Content warning: Sexual assault, childhood sexual violence, and victim blaming. Please read with care.
I was 5, on the kindergarten playground, when I first witnessed something like this. 2 little boys had my friend in a corner under the trees, far away from the teachers. She was laying down, crying, and they had her panties pulled down. I don’t know what happened. We never talked about it. The boys remained at school and I don’t think there was much done outside of a visit to the principles office.
Then I was 18. Same school. This time it was my turn. At a senior skip party. High school boys that were legally men, 3 that I remember, but the bragging at school the next day made me suspect there were more. Boys I grew up with. Teenage girls and boys that I had known since kindergarten at the party, turning a blind eye. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn’t. Yes, I chose to be there. Yes, I was drinking. But I also begged them to STOP.
I remember crying afterward, begging to call my dad, and when I was finally able to, someone else told him I was fine. The next day I went home and got ready for a dr appt that I had. I remember showering, HOT water, scrubbing hard because I felt so disgusting, so dirty. So ashamed.
I finally told my closest friend and she had me tell her mom. She took me to the ER and had the SA crisis team meet us there. My first experience with a speculum, dr and nurses hands feeling like further violation on my body that was already sore. They asked if I wanted to press charges, and I hesitated, because the fear of going against the grain in a small town is real, but I couldn’t live with myself staying silent and letting them think that what they did to me was ok. But nothing prepared for the social suicide that came, making my last few weeks of my senior year, and my graduation, hell.
The sheriffs worked out of the good ol’boy system. Victim shaming. Why was I there? What was I wearing? What did I drink? What I did say to invite their behavior? I felt like I was having to defend myself, trying to prove myself over and over again. It never went past investigation. “Gotta protect the boys.” “Boys just being boys.” “They come from a good family.” “What about their future?”
I didn’t feel heard or seen, felt punished for speaking out, and was fed the idea by the adults around me that this was how boys (and men) acted. And the justice system wasn’t to be trusted either.
Instead of allowing another person to violate me, to take something from me, I would freely give it. Because you can’t steal what’s being given. If I’m not fighting, if I’m the one offering, then I’m the one in control.
Years later, at 22, I would experience this again. This time I was partying hard with men who claimed to be a rookie crew from New York’s finest, with a friend, visiting out of town for a friend’s wedding. I connected with one of the guys there but his friend was jealous. I woke up in my hotel room to the jealous friend on top of me. This time I didn’t say anything. I pretended to be asleep. Give him what he wants, don’t fight, he’ll be done soon, this is what guys do. I don’t remember how many more came in after him, because I lost count and because somewhere along the way I blocked it out. This time there no ER, no reports filed, no police. I had learned that it was their word over mine, that it was useless to say anything. I carried it alone for years, feeling like I invited it because I had been drinking with them.
There are lessons I’ve learned because of those experiences. Things I’ve had to unlearn about myself and about men in general. Those will come later. That isn’t what this post is about. It’s about awareness.
The fact that nearly half of all women experience some type of sexual violence in their lifetime and 1 in 5 women have experienced rape or attempted rape is crazy, heartbreaking, infuriating, and unfortunately… it’s reality. The Cornell 7 and many others have made headlines recently and stories from SA victims have been flooding social media. Not because we are making a mountain out of a molehill but because for too long, we’ve been told that mountain wasn’t a big deal, wasn’t worth it, didn’t exist.
If you can relate and feel safe enough to share your story, please do. Or just drop a 🩵 in the comments.
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