I’ve never had a true “best friend.” Don’t get me wrong, I had female friends in high school. I admired and cared about all of my teammates on my cross-country team and considered my Girl Scout troop members friends. But as I’ve grown into a college-age woman and proud feminist, I’ve realized that while I enjoyed spending time with all of these individuals, I struggled to really connect with any of them. I’ve had to face the fact that I have intimacy issues — they’re just not the type of heterosexist, romantic intimacy issues that are most often culturally acknowledged.
My discomfort has only been evident in my relationships with women. As a heterosexual woman, I’ve had no trouble opening up to men in romantic relationships. But most of my one-on-one situations with other ladies often feel like particularly bad first dates. I’ve struggled to develop friendships that hold any sort of depth: I can’t think of even one woman I would feel comfortable calling in a crisis or for real emotional support.
It took me years of soul-searching to realize and understand the complex, upsetting reason why. When I was around five or six years old, I was molested by a female classmate. Perhaps because we were so young or because depictions of such assault are not at all common or discussed, I didn’t interpret a relationship that started with trust and closeness and ended in pain and confusion as such.
Looking back, I don’t blame this little girl. It’s highly likely she was mimicking something that had been done to her or that she had witnessed. In fact, according to RAINN, 1 in 6 women will be the victim of sexual assault in their lifetime. But when we discuss these widespread experiences, we almost universally code perpetrators as male. To be fair, studies support this association: The 2010 National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence survey reported that 98.1% of perpetrators of sexual assault against women are men (as are 93.3% of perpetrators of assault against men). But the complex reality is that women also perpetuate assault and some do so against other women.
Just as I have no hard feelings towards this girl, I have no rational negative feelings toward my female peers today. Yet whenever I start to feel comfortable in a female friendship, a small, primal part of my brain rushes back to the comfort and happiness I initially felt with my female abuser. I am an adult and can rationalize that I am safe and that what happened to me was highly unusual, but I think if the broader cultural conversation regarding sexual assault were more complex — and particularly didn’t center on a heterosexist, romantic relationship as the norm — I wouldn’t have been so confused about what had happened and would have been better able to pursue friendships in the following years.
And, to be sure, this experience has effected every area of my life. I come off as cold to my college roommate simply because I wrestle with how to talk to her. I struggle to approach girls in the dining hall so I often eat alone. I am dating a wonderful guy, but the fact that he often acts as both my boyfriend and “girlfriends” puts stress on our relationship. We both know that while our tight bond is valuable, I need to other close relationships in my life for the sake of our own.
I have also struggled to speak out about women as abusers as a feminist. My primitive fear of other women is essentially the same fear women who have been abused by an ex-boyfriend may feel around other men. But it is definitely more unusual and could be read by some as “anti-women.”
I have concluded, though, that speaking out about women as abusers doesn’t betray the feminist cause, but supports it. If feminists do not discuss female abusers, we hurt survivors who feel confused and alone and fail to fully understand the much broader forces of rape culture that allow this dynamic to exist.
The bottom line is that this is my story. If I can help another survivor of female-on-female assault understand their feelings, if I can help people understand the survivor in their life, then telling my story has been worth it. As a woman and a survivor, supporting other women even in the most delicate and difficult situations seems like feminism at it’s most raw and it’s most vital.
