I
wasn't planning to link this to any of the weekly writing prompts, because it
didn't seem appropriate. However, when I saw the Wicked Wednesday prompt was
"Heal," I thought this might fit nicely.
Before
I go any further, I'm not writing this because I'm angling for sympathy. I'm
not. Seriously. Many women have experienced so much worse than I have. I'm
writing this because I'm sick and tired of ignorant idiots—of both
genders—saying women should report sexual assault immediately when it happens.
And if they didn't, well, it must not have been that bad. Or maybe they really
wanted it. Or maybe they were just pissed off because the guy spurned them. Or
maybe they had it coming because they were acting irresponsibly. Or too bad for
you, guess you should have reported it then.
Of
course, women should report sexual assault when it happens, no matter the
circumstance. But I understand why they don’t, because it happened to me and I
never reported it.
Unfortunately,
most women have a story. Well, here's mine…
When
I was in high school, maybe sixteen or seventeen, I participated in numerous
extracurricular activities. I was quiet, nerdy, sheltered, and sexually
repressed. I was a virgin and never really had a boyfriend.
One
day, I was doing something after school with the service club I belonged to. I
had to go upstairs to my locker to get something. The school had five enclosed
stairwells spaced along the building and one large open staircase at one end of
the building. Needless to say, I used the closest stairwell, which was one of
the enclosed ones.
I'd
just reached the second-floor landing and was about to open the door, when
someone grabbed my breast from behind. I think I was frozen in shock for a
moment, because when I turned around, there was no one there. I looked over the
railing down below, but couldn't see anyone around.
Completely
freaked out, I got out of there and went to my locker, looking over my shoulder
the whole time. After I got what I needed, I went back downstairs, taking the
long way so I could use the open staircase. When I rejoined my club (mostly
other girls), I was still unnerved, but I didn't say anything. What could I say
really? Someone grabbed my breast, but I didn't see who? For a shy girl like
me, that was unthinkable.
Sometime
later, I realized I'd forgotten something in my locker that I really needed
before I went home. Suddenly, something that I hadn't thought twice about
before—going to my locker—became a complex issue. Did I really need what I'd
forgotten? Should I go the long way or take the chance of using the closest
stairwell again?
Finally,
I decided that I was being ridiculous. Whoever it was wouldn't still be hanging
around in the stairwell. He was probably long gone. So I took the same
stairwell as before. I practically ran up the stairs to the second floor. But
once again, just as I reached for the door, someone grabbed my breast from
behind.
My
reaction was faster this time, or maybe he hung on a little too long.
Regardless, I spun around and shoved with everything I had. The guy stumbled
backward down the stairs to the middle landing, half falling against the wall.
He was small, maybe my height (5'5''), slight of build, about my age, and
Caucasian with shaggy brown hair. He wasn't anyone I'd ever seen before.
For
a second, we were both frozen there, staring back at each other. I'll never
forget the look of utter shock on his face. Was he so stunned that he'd gotten
caught? That I was faster than him? That I fought back? Or because he'd just
stumbled down a flight of stairs. I'll never know, because I didn't hang around
long enough to ask. I got the hell out there as fast as I could, grabbed what I
needed from my locker, then took the long way back downstairs.
The
whole time, I kept looking over my shoulder, hoping he wouldn't come after me.
My mind was also racing about what I should do. Whether I should tell someone.
The
first thing that came to my mind was another incident that happened to another
girl just a week before. The rumor was that she was assaulted while in an
abandoned classroom. I'd heard all the whispered mummerings about her being a
slut. For a quiet, good girl like me, the possibility that they'd say the same
thing about me was sickening.
But
then there was the other possibility that seemed so much worse. What if they
didn't believe me? What if they thought I was making it up to get attention.
After all, who would bother assaulting the painfully shy bookworm who barely
opened her mouth in class? It wasn't like I was one of the hot, popular girls.
I wore glasses and fairly conservative clothes that didn't show
anything. I was even in the math honor society and regularly attended math
competitions. I was that much of a geek. So, yeah, I'd have to be making it up,
right? Never mind that being that shy guaranteed that the last thing I'd ever
do would draw attention to myself, especially like that.
I
knew my math teacher and the sponsor of the math club often stayed late after
school and was probably still around. I knew he'd probably believe me. But I'd
had a secret crush on him and the idea of telling him what happened was beyond
humiliating. I didn't even know who the kid was. How could I possibly identify
him? So I passed his office and kept walking. I went home and never told my parents.
I knew they'd believe me too, but I didn't want them going to the school,
making a fuss, and further humiliating me.
