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It's Okay, Me Too

Saying it loud would make it true, and no one was going to believe me anyway.

By Ashley Beatty-PernettiPublished 4 years ago 6 min read
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Courtesy of Pinterest

There’s so much fear and shame surrounding sexual assault or abuse. Many victims would prefer keeping quiet to avoid being judged or dealing with the backlash from others. Today’s society has turned its back on those who have experienced sexual abuse, simply choosing to blame the victim rather than taking a good look at the monsters that commit the crime. Being a victim of sexual abuse often leads to other mental health illnesses, such as depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder, eating disorders, and possibly suicide. Speaking out on a public platform about my experience isn’t easy, but I think it’s about time it happens.

Oftentimes, victims won’t speak up about their experiences simply because they feel that others have experienced much worse, or their sexual abuse “wasn’t that bad.” For me, the setting and situation was the perfect cover -- it was my bachelorette party, in Las Vegas, and I was young and drunk. There was no real physical damage and I was never injured. When a friend said, “I know you had sex with him,” I didn’t say otherwise. But what I did say was “please don’t say anything,” because it wasn’t her story to tell. It wasn’t her place. But she spoke out anyway, only it was her version, what she thought happened.

Courtesy of Pinterest

You see, I didn’t tell the truth for months. I didn’t want to. Saying it loud would make it true, and no one was going to believe me anyway. So, I let the version that wasn’t mine be the real one. For months. But when I finally said it out loud, when I finally told my version, the true version, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

We were in Vegas, three friends and myself, for my bachelorette party. A bachelor party was happening in the hotel room across from ours. We met in the elevator. The next night, we all explored the Strip together, drinking and having fun. There was one guy who was, yes, attractive. Very, in my opinion. Like me, he had a lot of inner demons. We connected in a way that I hadn’t been able to with anyone close to me, and he used that to his advantage. It was late and we all headed back to their suite to hang out. He asked me if we could go talk more, and I assumed he meant what he said -- I was drunk and ready to talk about all of my issues with someone I’d never see again. My friends were in the next room, what could go wrong?

At first, it was exactly what I expected. We sat on the bed and just… talked. I told him about the time I overdosed on my bathroom floor, the first time I slit my wrists, and the habits I developed that led to an eating disorder. He told me about his first, second, and third suicide attempts, showing me scars as proof -- one of which was a thick scar across his neck. Then, as I was mid-sentence, I felt his hand on my thigh. It was no big deal, so I thought, until his fingers were creeping up and under my dress. I put my hand on his and laughed, saying “um, no.” He moved his hand and stood up, unbuttoning his shirt. I was confused and felt my face flush, but I thought it was just the massive amounts of booze I’d consumed in the last 48 hours.

I continued with my story, and in a matter of seconds, he was on top of me, ripping my panties off, and pinning my hands down at my sides with his legs. Did I mention he was rather tall? I’m 5’3” and was about 115 pounds at the time, with little to no upper body strength, especially when alcohol is involved. He was 6’2” and easily 200 pounds. I also learned later that he had been doing cocaine throughout the night. As he lowered his pants, I begged quietly. “Please don’t. I can’t do this, I’m getting married in a week.” I knew all of our friends were in the next room and I didn’t want them to hear what was going on. He simply chuckled and said “you know you want to experience one more dick before you’re stuck with the same one for the rest of your life.” At which point, things become a little fuzzy. Whether it was because of the alcohol or my own mind blocking the memory, I’m not entirely sure.

The next thing I remember was someone knocking on the door. He jumped off of me and buttoned his pants, handing me my underwear and “bride” veil. I slipped my underwear on and sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, trying to wrap my mind around what had just happened. When he answered the door, it was my maid of honor and his best friend. I walked over to them, smiling. They said “people were wondering where you guys were.” He glanced at me. “We were just talking about some deep shit.” It slipped off of his tongue so easily. I nodded and walked into the bathroom, fixing my hair. Our friends went back to the group and he came in, helping me adjust my veil. “That was fun,” he said. And with that, he kissed my forehead and headed back to the other room.

That was the first time I was sexually assaulted. But I couldn’t even admit it to myself. How was I supposed to tell anyone else? So, when my friend said she knew what happened, I let her believe that she did. Who cares if it ruins everything and completely changes my life? And it did… I didn’t get married. Four years, wasted. My son has separated parents, just like I did. And suddenly, I had no idea where my life would take me.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the last time I was sexually assaulted. Six months later, it happened again, but in my hometown. I’m not going to tell that story though, because one is enough. I was sexually assaulted, and it doesn’t matter if it was once, twice, or a thousand times. It doesn’t matter if it was a stranger or a friend or family member. It doesn’t matter if I was drunk or sober, if I was wearing a dress or chastity belt. None of that matters. What does matter is that I said “no” and he forced himself on me anyway.

Go ahead and blame me, the victim. Tell me I put myself in that situation. Tell me I didn’t try hard enough to stop him, that there’s “always a way out.” Tell me, the victim, that it’s my fault I was sexually assaulted. Go ahead, tell me I lied. Because, you know what? It doesn’t matter. What you think about my sexual abuse doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I know the truth. I know what happened behind that closed door. I know my side of the story. Those closest to me support me because they believe me. That’s all that matters.

My name is Ashley. I was sexually assaulted. It’s okay to not be okay, because I’ve been there too.

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About the Creator

Ashley Beatty-Pernetti

Wife. Mom. Creator.

Just a messy 29-year-old, wading her way through life, one word at a time.

Raising mental health awareness with the written word and firsthand experience.

Both fiction and non-fiction stories to nourish your soul.

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