"Should I have done more?" I never took my rapist to court. Then his name appeared in the news.

Content warning: This story includes graphic depictions of domestic violence and rape that may be distressing to some readers.

*names have been changed.

“It never gets easier seeing a woman speak out about abuse only to have her appearance, her personal choices, her decision to consume alcohol or stay out at night, amidst a myriad of other minute details, held up as a mirror for why she deserved it. It’s not easy for me or any other survivor out there – particularly, those who are still yet to speak up.” 

“No. No, no, no.”

The words bubbled from deep inside, spilling out through my lips as I stared at the screen of my computer. Behind me, my friend stood in the hallway, her face wrinkled into concern as she asked, over and over, the same question; one that I just couldn’t quite answer.

What’s happening? What’s wrong?

I shook my head, unable to respond. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed to the article that had just loaded on my laptop; my body trembling as I read the headline.

Local Father Facing Jail for Domestic Violence Charges.

In what felt like a mammoth effort, I felt the words finally form in my mouth before tumbling out awkwardly. “I know him,” I say stiffly. “It’s him.” 

As my friend drops onto the couch beside me, I scramble to find a credit card so that I can bypass the website’s paywall. My fingers shake violently and everything inside me feels off-kilter, causing me to type the wrong digits. Instantly, the page bounces. Once, twice, then a third time. Over and over this happens, the page reloading and refreshing as it asks me to complete a simple task: one that, right now, feels enormous.

It takes four or five attempts to finally type my details correctly, but eventually I’m rewarded with a spinning circle and a checkmark. The paywall disappears, and then, suddenly, I see him. 

Those eyes. That smug tilt of his chin. The facial features that – even when blurred – are instantly recognisable.

“It’s him,” I repeat. “It’s Blake* – the guy who raped me when I was 20.” 

And suddenly, it all comes rushing back.

***

This is the reality of what I faced, earlier this month, when I found out that my abuser was finally facing trial for crimes against women. It was shocking, re-traumatising, and distressing; my head – previously clear and light and trouble free – now weighed down with sickly reminders of what I’d been through... and what he’d gone on to do to other women.

As a young woman, I’d made the choice early on that my healing would be found outside the courtroom. The public judgement, the cross-examinations, the humiliation, the financial stress... it was all too much to think about, as a 20-year-old. But now I wondered: Should I have done more?

It was at this point that I thought of several high-profile cases of rape and sexual assault that had recently been reported on. And more so, how depressingly familiar they felt. From misogynistic comments about our clothing, to pointed remarks about how we ‘obviously just regretted’ having sex, and questions from members of the court as to whether the alleged perpetrator was actually ‘attracted’ to the alleged victim or not (as if this somehow tells us whether a person is or is not a rapist), one thing was clear: very little has changed when it comes to the treatment of women who speak out about sexual violence.

Whether it be about our appearance, our inability to remember small details from conversations many years ago, or why we didn’t immediately front up to a police station or doctor’s surgery, there are always so many things we ‘just should have done better.’

This is what eats away at me most, as a survivor of sexual violence: the assumption that we, as women, are somehow at fault for crimes perpetrated against us.

I think about the alcohol I consumed on the night of my rape, and the outfit I wore (a long white skirt with a singlet that showed some cleavage). I think about my actions immediately afterwards – the fact that I didn’t go to a doctor and that it took me 10 years to report Blake to the police. And with every high-profile rape case that is reported through the media, I wonder: Is this what people would say about me if I took Blake to trial? Would I be treated as though I deserved it?

Deep down, I know the answer. I know, from watching other cases play out publicly, as well as my own experiences, what the answer would be.

After all, it was only days after my own sexual assault that a female friend replied, “Yeah, you can’t really call it rape – I mean, you knew him. And you’d been drinking that night.”

Those words stuck with me for a long time. They made me believe, back then, that there was no point in speaking out.

This persistent belief that we are to blame for another person’s decision to violate our bodies is the one that bothers me most. It sticks to the corners of my mind; like a bruise that just won’t heal. It imprints small lines across my forehead; ones that belie the sorrow within. Because the truth is this: rape occurs in every culture and country across the globe, and it doesn’t matter whether the victim was drunk or sober, or if they’d previously consented to sex with that person; there is only one person at fault. The rapist.

