Reclaiming My Rape, for My Sake and My Daughter’s

When I was drugged and assaulted by a friend in high school, I didn’t even know whether to call it rape. Thirteen years later, Internet activism helped me process my old trauma.

Illustrations by Natalie Kassirer

Late on the night of September 28, 2002, a few hours before I turned seventeen, a guy friend of mine showed up at my front door with a bottle of Grey Goose vodka wrapped in a purple velvet sack. My parents were out of town for the weekend on a camping trip, and my thirteen-year-old sister was asleep upstairs. It was the first time they’d let us stay alone overnight, after much pleading and cajoling on my part. I hadn’t been expecting my friend, who stood there, at least two inches shorter than my five feet two inches, sweaty under his plaid newsboy cap from his moped ride up to my house.

I let him in and grabbed a couple of cut-crystal glasses with ice. We sat across from each other at my kitchen table and drank the vodka straight instead of mixing it with juice. I’d been watching television, but switched it off. Hanging out was comfortable, easy, and having the booze was its own thrill. I never asked where he got the vodka, but he definitely didn’t loo…