The youth ran behind me and held the knife to my side. He made me walk across a concrete footbridge. I could not feel anything, I could not feel my feet, and it seemed to me that I floated along.

"I want to f--k you," he said, his breath close to my ear.

"No you don't," I said.

"Why not?"

"I've got AIDS"

"How lovely."

He must have hit me in the back of the head then, because I suddenly fell forward and partially blacked out. I remember the deliberate effort I made to stay awake. He pushed my face onto the concrete and pulled my pants down and, as he lay on my back, an oppressive weight, feeling for my vagina, he forgot about the knife. I moved my left arm over and grabbed hold of the handle, the blade was already in my right hand. I wanted to throw it into the river but his weight on my back seemed thousand-fold and, as my muscles were all relaxed, the effort to move was impossible. Suddenly he realised that I had control of the knife. He began to beat my hands into the concrete. I know this only because I saw it. Then he began to beat me in the back of the head: I know this because my face kept smashing into the concrete. Finally he got the knife. He made me walk under some casuarina trees and lie down. I did not feel the cold on my body, though my pants were pulled down to my ankles. I did not feel the ground beneath me though there were sticks and stones. I did not feel him laying on me or rape me, though his face was barely a foot from my own.

He took my jacket and my gloves and I glanced back to see him wiping my blood from the concrete with them. Then I ran. I thought I ran one way, but instead ran another. I flagged down a passing car and asked the driver to take me to the hospital. It was only on the way there that sensation returned and I realised how much pain I was in. One finger had been cut to the bone and I was dripping blood all over my clothes. My left elbow had been wrenched so badly that it later swelled up like a giant, purple grapefruit and was excruciatingly painful. I had bruises on my head and my face and my knees.

The police came to the hospital and took a statement. The detectives came and took a statement. I went through the indignity of a sexual assault kit examination and saw a psychologist. Finally, after 12 hours, I was driven to a friend's house by an extremely kind police officer. The rapist, however, was never caught, though I believe a search was made.

Being raped makes you feel unbelievably worthless, dirty and disgusting. The fact that someone could treat you with such total disregard, could abuse you without the smallest consideration makes you feel as though you have no value. Over the years I have discovered that to regain your self-worth requires the support of family and good friends. It is not enough to just talk about it once a week to a counsellor; every day you need to feel that you have value, that you are loved and needed. Unfortunately, at that time, I struggled on my own.

Some months later while I was in a shopping centre I heard a woman's voice say: "She's a slut." I remember this because it was the first time I had heard anyone use the word "slut" in a public place. Over time, however, I would hear it more and more often, and begin to realise that it was actually directed at me.

Rape victims will sometimes think they hear people sexually abusing them because they often feel guilty or partly responsible for what has occurred. This is hardly surprising because often when you hear of a rape your first thoughts are something like: "Why was she out so late?" "Why was she dressed like that?" "She should have known better." The first thoughts are to blame the victim. I never blamed myself, however, so when I saw people leaning out of a car or train window looking at me and shouting out sexual abuse I never doubted that it was real.

Over the next few years the verbal abuse increased. I have been called a slut, whore, prostitute, c-nt, dog, bitch and any other word of abuse you can ascribe to a woman. Some people would mumble obscenities at me under their breath; others would bark them out on the bus or in the street so that everyone turned to look at them. Sometimes I was spat at and some people would just point at me and laugh.