This story is one that, no matter how many times I tell it, I never know how to start. Three years ago, on April 17th, 2014, a date that is now ingrained in my brain, my life changed forever. April 17th, 2014 is the day that I felt like I was stripped of all my worth. April 17th, 2014 is the day that I was sexually assaulted.
It was my junior year of high school, I was seventeen years old, and prom was quickly approaching. I hadn’t been having the best year in terms of relationships, both romantic and friendship, so I was hoping that somebody would ask me. I wasn’t in the best mental state, and he knew that. He started giving me attention and affection and manipulated his way into taking me to lunch. I thought that this meant something was going to happen. I guess in a way I was right. I very quickly regretted the decision to go to lunch with him.
He took me to an isolated location and proceeded to take off my jacket and my shirt. I kept asking him to stop, but he forced them off of me and somehow climbed over the console of his car and sat on top of me with my hands pinned under his knees. I have never felt more powerless in my twenty years of life than I did in that moment. Those forty minutes felt like an eternity. I look back at these moments all the time and wish that I had done something differently somehow. But when a guy that’s over twice your size has you pinned to the passenger seat of his car paralyzed with fear there’s not much your brain does except think, “What else is he going to do to me?” and try to minimize the damage in any way possible, even if that means not moving at all.
He eventually realized that we were late to class and climbed back into the driver’s seat. He threw my clothes at me and drove us back to school and I exited his car as it was still moving because he refused to stop it for me. I just wanted away from him. I felt like a zombie just going through the motions of the rest of the day. I didn’t know how I was “supposed” to feel. I was just numb.
When I got home I immediately crawled into my bed and just lay there under the safety of my blankets. Dark bruises had started to form on my chest despite only being four hours later. I’ve never wanted to burn an article of clothing as much as I wanted to burn my bra. I felt betrayed by it, as if it was somehow supposed to protect me from this horrible thing. It now sits in the back of my drawer because for some reason I just can’t bring myself to get rid of it. The only person I told about what had happened was a guy that I was low-key into and he told me that I needed to tell somebody because that wasn’t okay. He was right, it wasn’t okay. But I was scared.
The next morning, my assailant came up behind me in the class we had together and squeezed my sides. I started shaking and could barely keep it together as I walked with my best friend to where our next classes were. I confided in her and she took me by the hand to our school officer and sat with me until he sent her to class so I wouldn’t have to be alone.
I was taken to the nurse to get my chest looked at. I had never even met the school nurse before and suddenly I was taking off my shirt to show her the bruises on my chest that had gotten worse. She hugged me as if she were my mom and told me that it was going to be okay. The school had called my mom and told her what had happened. What a way to find out that someone hurt your daughter – a phone call from a school counselor. My mom stayed with me while the police took pictures of me and as I wrote down my statement for the police. The only time my case was touched after that was for some follow up pictures after the weekend when my bruises had darkened even more. I had handprint shaped bruises on my chest that I made sure to cover with makeup when I went to my junior prom just in case they decided to peek out of my dress.
It has now been three years since this has happened to me, and I now suffer from PTSD, depression, and an anxiety disorder. I can’t go out alone at night because, despite being sexually assaulted in the middle of the day, I fear that someone is going to attack me while I can’t see them. I carry pepper spray with me at all times, just in case.
In these three years, I have done an essay, two speeches, one digital narrative, and now an article about my sexual assault. I’ve been asked why I talk about it. The truth is, I talk about it in hopes that my story can help at least one person. I talk about it so that scumbags like Stanford rapist Brock Turner will be put to justice. I talk about it because I need to.
If my story can help just one person who’s going through something similar, then something good will have come out of this situation. I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never get the justice that I deserve. But I hope that anyone who has experienced something like this will come forward and report it.
To all of you who are dealing with this: You are strong. I believe you. You are a survivor.
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