The title of this post is confusing because when we talk about “survivors” in the context of sexual violence, we are talking about people who have survived it. When we talk about “survivors’ guilt,” though, we are talking about someone who narrowly escapes the primary impact of a tragedy.
I read and write about rape and rape culture A LOT. And that’s partly because it’s impacted me personally. I can name fifteen people who have been victims of sexual violence off the top of my head without thinking too hard (but I won’t, because outing survivors isn’t cool), members of my biological and chosen family. But one name that ISN’T on that list is mine.
I have never been the victim of any kind of sexual violence, intimate partner violence, or sustained sexual harassment, and sometimes that makes me feel guilty like I survived a car crash that maimed and killed everybody else.
Admitting that feels insulting to my friends who have been victims of violence, the way admitting you feel bad for walking away from the car crash feels insulting to your friend who lost his legs. But that’s exactly why I feel so bad – because there is not one goddamn thing that makes me better or smarter or more deserving of keeping my metaphorical legs than my friends who were raped and abused.
And guilt is an insane thing to feel! Because it’s not like I was driving my rape culture truck down the street and crashed into one third of the population. And the asshole drunk driving the rape culture truck doesn’t feel bad at all – he’s sitting in his jail cell (because drunk driving is more jailable than rape) going, “man, this is bullshit, why can’t you just let me live my life” and crying because his football career is over. And I am sitting in the hospital waiting room feeling guilty because I’m not in critical condition. Where’s the sense in that?
File this under “depressing feminist thoughts that saw the light of day because of wine.”