I’m not married to my child’s father, but we share a home and a life together. It’s not the traditional setup, and opinions vary widely, but we have a good relationship. Despite no longer being romantically involved, we remain close. Recently, he expressed his disappointment about receiving temporary duty assignment orders out of San Diego. I tried to hide my reaction, but inside, I felt a wave of dread.
There’s something that I’ve kept hidden from him, something I’m not yet ready to share: I was sexually assaulted by someone I once considered a friend. The last I heard, he was living in San Diego.
I tried to reassure myself that it was a large city, and the odds of him being near my daughter were minimal. Still, I couldn’t shake the anxiety. So, I resorted to what I knew best: I dug into his online presence.
The discomfort of merely imagining my daughter in the same city as my assailant was overwhelming, and it turned into sheer panic when I discovered that he had moved close—only a thirty-minute drive away. He was enrolled in the very college I was considering for my PharmD, located just a mile from my daughter’s Kindermusik class.
The memories flooded back, choking me with their intensity. I hadn’t seen him in years, yet I was suddenly transported back to a time when I felt trapped and powerless.
I met him during my military service; let’s call him Mike. He was a friend of a mutual acquaintance, and at nineteen, I was naive. I thought it was great to have male friends. Initially, Mike seemed charming—handsome and full of life. He openly discussed his love for partying and had an easy laugh.
But as I got to know him better, I became increasingly uncomfortable. He often made comments about my appearance, particularly regarding my body, steering conversations inappropriately. He made unsettling remarks about other women and even children. At one point, he showed me a picture of a baby and suggested it looked “sexy.” His behavior was disturbing, and yet, I brushed it off, trying to fit into the military culture of resilience.
As time passed, I learned from a mutual friend that Mike had made a disturbing comment about wanting to double-team me. I was furious. I had never given any indication that I wanted anything physical with him. When I confronted him, he quickly denied it. Later, I faced backlash from that friend for confronting Mike, who seemed to take offense at my reaction.
Despite my discomfort, I felt compelled to attend his birthday party, mostly because I had promised to be the designated driver. The night ended at a friend’s apartment. Things were fine until most people fell asleep. That’s when Mike crept into my space and began to assault me. I fought him off, but he persisted, becoming more aggressive with each attempt. Eventually, I fled to another room, but he followed. Fortunately, he stopped when he realized another man was present.
The next morning, I dreaded facing him again. I contemplated leaving but feared the repercussions from our command if I backed out of my duties. So, I woke him, hoping it was just the alcohol speaking. But with everyone else gone, he tried to assault me again. I was exhausted and scared, so I reluctantly gave in.
Months later, after a fallout with some friends, he reached out, promising a casual catch-up. I was apprehensive but agreed, only to find he had lied about bringing anyone else. He pressured me to drink, exploiting my vulnerability. The night ended with us having sex, and the next day, he insisted I remain silent about it, threatening my reputation if I spoke up.
I later faced the harsh reality of testing positive for an STD. I was devastated, feeling as if I had somehow led him on. The depression from this betrayal still haunts me, echoing through my future relationships and now affecting my worries for my daughter. How could I shield her from experiencing what I endured?
As I scrolled through his social media, I hoped to find he had changed. But no, he was still posting party videos with his old friends—the same ones who had harassed me years ago. The only noticeable difference was his involvement in charity events and pursuing a master’s degree. If I didn’t know him as I did, I might have thought he was a decent guy. Should I speak up? Would anyone even believe me?
I began drafting an anonymous letter to his program head, inspired by the silence that allowed predators like Larry Nassar to continue their actions unchallenged. But as I reread my words, doubt crept in. My anger was evident, and I feared retribution. The statute of limitations had passed, and I lacked proof—my physical evidence was gone, and I had moved on in life.
Seeking advice, I stumbled upon a Reddit thread discussing similar experiences. One commenter noted, “You are not looking for justice; you want revenge.” That hit home. I was furious, but I also felt paralyzed. What should I do when my assailant lives so close?
The truth is, I’m still unsure why I’m sharing this story. Is it for my own peace, or am I seeking forgiveness? If I genuinely wanted to protect others, I would confront the consequences. But right now, I’m focused on my daughter, warning her father to steer clear of this man, even if I can’t explain why.
What other options do I have?
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