The statistics betray the horrible truth of just how severely rape survivors are gaslighted in Australia
Fourteen years ago I was raped by a stranger at knife-point. I told no one at the time. I did not whisper a word of it until more than 11 years later, in a small therapy office in Sydney, when my therapist asked me why I had moved my chair to a far corner of the room. I said I couldn’t bear to sit any closer to him. He asked me why and, for the first time, the story came out of me, fully formed.
The night I was raped at 15 years old, I did not consider going to a hospital or to the police. I did not even consider telling my parents or my closest friends. This is despite the fact that my rape would have been one of the easier ones to prosecute – I was covered in bruises, snaked across my abdomen from where he had pushed me against a wall. My gymnastics coach told me later, on inspecting my body after I lied to him about a bad fall, that he suspected I had a few broken ribs.
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