I wrote the following poem and created the piece of word art to go with it in the aftermath of being raped, for the second time in my life, about 5.5 years ago. It was a revenge fantasy in some ways but was also very much tied up into my personal road to healing. 

Vagina Dentata 

Just shut them pretty wet eyes

And think of blue skies

As this boyman

So repressed and socialised

Holds you still

With centuries of entitlement 

With a lifetime

Of the fear inspired

By statistics 

Oral histories 

Passed down by mothers and just life 

Block it out

Shut them pretty wet eyes

Feel them there teeth descend

As he struggles to get his dick hard

Poor fucked up soul

How could he possibly know

That this pussy got teeth now

Allow him to talk dirty

Blame you for his actions 

Paint you flirty

In your fuck me boots

And short skirt

Smelling of rum n ginger

Bathed in tears

And smudged mascara

Calling you bitch, whore

Unaware of dentata

Poor fucked up soul

How could he possibly know

That this pussy got teeth now

Hear him coo as he rips at your pants 

To reveal 

That gateway to his unknown hell

Open your eyes and smile

Lick your lips and smile

As he prepares to complete this violation 

Clock the look of confused 

Trepidation

At the sudden shift in your expression 

As you (willingly)

Pull your legs up

And arch your back 

All the way up and over

Displaying that pussy

Like a cat

Poor fucked up soul

How could he possibly know

That this pussy got teeth now...

It has a definite provocative, sexualised edge to it, as much of my work over the following years did. Some people have been confused, over the years that I write (produce/create) so much and such explicit erotica (not so much anymore), because how can a victim of sexual abuse still be so free sexually, still be able to enjoy sex and sexuality and discuss it openly without being triggered. I would suggest that a) I'm not a victim, clichéd as it sounds, I'm actually a survivor and b) sex and rape are 2 different things entirely; if someone's weapon of choice was a garden spade, we wouldn't refer to their brutal attacks as gardening and the survivors of those attacks would not necessarily be scared of gardening - perhaps not even of people holding  spades if they were engaged in garden work, and although I think we can all appreciate how spades and gardening could be triggering for the survivor, it isn't accurate or useful to use the terms violence/attempted murder and gardening interchangeably. They are not the same thing, simply the tool of that abuser. The same goes for sex and rape. Just because a rapist's weapon of choice is his penis (footnote 1) and he uses the sexual act as a form of violence, turning it into rape. It does not automatically follow that we should describe sex and rape as the same thing or even use them interchangeably, which unfortunately happens a lot. On top of anything else it just blurs the already woolly line of how society views consent, especially I would say when we are discussing the rape of a female with a sexual history.

I didn't report either of my rapes for a multitude of reasons but both could be summed up as the following really (a piece I did for a group collecting reasons why survivors of rape might not report their abusers) 

Yes, especially by the second rape, as an adult woman, with 2 children from different fathers. With a string of lovers woven throughout my life. Who wore red lipstick, black eyeliner and drank whisky, wine and black coffee whenever she pleased. Who was outspoken and believed in her right to autonomy and love with whom she wanted when she wanted. To do cartwheels with wild abandon through the streets at 2am or 2pm wearing pyjamas or a skirt. Who had the nerve to be all of the above and a single mother, working full time and studying at night to do her degree. Not only did I have a sexual history to be beaten with, but my whole lifestyle was one of a woman living outside of her box. I lived alone; manless, supporting my children financially, practically, emotionally. Bettering myself through education and affording myself the freedom to live life how I saw fit. Unfortunately, for a woman like me to be raped, there are just so many people waiting in the curtains, aching to throw in their tuppence worth to discuss my culpability;

 How much did you have to drink? Did you flirt with him? Did you laugh at his jokes? How many lovers have you had in the last year, 2 years, 3, 10, 20? What underwear were you wearing? Why are you single at the age of almost 40, do you find it hard to form healthy relationships? Is your account really reliable? 

The first time I was raped, I was 19. I was drunk, at a club, dancing all night. I made the mistake of trusting a man I hadn't met before that night to give me a lift home. I remember reflecting back on that event in the weeks afterwards. I didn't speak to anyone, just holed up at my mother's home, refusing to talk to anyone, internalising the pain and anger. I thought about the clothes I had been wearing; hot pants, barely there small top, stupidly high heels. How I was dancing; like I always have really, like I'm lost in another dimension, gracefully, freely, sensually. How intoxicated I was; very. And finally how it looked to accept a ride home from that man... how stupid I was to trust him.

I didn't accept any of the help and support I was offered at that point, because without naming any names, it was all framed and gilded with suggestions of, you shouldn't have trusted him, you need to take better care of yourself, stop putting yourself in dangerous situations, what were you expecting...

