Alex Arnold Every so often, I have occasion to speak publicly about being a survivor of sexual violence, about my rapes. Woah, rapes? I think the word and hit backspace in my brain: quick, delete the “s.” Rape. That sounds better. It has been my experience that almost everyone who speaks out about sexual assault has, on occasion, been greeted by the deluxe combo platter of blame, disbelief and minimization. There is, however, a special stigma sauce for those who have been assaulted more than once, as though it’s indicative of a character flaw within ourselves. Many of us, I think, will pick the “worst” incident and talk about it as though it’s the only one. I usually do. Partly out of misplaced embarrassment, partly because I can’t stomach another fight against the usual response: I wonder what she’s doing to bring this upon herself. After all, most women are never raped, right? So, someone who has been assaulted more than once must be doing some