Supporting the learning disabled after sexual violence

Emma Austin-Garrod

When we talk about learning disabilities, it is people’s vulnerability that we often find ourselves discussing. Be it the potential for people to be physically assaulted, overmedicated, ill-treated or abused, rarely do such conversations extend to people’s vulnerability to sexual violence and, as such, little research exists into the troubling potential for people to face sexual crimes.

The reality is by no means a simple one, the lives of people with learning disabilities and autism are punctuated with discussions about their capacity and capability to live in particular ways. Many will be restricted for their own safety with all aspects of their lives on the table for discussion, including their sexuality. Research tells us that “people with a learning disability often hold incomplete or inaccurate knowledge of relationships (including LGBTQ relationships), sexual health and the legal and emotional aspects of sex” (Jahoda & Pownall, 2014; Sinclair et al, 2015; Whittle & Butler, 2018). And that “Consequently, they are at higher risk of negative sexual experiences, contracting sexually transmitted infections or unwanted pregnancies” (Baines et al., 2018). It is this vulnerability, and a subsequent culture of protectiveness about sex that underpins many lives. So why does so little research exist about when protection fails? And what does that mean for the people who face the issue when it happens to them?

There are approximately 1.5 million people with a learning disability in the UK. Each of those individuals will be widely considered to have a higher risk of being the victim of sexual violence or abuse, but the barriers they too often face are vast. It is likely best to frame these barriers in the context of a person’s experience, let’s take the example of ‘Jack’. 

The taboo of taboo 

Still, for many in society, talking about the sexuality of people with a learning disability or autism is taboo. Whilst programmes of work to empower and educate people and their supporters are beginning to rise from the ether, there is clearly still a long way to go before discussions about sex and sexuality are normalised in the sector. ‘Jack’ never had any sex or relationships education at school, so when he was raped as a 20-year-old, he struggled to understand his experience.

‘Behind closed doors’ 

‘Jack’ was raped in his home, a home that he shared with others and in which he received 24-hour support. The assault took place behind closed doors like so many other rapes and sexual assaults. In this context, and with ‘Jack’ struggling to recognise the significance of his experience, the assault went unreported.

Communication barriers

‘Jack’ opened up about his experience two years later in a discussion with a family member. He was not able to communicate the assault in simple terms, and used a mixture of actions, short sentences and questions to describe what had happened. The family member, knowing Jack well, was able to ascertain the information and write it down. 

Though ‘Jack’ had felt pain, he did not recognise the experience as ‘wrong’. 

Seeking justice 

Jack has taken two years to open up because it had taken him that long to feel safe and secure enough in his environment to talk about what had happened.  As soon as they were made aware, ‘Jacks’ family member communicated the assault to the police. An investigation was opened but the passage of time, and a lack of evidence meant that the case was quickly closed. ‘Jack’ was considered not to be a reliable witness, he was unable to communicate effectively enough for a case to be successful and the justice system was not set-up to provide him with the adjustments he’d need to do so. 

Post-incident support

On paper, Jack was never raped. His case never made it to court, a perpetrator never convicted, his experience barely made a ripple in thoughts of those responsible for keeping him safe. With ‘Jack’ struggling to comprehend events, and his behaviour becoming increasingly sexualised, his family sought support. Little is available in the UK for people with a learning disability who have had experiences like ‘Jacks’ and it was almost impossible to find the specialist support he needed. Seven years later ‘Jack’ is left with his trauma and without adequate support. 

Documentary evidence tells us that ‘Jack’s’ story is hardly rare, but a lack of data and research means we simply do not know just how common similar cases may be. Without the backing of research, campaigns and resources are limited and people like ‘Jack’ remain at significant risk of losing both their opportunity for sexual safety, and for justice should an assault occur. 

That leaves us with the predicament- until we understand the issue, can we truly hope to tackle the various risks, barriers and vulnerabilities that people with a learning disability possess?