All of these suggestions were no different to the messages I had had all around me my whole life about women, what they should and shouldn't do and be. What made them worthy, valued and what took that away. I'd been drip fed it silently, probably from very early on in my consciousness and despite not knowing why, never agreed with it and carved my own path. But here I was, with all of those unformed decisions being thrown in my face, because i could see quite clearly that it had all been my fault. Getting raped was a direct result of me stepping out of line. Of not being a good girl, because, we all know good girls don't get raped... 

Skip forward a few months and I had immersed myself in the hedonism of the 90's drug culture and outdoor party scene... I don't look back on that period with regret at all; I had some amazing experiences, met some wonderful people, learnt a lot about myself and had some peak experiences, but yes, I have admit that I probably did throw myself into that lifestyle with wild abandon and such alacrity due to my inability to deal with the trauma I had been through. I hated myself and wanted to lose myself, forget myself. Interestingly, despite all the damning messages (both internally and from external sources) I received, not only did I refuse to stop dressing and acting in a way that was deemed unworthy, not ladylike, not valued, I also became very sexually adventurous. Others probably would have called me promiscuous but the reality is I just didn't care what other people thought I should do with MY body and did wtf I wanted. It earnt me the reputation of being a 'maneater' and not one for the faint hearted, and in many ways I would agree. It was true that I was not an easy woman in that respect. If men didn't treat me with the love and respect I felt I deserved, I would end our dalliance and move on. I think for many men, and women really, this was not seen as the done thing. As a woman, you were supposed to be coy, gentle, non confrontational, grateful (for attention) and always the one to submit in any disagreements... I was not that woman though and most men were burnt to a crisp by the fire that raged within me. I also had no problem with ignoring the socialised view that good women, good girls even, should have very few lovers. Should be chaste, but never caught. So. I was a cross between being feared and looked down upon. People didn't know what to make of me.

Interestingly, in those years, no rapes occurred.

Years later, my biological clock, and just growing bored of that lifestyle, kicked in and forced a sense of calm and focus upon me. I wanted something different in my life, So, my 30's ended up being dominated by baby making and studying hard to get my undergraduate degree. Up until that point, those relationships with the fathers of my children were the only attempts I had ever made at trying to make something, relationship wise work (for longer than a year). Damage, as they say seeks damage though and unfortunately they did not work, perhaps were never going to because both myself and the men I had chosen were not capable/not healed enough.

 A few years after the birth of my youngest, as a single mother, once again, working hard to make money in a dead end job but with one more year left of my degree, I believed that I had it sussed. Life was finally starting to even out and I could see that path laid out clearly ahead of me. I was still a bit shaken and vulnerable from the break up with baby daddy number 2 but getting there. For the first time, I really felt I could achieve anything. That everything was to play for. 

At about this time, just after my 39th birthday, I was invited to stay with an old friend I had known for years but who had contacted me via Facebook about a year before. He had been very sweet and thoughtful and supportive in the aftermath of my break up with my youngest's father and seemed to like and be impressed by my inner strength and character. I felt safe with him and although hadn't seen him for many years, felt an attraction towards him. Yes... I still, deep down, beneath all of that strength and courage and hard work, believed that what I needed most was a man to complete me and my achievements. So this guy giving me attention, how kind he had been to me, at a time when I felt powerful and like I was winning at life. It all felt a bit fairytale like. Of course I wanted it to be real but having been round the block a few times already, I wasn't putting all my eggs in that basket. 

I agreed to go to see him but decided against staying with him, and stayed in a hotel instead, as he lived not only in another city but technically another country. I travelled the 250 miles by train and booked myself into a beautiful room. I was prepared to be wined and dined and yes, just see if we did actually click. I was also prepared for there to be no click, no spark and had made it very clear to him that it wasn't a date as such, despite us thinking there may be something between us, because it was still only 6 months since me and my ex had split up and I had no idea how I would feel. He agreed and said it would just be 2 friends casually meeting up and catching up. 

The rape and then subsequent attempted rape that followed in the next 2 days are still in some ways, at some points, hazy. I have written down the details, every single detail that I do remember so many times and I'm not sure I want to do that in this piece. The main points I want to make are that the period of 8 or 9 months or so before we met, in which he gained my trust, made me feel he cared about me but also like I needed his perspective for clarity, could be viewed in the light of grooming, because despite when I look back now, and see it was so obviously rape that occurred,  I still managed to convince myself at the time that it wasn't, that it was my fault for not asserting myself and that obviously, by agreeing to him coming into my hotel room, from the hotel bar, to finish off our drinks and chat on the balcony more privately, that I was giving him a green light... What on earth did I expect? 

