My childhood trauma started with a 'joke'. 'That wasn't a joke, that was sexual assault.' 'Sexual assault is one way of putting it.' My friends were discussing it among themselves after I brought it up years later. I played it down with jokes and humour, the way I handle most serious or personal things. Self-deprecation has always been easier than honesty.
A conversation that changed everything
We had been talking about violence against women and girls, so it wasn't as though I had dropped it into the conversation out of nowhere. They were supportive, but it felt strange listening to people discuss my experience as though I wasn't sitting there. A couple of people I expected to be supportive quietly left the room. Another, who I was certain would understand, said something that stayed with me. 'It's neither. A woman can't sexually assault another woman. You're minimising real victims.'
'Real.' I've heard that word my entire life. That lesbian sex doesn't count as a real sex because there's no man involved, is one claim I have heard. The argument falls apart under its own weight. If two women can have sex, then a woman can sexually assault another woman. Yet for so long, society, and often the law, struggled to acknowledge that reality.
The assault at age 13
I was 13 years old, in March 2000. Within a matter of weeks, I lost my grandad, realised I was gay, and began trying to navigate a world that wasn't particularly welcoming. She was my friend – the Regina George of our year; charismatic, intimidating and fully aware of the power she held over others. Rumours followed her. Stories about how she treated people she considered weaker than herself. Looking back, it was no surprise she worked out I was gay before I had fully admitted it to myself.
What happened took place in a stationery cupboard at school. It began with what seemed like flirtation, something confusing to a 13-year-old trying desperately to understand her own feelings. Then it became threatening. She pinned me to the wall, and I remember tracing patterns of the bricks in the wall opposite. Hearing a fly caught in strobe lighting above. Hearing chairs scrape in the class next door. The next time it happened was in the classroom itself, she was next to me and her hand went up my leg under the table. I didn't say anything; I certainly didn't say yes. But I didn't shout as I didn't want to draw attention to it.
'Is this what you want? Is this what you are? You do know I'm joking, don't you?' Afterwards, she made it clear that if I didn't do what she said, she would tell my parents 'what their daughter really was'. I felt very confused afterwards, and embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to know. I was also in a bit of pain. Everything felt distorted.
Long-term impact and a shocking discovery
The irony is that my mum had already worked out that I was gay. She knew me better than I knew myself. Eventually I came out to her, convinced my world was ending. Instead, it became protective. What she didn't know was that I was carrying something much heavier than my sexuality. It was years before I told her what had happened. Looking back, I can see how much of it followed me into adulthood. Relationships have always been difficult. I need reassurance that feelings are genuine and not a joke. Therapy has taken years.
Years later, I discovered the woman who assaulted me had moved to the road where my parents live and was working for a rape support organisation. I laughed initially when I found out. It had to be some kind of joke. Then I tried to find the humanity in the situation – was it her way of dealing with it? To clear her conscience? Or maybe something had happened to her or someone close to her? But then I ruminated more about it and got angrier. I had been sober-curious from Covid onwards so about five years, but I broke this after I found out and started drinking heavily. Around the same time, I encountered people connected to her best friend (who also sexually assaulted me in a separate incident a few weeks after it happened on a school trip abroad). Suddenly memories I had spent years burying were everywhere.
Why I didn't report
When I finally told my mum what had happened, she was horrified. 'I would have called the police. I would have told the school. Why didn't you tell me?' I understand why she asked. But this was the era of Section 28. The law then, as now, did not recognise rape between women. I struggle to believe anyone would have dealt with it seriously. I also wasn't out to my family and had no idea how they would have reacted.
Emmerdale's storyline brings visibility
So, after the recent conversation with my friends, I started looking for information. Statistics were scarce. Personal testimonies were even harder to find. Occasionally someone would speak publicly about their experience, but rarely in a way that reflected my own. Then I discovered that Emmerdale was exploring female-on-female sexual assault through one of its storylines. I cannot overstate how much that meant.
Television dramas are often at their best when they tell stories people rarely see elsewhere. Over the years, soaps have explored grooming, sibling abuse and male rape. This felt like the next step. Emma Atkins' performance as Charity Dingle, who was assaulted by control hungry Caitlin Todd, has been exceptional, but more importantly the storyline has brought visibility to an experience that is so often overlooked. For years, I quietly hoped someone would tell this story. It felt inevitable that it would be Emmerdale or Hollyoaks. Both have a history of tackling subjects other programmes avoid. The blackmail scenes between Charity and Dr Todd particularly stick out. They ran parallel for me. Dr Todd is trying every trick in the book to get control including pretending to fancy Charity when drunk. That scene made my blood run cold.
Calls for legal reform
My one frustration is that I still wish there was more research and more data I could point to. I know there are others who have experienced this. The silence around it does not mean it is rare. Awareness is important, but awareness alone is not enough. The law needs to evolve. If it does not recognise that rape can occur between women, then it fails to recognise the reality of sexual violence in queer relationships.
Experiences like these should not exist only as moral questions or difficult conversations. They deserve legal recognition and protection. Storylines like Charity's lay the groundwork. They make people talk. They make survivors realise they are not the only ones. Now I'm waiting for the next chapter.
