raise the alarm. Thanks to a couple of strangers I avoided rape. The men who helped me that night also managed to identify my assailant.

My attacker was charged with assault and kidnap and six months later I found myself in the witness box. I felt my civil duty that day was to give evidence against him so that this could not happen to anyone else. I quickly realised that I was there to defend and justify my own behaviour – or certainly that was how I felt. Where had I been? How much had I drunk? Did I encourage his behaviour? Your timings of events don’t match your statement? You said he hit you on the right hand side how do you remember accurately if you had been drinking? I was forced to answer these questions in front of my attacker and his family. There were many occasions whilst recuperating where I felt exposed and vulnerable – lying alone in the x-ray scanner at A&E, getting undressed in front of a complete stranger so they could take pictures of my injuries or at 21 having to be bathed by my mum. This was worse than being on the x-ray scanner, that was physical, this was emotional – after everything, I was now beating myself up.

I found it tough writing this. What have I learnt? What would I impart to my younger self or others? I don’t think I have the full answer yet – I’m still getting there. What I do have so far is, share your story with others who have experienced something similar – I didn’t and wish I had. There is strength in numbers. The feelings of what you went through will be too raw for you to rationally tell yourself that you didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t deserve what happened, that ‘what if’s’ are not an excuse and that you are #NotGuilty.

Anonymous

If I could write to you to tell you about what you have left me with, I think this is what I’d say. Firstly I’d wonder if I was going to be listened to, and then I’d wonder whether it was worth it, because to offer words of honesty to someone who has hurt you beyond repair takes real guts, real strength and real belief in something beyond the immediacy of who and what we both are and once were. I think I’d want you to know that I wonder for myself whether you think of me, whether you think of that afternoon, whether you take time to allow that moment to come into your mind, however fleetingly. In some ways I want to know that it occupies your mind and keeps you awake at night; and yet in other ways I don’t want a space within you or around you, you don’t deserve to have me in your space.

I wonder too if your body has been rocked with memory, if you have felt pain in your flesh, in your skin, within you and in places that it’s hard to say to others ‘it hurts’. I wonder if you have felt your body shaking with memory or when something brings that afternoon to mind. I wonder if you have felt your mouth so dry that words don’t even work anymore, that you can move your mouth and begin to try and speak to someone again and again and the words just don’t come out, however hard you try. I wonder if you have been caught in a wire web of silence and tension, wanting to reach out to one who cares for you at the other side of the room, but not knowing how to break out of the shell that you have built so carefully around you. Or I wonder if you talked of that afternoon, if you felt proud or strong or powerful; I wonder if you told someone what you’d done. Yet I hope that you cried in anguish when you recalled that moment, for you wouldn’t have been the only one.

I want to tell you that I’m strong in spite of what you did, that my life carried on, that you can’t hurt me and that you won’t have the power over me anymore. And yet I can’t tell you that, for you have for too long. You’ve taken my energy as I’ve pushed that afternoon away, you’ve taken my confidence as I’ve recalled it in my mind, and most significantly you’ve taken my body as I struggle to control my reactions to words, to memories and to sensations. You left me with my skin, and I should be thankful, for there was a time when I wondered if my skin too would be broken or if my bone would be crushed beyond repair, but my skin holds my body, my body which is full of memory, full of hurt and full of pain and longs for that memory of invasion to be removed.

I wonder if you planned it, if you meant to go that far, or if you meant to stop. I wonder what it was within you that meant you needed to touch my body so violently, to pull my clothing from my body, to force your body within my body and to push a part of that which was me from my body forever. I wonder what you were thinking when you were crushing me to the floor and allowing the path to indent my back and my legs. Were you looking into my face and wondering who or what I was, did I mean anything to you or was I just an end goal, a thing to be mastered or violated, a means to an end or was there a purpose. And when you grabbed at my breast and pushed it within your hands, did you think of my body, did you think of life that might grow within me that would see the breast as life and nourishment. And did you hear my cry and did you feel my struggle and did you not wonder whether you were doing the right thing. Did you ever wonder, did you ever want to stop. And then when I gave up my fight and you were within me and my pain was beyond anything I’d ever experienced, my breath taken from my body, my fight lost and my fear-filled grief so intense, did you wonder what was happening? Did you wonder what you would leave within my body, or out with my body? Did you know that that experience would become so singular and so hard to replace.

And I wonder how you felt afterwards when you pushed me back and threw back to the floor, when you took away my last fragments of worth. Did you wonder whether I’d make it up, did you care? And did you feel remorse, feel anguish, feel anything that meant that I was the last and not the first. Did you feel empty, desolate, lost or broken; did you body ache in a way that is both of mind, body and soul. Is it possible that my body leaves any memory with you, or is the memory all mine to bear.