I wonder how many reading this would think, well, you were quite right and should have known better. That inviting a man into your room to finish drinks is a green light and that that is justification for rape... That men just go into auto pilot when they are aroused and are essentially ALL rapists, hence it is up to us women to protect ourselves from them. I will come back to this a bit later, but hold that thought if you do believe that. 

My internal dialogues that night and the following day were pretty mixed up. In one sense I was propelled back 20 years ago (almost to the week) to that first rape; looking to blame myself and pull myself to pieces. So mixed up that, although I had decided I didn't want to spend another evening with him, I convinced myself it would be fair to have dinner with him and explain this to him to his face, like somehow I owed him something. Like somehow, because he was acting like nothing bad had happened, then it must be my problem. Would have been a great idea if he wasn't such a manipulative fuck and if he hadn't already managed to somehow control my actions by making me doubt myself or just feel too scared. 

Pleading too drunk to drive home that evening, after he drove me back to the hotel and pushed for another drink in the hotel bar, he begged to sleep on the floor in my hotel room. I was still in shock and not strong enough to say no. I still had the vision of his violently contorted face looming above me, calling me names, like dirty bitch and whore, and despite the bruises on my arms and thighs from the night before aching, I still somehow believed he hadn't done it intentionally, that it was my fault for being frozen with fear and being too scared to scream or push him off me. My fault. Not his for holding down a catatonic and crying woman. Mine for not being a good girl. So I let him stay on the floor, because he made me too scared to say no. 

Waking up the next morning to him in the bed, on top of me and attempting to rape me in my sleep and me then physically fighting him, is one of the parts to those few days I don't fully remember. All I do remember is waking up to him doing that and me freaking out... Then just an empty void until I suddenly I came to in a scenario that I can only describe as post fight. Both of us breathing heavily. His hair was ruffled, there were clumps of it in the bed, he had scratches on his face and I felt the shadow of hands around my throat. We must have struggled, fought, pretty hard. We sat there at either end of the bed and he just said; "that look speaks a 1000 words, you don't have to say 1..."

With that we both got dressed, he walked me to the train station and I went home. 

Going back to my comments about women's responsibility In these scenarios. About the socialised and ingrained messages we all have about how women who don't dress or act in certain ways are leaving themselves open to sexual assault and rape because men can't be expected to have self control when their passions are aroused. For number one, the clothes I wore on the date in my second rape were demure in comparison, possibly not by some peoples standards. Skirt that was longer than my knees. A tight fitting top but with a cardigan. I also happen to know for a fact that clothes are absolutely no indicator on your likelihood of getting raped. Fashions change but rape has always remained the same. Nuns get raped, children get raped, women in burka's, trousers, shorts, heels, trainers, make up, no make up, all get raped. Alcohol. Yes, I was under the influence in both scenarios.. But I doubt sobriety would have altered my decision to place trust in those men at those points. Yes, I was flirting but flirting does not equate to wanting sex... the truth of the matter is that in loving sexual relationships, in my experience, I can be totally naked with a man, almost about to let him enter me, him aroused and erect to fuck but if I say stop, he can ànd will stop. Men are not uncontrollable beasts, most, in my mind have the capacity for empathy and intellect. I have also passed out, totally drunk or just tired after watching a film on male friend's sofas before and been completely safe, trusted I would be safe. And why shouldn't I? The reality is that only rapists rape. Men don't just do it if they are given an opportunity. The more focus we put on women to take responsibility for not being raped, the less responsibility the men who rape feel and the easier they excuse themselves and each other. The more society excuses them. If all men were essentially rapists and it was true that women should curtail their freedom as a way to ensure their safety, then really we should be having some serious conversations about the freedoms we afford men; to walk the streets, go out on their own unguarded. Perhaps we should develop a test to see if they could possibly be capable of rape and if they are then they should be chemically castrated. That sort of preventative measure seems more fair to me - punish the potential criminals not the potential victims. Curtail the freedom of the perps and not women. It seems, in some ways like an extension of the bible and what it aimed to do to women; control them, make them too scared to be free. And I, as a survivor of rape and assault, say FUCK. THAT. SHIT. Teach women to fight, talk back to men, not let men intimidate, railroad or bully them. TEACH THEM TO FIGHT! Hard and dirty if needs be. I have taught both of mine a variety of punches and kicks, in particular good ones for if you are shorter than your assailant. Yes, also how to kick men square in the balls and hard. They also have bow and arrows and know how to use them; they are badasses! And actually nowadays, so am I. But being a badass doesn't mean denying your feelings, your vulnerability and your pain... It means working with them... This little piece of dance and song was very instrumental for me in this sense. Allowing myself to feel vulnerable but strong.