Despite how far I’ve come in my healing journey, as well as my career, it’s an indisputable fact that high-profile rape and sexual assault cases – and the way in which they are reported on and responded to – can be incredibly distressing and re-traumatising for victim-survivors. While I’m thankful to have come out the other side of my trauma with very few remaining scars, and to be in a loving, safe, and supportive marriage, it never gets easier seeing a woman speak out about abuse only to have her appearance, her personal choices, and her decision to consume alcohol or stay out at night – amidst a myriad of other minute details – held up as a mirror for why she deserved it. It’s not easy for me or any other survivor; particularly, those who are still yet to speak up.

People often ask why survivors don’t speak out, and while there are many reasons, the truth is that most often we fear we won’t be believed. These anxieties are not baseless or exaggerated; dishearteningly, they have been confirmed by research. Here in Australia, studies have shown that one in five people (19 per cent) believe ‘women who say they were abused often make up or exaggerate claims of abuse or rape,’ and that 14 per cent of Australians believe ‘violence against women is often provoked by the victim’ (Ipsos, 2022).

When I tell you that women fear not being believed, there is not an ounce of exaggeration in that statement.

As someone who has been a global voice on violence against women for the past 10 years, I know we still have a long way to go; and yet, I also believe that it’s equally important to highlight the power that exists when we speak out collectively. Change, though it may be slow, is happening. There are women paving the way forward; women like author and advocate, Chanel Miller (also known as the Stanford Sexual Assault Survivor), and Grace Tame – someone who needs no introduction. Women like Lani Brennan, a strong Aboriginal woman who not only spoke out about her abuser, but won her case against him – sending her rapist to jail for over two decades.

This is something that I, too, focus on, as an author, speaker, and advocate for women and children. There is strength in our collective voices, and when we speak up, we have the power to create change; not only for ourselves but for future generations. I truly do believe that our stories have the ability to transform lives.

As I write this article, I’m currently preparing for the launch of my new book, ‘The Stories We Carry’; one in which I talk, for the very first time, about exactly what I went through with Blake, and how I re-wrote my shame into strength. It feels surreal to know that as I was handing the manuscript over to my publisher, he was finally being held accountable in court for his crimes against women.

On the day of his sentencing, I read through the verdict with trembling fingertips, my stomach clenched as I prayed for justice. In the end, Blake escaped with a community service order, amidst some other out-of-prison options. It was disappointing to see that a man who had plead guilty to stalking and abusing his partner on multiple occasions, could avoid jail because he admitted to it. Is this the value of a human being? I wondered. Is this what a woman is worth?

For the past few weeks, I’ve tried to clear my head of Blake and the injustice, but still, my mind has been full of questions and memories; things I’d rather forget. What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, however, is the woman at the centre of Blake’s case – his partner. The woman who found the strength to take him to court, but for reasons I will likely never know, took him back before his sentencing.

I wish I could meet this woman face to face. I’d tell her how proud I am that she took a stand, and that I understand, more than so many others, why she chose to go back to Blake; that I understand the control he still has over her.

Whilst this isn’t something I’m able to do, I still hold hope; hope that, in time, she will find the strength to leave him once and for all. That in time, she will come to realise, as I did, that she deserves so much more. 

 ***

It took me 10 years to report my assault to the police and almost 17 years to finally recognise it for what it was – rape. And even then, I didn't take it as far as the court process. But what saved me was owning my story and speaking the truth. It was only when I broke the silence around Blake’s abuse by talking to police and telling his family the truth, that I finally began to heal. 

For any survivors reading along, there is one thing I want to share with you: Please, please don’t silence the truth. Please don’t silence your pain. Find someone you can trust, and share with them what you’ve experienced or are experiencing.

And if no one else tells you this, please hear it from me: on your hardest days, you are still strong. In your darkest hours, there is still light. Speak up; share your story – it may just save your life, as it did mine.

Jas Rawlinson is an award-nominated book coach, resilience speaker, and best-selling author who empowers female changemakers to transform their stories into books that create global impact. Pre-Order her new book The Stories We Carry here, or connect with her via Instagram.

If you or someone you know is at risk of violence, contact: 1800 RESPECT.

Feature Image: Instagram @jas_rawlinson.