I remember the first time someone told me that they didn’t believe me.
I was just a kid, and I’d borrowed my dad’s guitar. I knew how much he loved it so I was extra careful with it, strumming it gently, and tucking his lucky plectrum back behind the strings when I’d finished.
When my dad next came to play it, the plectrum had gone. He was furious with me. When I protested, “I didn’t lose it! I put it back!”, he shot back that he didn’t believe me, then he ignored me for the rest of the day.
In my teens, I was regaling my friends with a story from the previous weekend, when I’d inadvertently got into a fight with a girl gang*. One of them looked at coolly and folded his arms, sneering, “I don’t believe you. That didn’t happen.”
A year later, I was attacked by an adult I trusted. He overpowered me, and then threatened me with a knife**. I was terrified, screaming, convinced I was going to die. After I’d managed to escape, I sought out a grown-up that I trusted and—shaking and crying—blurted out my story. He looked at me, confused. He knew the person I was talking about. “That doesn’t sound very likely”, he asked me, “are you sure that’s really what happened?” After that, I didn’t dare tell anyone else.
When I took driving lessons, my instructor would tell me to pull the car over. Then, he’d reach over and rest his hand on my breast. Just sitting there, in his too-short shorts, always in sunglasses so I never saw his eyes, telling me about the rules of the road, while casually fondling me. I was too frightened to tell him to stop, and too scared to tell anyone about it, figuring that they wouldn’t believe me and I’d get into trouble for lying. Instead, I went back for the next lesson, and the next, sitting there blankly, wishing myself somewhere, anywhere, else. Telling myself that perhaps he was only accidentally touching my tits. Again.
As an adult, I got into an abusive relationship. I was gaslighted***, intimidated and bullied. It didn’t even occur to me to do anything about it; deep down, I felt that’s how I deserved to be treated. Eventually, I found the self-respect, self-esteem and sheer determination necessary to get myself out of that situation. When I finally started to talk to my friends about what I’d endured, I expected support and outrage on my behalf. But, while most of them were wonderful, I was flabbergasted by some of the responses.
At the low end of the scale, there was detached bewilderment and disbelief: “Really? He doesn’t seem that type to me”, going up to “I don’t want to know, this really isn’t any of my business”, all the way up to: “I hope you’re not asking me to stop being friends with him. He’s always been very nice to me.”
A rude awakening. They didn’t believe me. My friends didn’t believe me.
Does it sound like I hold them responsible for what happened to me? Of course not. It wasn’t their fault at all****. But. It’s much easier to recover from trauma, to move on, to reclaim your life, when you have the support of your friends.
I learnt the hard way that if someone doesn’t believe you, then they don’t trust you. And if someone doesn’t trust you, they are not your friend.
And if someone doesn’t want to hear your story—because it makes them feel uncomfortable—then they are not your friend.
And if someone tries to shut you up, then they are not your friend.
And if someone isn’t your friend, you don’t need them in your life.
I can’t force anyone to listen to me. But I’m going to keep speaking out. And I’m not going to let anyone silence me. And if you’re my friend, we’ll stand together. And if you need to talk, I’ll listen.
*Which reminds me, I must tell you that story sometime.
**I can’t see that I’ll ever tell you the full story of this. I hope you understand.
****Seriously, please don’t think that I’m giving the perpetrators an easy ride. The things that happened to me were entirely their doing, no-one else. But, today, I only feel able to discuss the people I tried to confide in, who let me down. Please understand. xxx