I did a whole series of dance pieces in this wedding dress, I'd bought from a charity shop. In my local and most favourite graveyard (where I did, and will again, do lots of dance pieces). It was about healing, letting go of childhood dreams and fantasies and accepting myself and my life for what it was. The pieces were all called "I'm my wife now" and was not a rejection of men but more an acknowledgement to myself that my life had been dominated by men and I'd never really explored it for me. This song too, A Woman's Work by Kate Bush has always been deeply symbolic for me  and reminds me that I'm not alone in that particular struggle. I still love men, individual men, but I no longer feel beholden to them or in need of having one, for the sake of feeling whole, in my life... 

Anyway, getting back to my story, against all odds, I finished my degree (despite falling pregnant, having a baby, splitting up with the father and then getting raped throughout the duration of it) in 2017 and although it took much longer than I had anticipated, I am now doing my post graduate in Education. It has been a really tough 5 years (since that last rape) but I am still very much here. Up until a year ago, my love life (and sexual life) had begun to flourish again but for a whole variety of reasons (the pandemic being but 1), that has had to be put on the back burner. I am busy immersed in trying to make sure I do justice to this post graduate year, I need to focus on healing from my knee operation, and focus on making sure my kids are OK and just making it through life under a pandemic in general. So my love and sex (with another) life will just have to wait.

Part of my healing in the last 5 years has been with dance and art. Part of it has been through formalised psychotherapy and part of it has been my own personal engagement in that process of my healing. Sometimes it has felt a bit 1 step forward and 2 back. Sometimes it has felt more like 1 forward and 10 back and it has felt like there is no point even trying. That I will always have the stain of those men's weakness, depravity and violence upon me. Those times have been hard and on a few occasions I have contemplated exiting this earth, because who wants to live in constant pain? But I know, from my own experience, looking back over the last 25 years, the last 45 if I look at my life as a whole because the truth is, here, I am only discussing the trauma of rape. I haven't even touched upon the trauma of domestic violence I experienced and witnessed as a child or what it is to live, generally, as a working class woman of colour in what is to all intents and purposes a white, male, middle class centric world. So the rapes are but a part of that finely woven tapestry. But what experience has taught me is that healing does not happen in a linear nor ordered fashion. Sometimes the thoughts inspired from reading one book can bring your healing along further than 6 months of formal therapy but perhaps you needed that 6 months of therapy to prepare you for what that book was able to teach. It is one step at a time and huge amounts of patience, because knock backs are inevitable.

With my knee currently I have to be equally as patient with myself. Rome wasn't built in a day and it will be months, perhaps closer to a year before I can start dancing, properly, again. Physical, as with emotional and mental healing, involves pain, endurance and wisdom... Often the wisdom of someone more knowledgeable than yourself. After so many years with emotional and psychological healing and seeing various practioners, reading a variety of books and papers, writing my own, I feel I am in a position to manage that journey myself. But with my knee I will need intensive support from a physiotherapist for at least a year and be prepared to put in hard work. Even then, nothing is guaranteed.

I would like to get back into my dance so that I can always have that as a form of therapy and maybe one day I can consider getting back into making art again. One step at a time and everything in balance. For now I just have to count my blessings, and they are as follows;

• I am me and not the sort of individuals my rapists are. I would always rather be me than them. 

• They didn't beat me, I am a survivor, not a victim.

• I have 2 incredible children that I am proud of and who give me strength to not just carry on, but be an example they can be proud of. 

• I have a loving and supportive family.

• I have brilliant friends.
• I believe in myself. 

So, this time next year, I will be 45. I will have completed my postgraduate year, I will hopefully be in the midst of my first year as a qualified teacher. I should be dancing, properly dancing again and who knows, maybe I will have found time and space to open up and find love, that particular kind of love again. More than that, i want and need to feel whole and the other suggested goals and having my children happy, healthy and strong are first on my list and that is a big enough wish list for anyone in one year... Let's not be greedy. 

Footnote; men and women are raped and this is a huge social issue. It is still the case that more women than men are raped and yes, I would go further to say that the rape of women and girls is woven into the fabric of most societies in a way that the rape of men and boys isn't. But I make no distinction. Rape is rape and it is a disgusting aspect of humanity. Technically, the term rape, as far as I'm aware, refers to the forced entry of a penis into an orifice. It is an act of violence that uses sex as a weapon. Yes, I am aware that women can be and are perpetrators and again, rape is rape, but the statistics for that overwhelmingly show that men are so much more likely to be perpetrators of not just rape but most intimate partner violence, most violence. So when I refer to he when I speak about rapists, yes, I am talking about my experiences but also looking at the massive social issue that is male sexual violence.