The story queer survivors aren't allowed to tell

This essay discusses rape, sexual assault, and intimate partner violence. If you or someone you know needs support, please contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-4673 or visit RAINN.org.

I am a proud survivor. I have experienced both rape and assault: first by a man, and later by a woman. There is no easy way to begin this. Even now, as I type, I feel the familiar weight of silence pushing back and the fear of judgment not just from the world, but from my own community.

Talking about being raped by a man felt easier to talk about, though none of this is ever easy. It fits a narrative people recognize: men harm, women and queer people suffer. There's room for that story. There's language for it. There's sympathy for it. There are even movements for it. But when I say a woman in a queer relationship later assaulted me, the air changes. There's discomfort. There's silence. There's deflection, an unspoken disbelief that a woman could assault another woman.

Being queer means constantly navigating a world that wants to erase us. We fight laws designed to disappear us, politicians defunding the very lifelines meant to keep our youth alive, and an administration that openly vilifies trans and queer people. In that battle, there's an unspoken rule: keep our pain politically convenient, and never take up too much space. We're told that to be queer is to prove our worth. To show strength, beauty, love, and resilience. And speaking about harm within our community feels like betrayal. It's deemed another thing to divide us. But what greater betrayal is there than forcing each other to suffer in silence? To not hold each other accountable?

When a woman assaulted me, it didn't just break my body's sense of safety. It broke my idea of what safety meant. I couldn't take comfort in believing queerness itself was a sanctuary. I wanted it to be true. It wasn't, not for me. And that truth isolated me for years, and to this very day, I still struggle with it.

There's a contradiction in how we talk about trauma in our own spaces. We say "believe survivors," but only when the story fits the script of oppressor and oppressed that feels comfortable. We say "safe spaces," but only if the truths shared there don't complicate the narrative we want to show the world.

A prime example of this is the term "gender-based violence". Gender-based violence was meant to be an inclusive term. Yet, it's often used against same-gender and same-sex relationships entirely. In trying to give everything an inclusive name, we sometimes fail to see everyone, and as a result, actually become the very problem we sought to prevent or resolve.

To be clear: violence within the queer community does not mean we are inherently violent. Violence crosses every gender, race, and orientation. But pretending it doesn't exist among us doesn't protect us: it only isolates the people already hurting, and perpetuates abusive behaviors.

We can't build true solidarity from silence. We can't heal while avoiding the messy, uncomfortable truths that exist within us. We also have a responsibility to ensure that we support survivors once the abuse has been called out. My story is not an exception. There are queer survivors holding pain they're too afraid to share because they don't want to be disowned by the community. Some may be afraid to be ostracized because our communities are so small. We deserve better. We deserve to be seen, believed, and held in the full complexity of who we are.

If we want queer liberation, it has to include the parts of us that don't make for perfect headlines. No survivor is the ideal survivor, and every survivor deserves support.

Our healing can't be conditional or biased. It's unacceptable to remain ignorant or to lack the education on what abusive behavior is and how to best support survivors. Our love can't be performative or based on popularity. Our truth can't be convenient or calculated.

Real liberation starts when we stop being afraid of our reflection, embrace self-awareness, and keep learning to evolve, grow, and, more importantly, hold each other accountable.

Titeänyä Rodríguez is a queer Afro-Latinx and Indigenous writer, producer, and advocate based between Los Angeles, CA, and Cabo Rojo, PR.

Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit Advocate.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. We welcome your thoughts and feedback on any of our stories. Email us at voices@equalpride.com. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists, and editors, and do not directly represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, equalpride.