And I wonder too, if so far along the journey, so many years down the line, whether it still pricks you, even just once in a while and you think of that afternoon, that moment, that time when life changed forever and a body was irrevocably changed and imprinted with memory.

“So now I fight…So now I walk and work to leave you behind…Now I choose others to walk with me, there is no space for you.”

Too long you have lived in my mind and my body and I long to shake you away, to push you to the ground, and to be the one to stand up and walk away. Too long I have waited for words, for voice and for a space to speak. Too long I have carried it within my body and my heart, too long it has been a thread through my soul, and too long it has pummelled my energy. Too long it has been part of my life. Too long you have been part of my life, and too long I have let you stay there. So now I fight, not to throw you to the floor, for my throwing and your throwing are not worth each other; but now I fight for myself, for my space and for my body. And now in my fight you have no place, you have no right to be part of who and what I am now, you have no invitation to walk this part of the journey with me.

So now I walk and work to leave you behind, to leave you in that place. I don’t know if you’re still there or if your mind and body have travelled so far already, but it doesn’t matter, for now I choose to walk away, to open the space and to show the scars, to walk with it, and now I choose others to walk with me, there is no space for you.

Anonymous

“I have struggled for decades, since December 24th, 1993. I was driving home from a night out. A car followed me which I noticed it beforehand. I made swift turns to get away when I thought I had. I entered through a driveway into the property where I lived and where I was raised. At the time I was 18. There were no gates closing the property off from the street. I got out of the car and a man approached me. He told me he needed to make a phone call because his car had a problem. He said he needed to come into my house. I refused. He asked for money, I gave it to him. As he thanked me and walked away, I turned my back to unlock the door to the house. He came from behind, put his hand over my mouth and asked me to not say a thing. I panicked. He held me from my throat until I begged for air. With force he ripped my pants and sexually abused me. It all happened very fast and he left. I collected all my things from the ground and went into my house. I went directly to my sister and my mother who were asleep and asked them to take me to the hospital for a DNA test. Then I asked my mother to take me to the police to report the incident.

I live in a country where such cases were very rare and no one could help me. I never got a DNA result from the semen, nor was this man ever found. To this day I walk down streets and think it might be him, or the other one, or that one. I will never know who it was. It was dark. My story has been in the dark all these years. I have never known how to deal with it, or if not dealing with it is the best. But I do suffer, so I feel like I am doing something wrong.”

The #NotGuilty campaign would like to add that as a victim of assault you are not doing anything wrong. We encourage the fact that remaining anonymous does not have to be the same as being silenced, and there is no shame in seeking the help that you need. Our ‘About’ section has useful contacts in the UK for receiving appropriate help after assault and we hope that this can be of assistance to survivors.

“Only last week whilst commuting in London during rush hour, I found myself distressed when a man put his hand on my back side and then in one sudden movement his fingers between my legs. At first I tried to justify it – busy tube, an accident, but when I turned to see who attached to the hand I looked to see a smiling face back at me. I was so embarrassed the only thing I did was ask him to ‘move it now’! I regret not making more of an example to try to humiliate him … either way, I felt violated and finding myself panicked when getting back on a busy tube (not easy as I live and work in London). So I am so proud of being part of #notguilty as why should WE suffer this form of abuse!” – Anonymous

“My attacker was someone who I have known for a long time, someone who I have cared for deeply and always trusted. I was in many ways naïve, and too trusting, and I am still trying to not blame myself. Which is crazy, I know what happened isn’t my fault, yet I still find it so hard to not feel guilt. I don’t even feel guilt for myself, but for all my friends and family who have been hurt by this to. When it was happening, I tried to fight him off, but after only a few minutes I gave up and just went into a massive state of shock I guess. After he left, I lay there for a while not really wanting to accept what had happened. So I didn’t accept it, I went into denial for a while, but it got to a point where I couldn’t handle it any longer, I needed support. My family were amazing (bar a few small minded people) and they have really helped me. Telling them was a huge relief and I recommend anyone to do the same.

