Your UnSlut Project

Submitted by @AltruisticFeminist

So, I guess you could say this takes a lot of courage to get out. "Could" being the operative word, because really, it doesn't feel all that courageous. It just feels like something I need to do. I spoke with Emily, the founder of this project, earlier about how inspiring this work of hers is. How it's succeeded in making me feel that bit less alone. How having read 'Your UnSlut Project' makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, I could be understood. I don't think people ever really think on the value of that - or maybe they do, and I'm not quite so attuned to the thoughts of others as I thought I was. Are you attuned to mine? Maybe you are. Maybe you can see that I'm procrastinating here, because albeit the fact that I am no longer ashamed - this is difficult to write. You can guarantee that were I penning this on a physical sheet of paper, at some point the ink would run as tears fell, and my hands would shake until the writing became indecipherable. Just an angry mesh of what should be words on a page.

I guess I've procrastinated enough. Or maybe not. It's occurred to me that perhaps I should give you some form of introduction to me. Some background. If I don't, then I won't exactly stand out to you as a person, a survivor. I'll just be another rape victim to you, and I can say with complete confidence that "just another rape victim" is an idea 'Your UnSlut Project' is trying to disband. My name is Chloe. A boring name, it means "green shoot". But that's new beginnings really, isn't it? And I've got mine. I am seventeen years old - a child in the eyes of many. But please be very aware that I am far more mature than my age would suggest. Unfortunately, I've had to be, and it's due to ill circumstance that I am the way I am. My awareness of the world has come through experiences no one should ever have to see.

For the most part, I'm fairly normal. I write a lot. I study. I spend a lot of time making myself look far prettier than I really am. I listen to bad pop music and dance around my living room, just like most teenage girls. I've a lot of great accomplishments too - my life hasn't all been doom and gloom. The thing I'm most proud of is getting my A Level qualifications at the age of sixteen - two years early. It's enabled me to go to college in the hope of getting more, and it potentially gives me opportunity to go to Oxford or Cambridge University to study English Language. I was actually supposed to be at college over the course of last year, but what happened inhibited my progress... a lot. So I'm restarting this year. I guess that could be considered a failure, but my future is still intact. I can take on anything. Say what you will about me, but I have a lot of drive. So here I am, telling you about the worst day of my life. I hope it will educate you. The purpose of that last paragraph, the one you probably skimmed through with as much boredom as a six year old who's been dragged to an appointment with his mother at the bank, was to let you know that, yes, this can happen to anyone. No matter how normal or clever you think you are, it could happen to you. It could happen to anyone around you. I didn't think it could ever happen to me until reality decided to strike home - hard. Rape is indiscriminate. So maybe, just maybe, you'll hear my message.

It happened on Monday 1st December 2014 between 3 and 6pm. Though, I guess you could say that the story started the day before, on a Sunday. As if the two most unbearable days of the week could get any worse, right? I'm sorry. Humour's entirely inappropriate here, yet, it's a great way to cope. You may find it sickening, but through the course of this, it may crop up every once in a while. Take it as a testament of strength and try not to read into it too much I guess. Defence mechanisms are funny things. Anyway, back to the story at hand. I met him that Sunday. Officially. I'd seen him before, visiting a friend at college, but I'd never spoken with him. I was with that friend that day. She hates me even now because of what happened. We'd met up, she and I, to have a smoke. Yes, by that I mean pot, weed, ganja, maryjane, whatever strikes your fancy. Condemn me for that all you like. Now, it so happened that neither of us could roll a joint to save ourselves, so she called up this guy. She arranged to meet with him so he could roll and we could "chill". He actually struck me as fairly sweet when we met. Slightly rough around the edges with a charming smile and dancing eyes. He had that whole "ragged stoner" look going on. He wasn't shy either. He told my friend, quite blatantly in front of me, that he thought I was beautiful. Winked cheekily. It was nice, having someone so unabashedly announce that they thought of me as attractive. I was shy and insecure at that point. People were supposed to turn in disgust when they saw me - not praise my appearance. I mostly just sat and watched their chummy back and forth as they smoked; I didn't really smoke much. I guess it was sort of an "in crowd" thing that kept appearances up. Before he left, he asked if he could add me on Facebook, he'd like to get to know me. I shrugged, giving him my name.