Powerless. Numb. In denial. Guilt-ridden. Embarrassed. Afraid. Anxious. Hostile. And above all, furious. These emotions consumed me on December 23, the day my life changed forever.
Alcohol makes you vulnerable. Donning revealing attire somehow makes it your fault. Walking alone at night increases your risk. Society often paints sexual assault as a woman’s fault, but that narrative doesn’t fit my experience. Surprising, right? I was dressed in loose flared jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt that covered me completely.
The memories are hauntingly clear. I can still visualize a place that was meant to be safe, but instead became the backdrop for the worst experience of my life. My school, once a space for joy and growth, is now a heavy shadow in my mind.
It was the day before winter break, and I was thrilled to lead my first anti-bullying campaign: a movie day. I had raised $300 for Know Resolve, an organization dedicated to preventing youth suicide through fundraising. However, all that positivity vanished in an instant.
The boy who assaulted me was someone I had trusted—a friend since ninth grade. I was in the control booth of the school auditorium, excited for the film to begin when he made his move. “Break up with your boyfriend. I can treat you better,” he said, before overpowering me. I was pinned against a table, unable to summon the strength to push him away. In that moment, I realized I was not merely a victim of bullying; I had become a victim of sexual assault.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight back. I wanted my friend, who stood right next to us, to intervene. I wished the 200 people just a few feet away could hear me. But I froze. My voice vanished, leaving me feeling helpless and ashamed.
Shame consumed me. I didn’t want anyone to know. Instead of defending me, my friend escalated the situation by confronting the principal. My nightmare was now a reality.
“He admitted he was wrong, but it’s your choice. If you go to the police, we will suspend him. If not, we won’t.” Why was that decision left to me? I was the victim, not the perpetrators.
New emotions surged within me. He was allowed to walk free, diminishing my emotional well-being. The school seemed more concerned about its reputation than my safety. Sexual assault had taken place within their walls—my walls.
Two weeks later, my parents learned what happened. That was the first time I saw my father cry.
He received a one-day suspension. It took my mother’s determination to extend it to five. She stepped in, taking charge when the school administration failed. The principal trembled as my mom demanded action.
I never wanted to set foot in that school again. When I told the principal I was transferring, he limited my classes to just three. Why should I only have three hours of school because I was the victim? I lost precious time in my education.
Senior year was supposed to be filled with laughter and memories. Instead, I cried more than I smiled. What should have been a joyful time turned into a constant reminder of my trauma.
Each day, as I navigated the hallways, I encountered him, triggering painful flashbacks. Prom was cut short for me, leaving me feeling trapped in a nightmare.
As the legal proceedings unfolded, I was forced to relive that day on December 23. I lacked the strength to face him in court and agreed to a plea deal for fourth-degree sexual criminal conduct.
Every survivor’s story is unique. Our wounds need healing, our experiences must be acknowledged, and our voices should be heard. We all need support.
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In summary, being a survivor of sexual assault is a complex and deeply personal journey filled with a myriad of emotions, challenges, and the need for support. Each story is different, yet the common thread is the call for understanding and healing.
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