I went to the glade in Worcester (a rape crisis centre) and was questioned for what felt like hours but I got through it and the people there was honestly amazing. I decided not to report him to the police for now, as I am only 16 and I am in the middle of my GCSE’S, so the added stress of that would not be helpful.
I am, in my opinion, a very strong person, but this has pretty much broken me, at the start I was in a state of shock and confusion and rarely said a word, but I soon came to a realisation of what happened, and it hit me like a truck. I have never felt so empty in my life, it feels like nothing will ever fill that void, but I hope in time it will. To be honest I can’t put into words how I properly feel, but all I know it has ruined a large part of my life. I would love to still be my confident outgoing self, but I no longer am. When I go out in public, my breathing becomes a very difficult situation and I feel so weak. I think that’s what gets me most, is how weak I feel.

But I have read many of stories posted on here and I feel more hopeful that if so many women can move forward, then I can too. I feel inspired by many and hope I can be as strong as them some day, and I’m sure I will.” – Olivia 

By Amy Wilson

TW: Images of bruising after a violent attack

“Six years ago, when I was twenty, someone followed me when I was walking home from the club I worked in. It was 4am, and as I walked through an underpass – blissfully unaware of his presence as I listened to music through my headphones – he jumped on me and knocked me to the ground.

In the discussions with police, medical and therapeutic staff afterward, I learned that most people will freeze in a situation like this. For some lucky reason, I didn’t. I screamed “Help!”, I kicked wildly, I continuously tried to lift my head up to see his face even though every time I did he would punch me in the face. When he tried to undress me I kicked harder still, and suddenly, he was running away.

I stood dumbly in the underpass for a short while, unable to find my glasses or my shoes. I did find my phone, though, and I stumbled off to call 999. Unfortunately in my panicked state I couldn’t articulate to the operator where I was. A taxi driver spotted me crying and bleeding in the street and took over.

I have never felt more loved or more strong than I did after that. My flatmates got out of bed and ran through the streets to meet me in the ambulance. The police were endlessly kind. The bouncers at my work drove me to and from the club after that. Everyone rallied around.

And I have felt tougher and safer ever since.”

Anonymous

“What hurts me the most is knowing the person who raped me had done it intentionally. He was aware of me not wanting to have sex with him. He hung around with most of my friends, he wanted to befriend me and I told him if he wanted to be friend with me he needed to stop being creepy toward me and making it clear that he wanted to sleep with me. I made it clear to him that “I will never fuck you, you will never fuck me, nothing like that will happen, you have a girlfriend”.

I believe that not just any guy, but any human would back off when someone doesn’t want to have sex with you. Even when you tell a dog to keep away from you, the dog will do so. The day he raped me, just 3 hours earlier I told him the same thing again “I will never fuck you, you will never fuck me, nothing like that will happen, plus you have a girlfriend” and I told him to stay away from me.

After it happened, I was confused. How is it even possible for me not to know what happened? I remember going to bed and waking up, but I don’t recall giving him consent to do that. I didn’t invite him to my room. I am still confused today. I found what he did to me because he sent me a Snapchat message to tell me what he did to me. I cried and still crying right now, because he raped me to hurt me for the rest of my life. 
He raped me to prove me the opposite of what I said to him. He raped because I rejected him, confronted him and he would have still raped even if I didn’t say anything to him.

“I found out what he did to me because he sent me a Snapchat message…he raped me”

Before I used to think that rape was about sex, that rapists raped because they were desperate. And what happened to me made me realise rape isn’t about sex, it’s more about violence, power, control and humiliation. If my rapist was that desperate to have sex, and I said NO when he asked so many times he could have probably backed off and asked someone else who was willing to have sex with him. But he didn’t back off when I said NO so many times. Instead, he raped me while I was unconscious in my bed.
All that I want is for him to give me an explanation of why he did that. But I know that I will never get the answer of what I am looking for.”

By Amy

He is a monster in my head. I have to actively shrink him in my mind each time his face, his hands, his smell invades my consciousness. My mind quickly flicks through little memories, small details that I interpret with hindsight but have no control over. No control. I can feel my mind swirling through it all, my third week of uni, away from home. My uni experience changed from one of fun and excitement to a numb routine to get me through the day.

The next months are filled with an emptiness, I drain away all emotion to avoid the white hot pain in my stomach. Going home after the first semester, my parents didn’t recognise me. I would cry for no reason, sob with my whole body. They could see me breaking apart in front of them. They supported me, fully backed me but I swear they’ve both aged decades before my eyes. It was my decision to see someone, my decision to go back to uni, my decision to report it to the police, my decision to keep my life going. My parents, my support network were my enablers and my friends. They have given me the things that were ripped away from me, control, respect, dignity, love.

I blame myself, I still feel shame, guilt, worthlessness. But I know in the back of my mind that this is a lie. I’m so thankful that I have people around me that demonstrate it’s a lie on a daily basis. I am NOT GUILTY.