For Sexual Abuse and Sexual Violence Awareness Week we are amplifying disabled survivors voices on our blog. This post is by one of our founders, Ashley, who is a disabled survivor.
Content note: this post is about sexual assault and rape. It also mentions a suicide attempt.
Disabled Survivors Unite means everything to me.
I’m sitting here, writing this blog after spending nearly six hours down the street from where I was raped. It’s past midnight, but sleep won’t come. This isn’t the first time I’ve been back. In fact, it’s been a couple years now since the attack even took place. Yet, I still found myself scanning every face, wondering if I’d run into my attacker. I scoped out the nearest exits. I made contingency plans. This is the reality of my life after sexual assault.
Nearly two years ago, I wrote “People don’t want to hear your story until it has a happy ending. But I’m stubborn.” I stand by that. Some stories need to be told with their awfulness intact, especially for things like Sexual Abuse and Sexual Violence Awareness Week. The horrific must have a place in this discourse. I’m going to share my story with you today, because I don’t want others to feel ashamed or alone.
My name is Ashley Stephen and I was raped.
I was drugged and raped in London when I was 21. Due to my autism, I often go non-verbal under stress, yet I was very clear that I did not want to have sex with this man, this stranger. What I wanted was of no importance to him.
I fell into a deep hole that no one seemed prepared to help me out of it. The knowledge wasn’t there for someone like me, a rape victim with autism and other disabilities. And so the months went by without proper support. With each passing moment, I retreated further into my head. No one knew what to do.
Upon hearing that my case would not go forward, I tried to kill myself. I remember waking up in the hospital bed with an apologetic doctor explaining that England didn’t have any support set up for “people like me.”
I struggle every day with the knowledge that my situation is not an uncommon one. Through the people who have opened up to us, I know just how common this is. My work with Disabled Survivors Unite has made it extremely clear to me that sexual violence is an epidemic that is rarely discussed with us in mind.
People like us often go unheard. Disabled people are desexualised to such a degree in the eyes of the public that the possibility of us being victims doesn’t even occur to people. When I was raped, my disabilities were ignored by those in charge of helping me. It’s vital that this changes.
As I said at the start, Disabled Survivors Unite means everything to me. All four co-founders pour our hearts into this, for you. I want each and every survivor out there to know that I love and believe you and will fight for you with everything I have. I want it to be known that it’s okay not to be a “good survivor,” whatever the hell that even means. You’re allowed to be a broken mess, you’re allowed to identify as a victim. I sometimes still identify as a victim, too.
Living after sexual violence can be a constant, messy, and completely isolating challenge. You can pour everything you have into recovery and feel as though you haven’t moved an inch. One of the biggest things I learned was to allow myself the space to fall apart. In picking up the pieces, I’ve begun to stitch myself into something resembling a patchwork quilt, completely of my own design. Therein, I started to find my strength. More than anything in the world, I want to help you get there, too.
Please reach out to us. Please know people are there who truly care. More than anything, please know that you are believed and that you are loved.
For information about how we can help you to find accessible support, please click here.
Ashley runs the (re)storytellers, a project which gives disabled survivors the opportunity to write and anonymously share their stories. You can learn more about it here.