HOKAY:
It has been my dream, ever since I can remember, to someday write a book. Growing up, books were my world. I really didn’t have friends, and I never quite fit in. Fantasy novels provided me an escape from my lonely reality, a sanctuary from a world I could never even begin to understand.
In my teen and early twenties, memoirs about depression very literally became my lifeline—the works of Elizabeth Wurtzel and Sylvia Path took root in me, validating my struggle, but not glamourizing it.
After my diagnosis, the works of Rudy Simone, Liane Holliday-Wiley and Debi Brown, provided for me a much needed framework to understand myself and my experience of the world, through the lens of Autism. I wouldn’t say it’s necessarily uncommon for a high functioning Aspie to be a good writer, but we certainly aren’t a majority. Writing is my gift, and I feel a strong calling to use it for the benefit of my people.
I won’t necessarily claim to speak for them—everyone experiences the world a little differently, Aspie or not—but high functioning females tend to share very similar profiles, and I believe we are particularly vulnerable to people who don’t have our best interests at heart.
For the longest time, I struggled to stick to a particular topic or memory to write about—my diagnosis, my childhood, or my journey post-diagnosis. These are all valid, book-length topics to write about, but they all stem from a singular incident, one that has haunted me since it came to pass. I avoided it for so long because it’s still so raw, so painful. It’s the reason I was diagnosed as Autistic, and it’s the reason why I have had to guard my heart and body so closely, for fear of violation. But the time has come, I think, for me to write about one of the worst things that ever happened to me, and one of the worst things I’ve ever done.
Just thinking about it is nauseating, and it’s triggering all sorts of traumatic feelings and memories.
Being this vulnerable is certainly a risk as an author—I haven’t decided if I want to publish it, or if I want to “out” myself as a victim of sexual manipulation in such a public way—but if I do, I know the audience will not be limited to Aspies or those who love and know Aspies. I know there is a chance my perpetrator will read it, or at the very least know of its existence, and the potential backlash I may experience is almost cause enough to do away with the project altogether. This backlash is not just limited to my own offender—I’m sure the trolls will line right up to slut shame me, to tell me I “asked for it,” that I’m using Autism as “an excuse,” that I’m to blame because I didn’t shout NO!, that I’m a terrible human being for dragging my abuser’s name through the mud (though I will be changing names to protect identities), that I “should have known better” and that I “need to take responsibility for my own actions.”
Obviously, this is not the demographic I am writing for—I’m writing primarily for other Aspergirls, so that they might avoid the mistakes that I made, or so that they might know that they are not alone in experiencing sexual manipulation—especially if, like me, they are uncomfortable with labeling their experience as “rape.” I’m also writing for my own healing; I’ve buried these thoughts and emotions for so long, to the detriment of my emotional and physical health, and I owe it to myself to get well again.
Deep breath.
It happened gradually, then suddenly. My initiation into sex was, in a lot of ways, incredibly unremarkable, given that in our culture, coercion and manipulation are heartbreakingly common sexual experiences. It happened with someone I implicitly trusted—someone I never dreamed would violate my trust in such a way. It was the summer after I graduated from college—a summer of uncertainty, confusion and fervor. I had come dangerously close to not graduating, and had no job, no money, and no prospects.
For the first time in my life, I was without structure; where my path had once been clear (get good grades in high school, go to college, get a good job), it was now rife with uncertainty and insurmountable debt. My friends were getting jobs, apartments, engaged, even having babies; I was staying up until 4 AM eating Hot Pockets in bed, watching 90s X Men cartoon reruns, pantsless. I was lonely and overwhelmed, and desperately craved connection and distraction.
Enter Cameron.
Cameron and I had been acquaintances for a few years—he was a friend of a friend who eventually dated said friend. Prior to our “relationship” (I use the term loosely, but there’s really no single word to describe what happened between us), I was convinced I was incapable of sexual feelings. Unlike most of the other girls my age, I had never dated a boy—never kissed a boy, been alone with a boy, or had even the slightest interest in pursuing a relationship of any kind with one. I knew on some level that it wasn’t “normal” for me to be this way—I had even considered the possibility that I might be gay, except for the fact that I really did not feel attraction to other people in the same way that everyone else seemed to.
If I’d had the knowledge of sexual identities that I do now, I would probably have identified as asexual. I did have crushes, but they weren’t really sexual in nature—it was more of a desire for emotional closeness, and the guys I liked tended to be a few years older than me, so they were much more mature than my male peers. With every single one of my crushes, I felt safe—a feeling I was altogether unaccustomed to, particularly around males.
Cameron was one of my crushes.
When he and I first met, I didn’t think much of him. He was hyper and high-strung, he dressed in high-end clothing, and he hung out with people who would never give me the time of day. For whatever reason, he persistently attempted to interact with me—it was his interest in me, more than anything, which sparked my attention. I was too shy to do anything about it—and really, I was not even remotely ready for a physical or emotional relationship. After a few months, the crush passed, and we didn’t interact much during my college career, save the occasional holiday get-together or Facebook post. Being alone didn’t bother me much—I’d seen so many people I knew involved in toxic relationships, defining themselves by their significant other, staying with a partner they hated just because they were afraid of being alone. I promised myself that that would never be me.
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