Disclaimer: I do not in any way think my story is rare and therefore must be told. I am fully aware that this could be, and has been, so much worse for others. What I aim to do with my story is raise awareness of how the narrative of victim blaming is far too common.
When I was 17, my mom and I were on a train to Chicago to visit her family. It was an overnight train leaving Maryland in the afternoon and arriving in Chicago around 10 the next morning.
We happened to be sitting in the back row of one of the train cars on the right side. I was in the window seat, and my mom in the aisle. I guess I had fallen asleep with my head on her lap, but that’s not really what I remember about that train ride.
It was four in the morning. I remember hearing loud yelling noises, opening my eyes to all of the lights being on, and thinking I must be dreaming. I was in quite a daze. The yelling began getting louder as I sat up and tuned into the reality around me. I looked at my mom and asked, “What’s happening?” “I don’t know,” she mouthed to me without turning her head at all, at if she was petrified of what might happen if she made any sudden movement. It was then that I realized the noise was a man angrily yelling and pounding on the wall behind me, “HELP! SHE’S STUCK IN THERE! SOMEONE HELP! JILL IS STUCK IN THERE!”
I could see people across the aisle and in front of me all sitting upright, facing the seats ahead of them with wide eyes. I turned my head slightly and glanced over my seat at the man. It was then that he stopped yelling, looked me straight in the eyes, and began to charge toward me. I immediately whipped my head forward, thinking if I didn’t look back nothing would happen. I had no idea what he was about to do. Does he have a knife? A gun? He looked pretty strong. I’m scared. Oh shit. This can’t be happening. My mind didn’t even have time to process these thoughts before I felt two rugged hands grab my neck, squeeze and yank. I heard yelling that quickly became a dull background noise as my ears popped and zoned away. I was grabbing at his hands, trying to rip them off my neck. My mom was standing, screaming and hitting the man with something–maybe it was her purse or computer bag. My hair was being pulled out. It’s all a big blur at this point. I was screaming. Everyone else on the train was silent. Then all of the sudden, he let go of my neck. As I fell back into my seat, his hand caught onto my ponytail, whipping my neck backwards as he stepped away. I sat in silence as I began to process whether or not I was having a nightmare from one too many episodes of Law & Order: SVU, or living a harsh reality. My mom stood up and yelled for someone to go find the conductors. The man stumbled down the hallway, mumbling loud yet muffled noises, and walked down the stairs.
Almost immediately, five people in front of us turned around and asked how I was doing. Where were they when I was being strangled? Someone in the front claimed the responsibility of finding the conductors. He left the train car, and the strangers, who did not assist me two minutes prior in my time of need, then bombarded me with condolences. This man returned a few minutes later, saying none of the conductors were on the train, and he had searched everywhere. I thought to myself, Okay I have definitely watched too many horror movies. This isn’t even a realistic plot line, Mere, wake up already! I started crying. I didn’t know what else to do. All I could feel was the tightness around my neck from his hands, I felt disgusting, violated and scared. Then he came back up the stairs. Our train car became silent once again. This time he turned left and it looked like he was going to the car ahead. But once halfway there, he turned around and came back. He stumbled down the aisle yelling, “This isn’t real. This is all a dream. It’s not real. It’s not real.” Funny, I thought, that’s exactly what I’m hoping. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. We made eye contact and he began walking faster. I climbed down onto the floor in front of my seat and curled into a ball, nuzzling my face in between my knees and resting my head on the seat in front of me. I just wanted to feel safe, and somehow I thought that would help. All of the sudden, just like in a cheesy horror movie, as the man almost reached my row, all three of the conductors walked in from the back of the train. I heard their voices and looked up. Almost everyone in the train piped up and yelled for him to be taken off the train. Suddenly there was so much noise. My mom grabbed a conductor and began telling the story and pointing to me, while the other conductors escorted the reluctant man to another car to hold him until he was escorted off the train by the local Sandusky, Ohio Police Department. I think I told the story about fifty times that day, to conductors, police officers, and family members. I felt completely raw, as if my bruises and weaknesses were exposed to everyone around me. It was awful.
About five days later, I had to board the train home to Maryland. This time, I was riding it alone. My mom was staying in Illinois to be with her family, but my spring break had ended and I had to return to my AP class-infested second semester junior year of high school. As my mom walked me through Union Station and flagged down a conductor, I felt like my stomach was falling out of my butt. I was frantically searching my peripherals for the man, Was he waiting for me? Was he lurking in the station to get revenge? The conductor listened to my mom explain the story and turned to me with eyes full of pity. “Oh my, look at you. You’re too pretty, that’s why this happened to you!”
I was silent, stunned, completely taken aback. Was that supposed to be a compliment? A placement of blame? What was she saying? Should I have looked a little uglier that day? Should I go ugly-up right now to keep myself safe on this trip? Or should I have not put on makeup the day I was assaulted? Beneath it all was this sickening notion that it was my fault, and that of course I should have known!
This twisted narrative is far too common in our society, but I never thought it would be applied to me. Why does it matter what I looked like when he tried to strangle me? Why does it matter what a rape victim was wearing? Why does it matter what a woman’s sexual history is when someone attacks her?
Oh, that’s right, it doesn’t.
I’m lucky to not have faced sexual assault, but what is shocking and sad and infuriating is that even in this case of non-sexual physical assault, I was told it happened because I was “too pretty”. That is completely unacceptable and ridiculous. It happened because the man on the train was suffering from PTSD and was experiencing a psychotic episode. That’s it.
After this incident, I suffered from many mental repercussions that were completely out of my control. My own form of PTSD, anxiety, leading to a long dip into depression. But in the years since then I have been able to recover from these disorders. I am happier, more confident, capable, and independent than ever, constantly pushing myself outside of my comfort zone in order to grow. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, and I can’t even imagine how victims of sexual assault find the strength to handle their situations. Although not a pleasant one, I can honestly say this was a learning experience. It taught me that PTSD and veteran care is a pervasive issue that our country needs to address. It taught me that our society still has a long way to go in terms of stigmatization and victim blaming. And most of all, it taught me that I am strong enough to withstand whatever life throws at me.
Image courtesy of: The Case Law Firm