In
a sick part of my mind, I also thought I might have had it coming. No, I wasn't
one of the "slutty" girls, but I'd often fantasized about "being
bad." Sex wasn't something that was dealt with in any open, healthy way
growing up. It was this secret, forbidden thing that no one talked about. So
when I did start masturbating, the pleasure came with a whole lot of shame.
For
a time, if anything bad happened, I thought God was punishing me for touching
myself. I'd make deals with God, promising never to do "it" again, if
He just did (fill in the blank). That never really worked out. For one thing, I
could never keep my side of the bargain for long.
To
make matters worse, one of my favorite fantasies while masturbating was of
being "taken." Kind of like the way a rogue pirate ravishes a
helpless, innocent maiden. At the time, I didn't realize that this was
perfectly normal and a common fantasy among some women—and submissives, in
particular. I didn't even know what it meant to be sexually submissive. I
didn't understand that having fantasies like that didn't mean I actually wanted
to be raped or assaulted. And I didn't. There was nothing remotely arousing
about being touched against my will.
Another
time, I was walking in the empty halls at school between classes. I can't
remember why, but I was probably doing the bidding of some teacher. This day,
another student was hanging around the halls, obviously skipping class. When he
saw me, I guess I looked like an easy mark, because he came up beside me and
started talking a bunch of trash. I don't remember what he said, just that he
was harassing me. Then he reached down and grabbed my crotch. Yes, he literally
grabbed me by the pussy. Just like Trump bragged about in the Access Hollywood tape.
I
smacked his hand away and all but ran away. Thankfully, he left me alone after
that. And that was a good thing, because unlike the guy in the stairwell, this
guy was bigger than me and more physically imposing. I didn't know who he was,
but I had seen him around school. Once again, I was utterly humiliated, so I
didn't tell anyone. And as bad as it was, in my mind, it wasn't as bad as being
stalked and accosted in a dimly lit stairwell. There was something so much more
ominous about that.
So,
let's think about this for a moment. I was sexually assaulted twice in high
school while I was a minor. I wasn't drunk and/or at a party I shouldn't have
been at—not that that's justification to assault anyone. I was on school
grounds, trying to mind my own business, get a good education, and get into the
best college I could. And I'm sure that's just the tip of the iceberg when it
comes to girls and sexual assault.
I
suspect that both boys were also underage. Does that mean it shouldn't count?
That they shouldn't be held responsible for their actions? I don't think either
of them was drunk, but would that make a difference? I don't think so. And I
don't think anyone who'd ever been assaulted would think so. So imagine my disgust
when I saw this interview with several Republican women voters on CNN.
If
there's a silver lining in all this, I did become more conscious of my personal
security, which is never a bad thing.
When
I went to Cornell, my friends lived on the north part of campus, while I lived on
West Campus down a very large hill. After spending time with them, I sometimes walked
back to my dorm at night alone. I know I should have probably had someone
escort me, but I've always been self-reliant to a fault; I'll go a long way to
avoid asking anyone for help. So I kept my head on a swivel, had my keys in my
hand in case I needed to gouge someone's eyes out, and was conscious of where all
the nearest emergency call stations were located.
Luckily,
no one ever accosted me there. Or while I was at FSU in Tallahassee. I'd work
shows late into the night. And because parking was hideous, I sometimes had to
park some distance away from the theatre building. After a long day of classes
and working a show, I didn't feel like waiting around for campus security to
walk me to my car. So with my keys splayed between my fingers and an
ear-splitting personal alarm attached to my keychain, I went by myself. Again,
fortune shined on me, and nothing bad happened.
I
find it ironic that given my proclivities and erotica writing that I haven't
been in a situation where I experienced something without my willing consent.
Well, if you don't count the occasional unsolicited dick pic or pervy come-on, which
are both easily blocked. No, I was only ever assaulted in a mostly white,
middle-class, suburban high school where, in theory, I should have been perfectly
safe.
For
my part, I believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. I can completely understand why
she didn't come forward at the time. No one in their right mind would come
forward with allegations like this unless they sincerely wanted to do the right
thing. Look at the hell she's going through now. She had to have known she'd be
victimized all over again.
And
now a second woman has come forward. Does that make Dr. Ford's claim any more
credible? Wasn't one assaulted minor enough? Will Republicans now support a thorough
investigation into Kavanaugh's background? I sincerely doubt it.
I'd
like to think that if I could identify my attackers and I recognized them as candidates
for some important office, that I would be brave enough to come forward. But,
even now, I don't know if I would.
This
might be the height of hypocrisy after everything I've written, but if you have
been sexually assaulted, please call the number below.
National
Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673
