In the wake of Brock Turner's release after three short months in jail following his conviction of sexually assaulting a girl behind a dumpster, I feel like it's the right time to keep the conversation going about how real sexual assault affects men and women across the US when the only thing they cover is the stories that will sell ratings and papers.
Sexual assault is all too commonplace in American culture. I'm no expert on the human condition, and I haven't studied the sociological side of the matter. But, what I can weigh in on is my own experience.
I'm not just talking about being cat called, or having someone smack my ass at work; both of which have happened to me on a regular basis in my adult life. But, I am talking about one time in particular that made me part of the statistics we read all over college campuses (beware of the victim shaming ones).
Let me preface my story with saying I'm OK and things could have been much worse. In fact, I know several women who have had it worse. I have friends who were pushed and pressured into having sex when they didn't want to. I have friends who were so brutally raped that they walked away with broken ribs and a scarred reality. I know these people. They aren't some headline or news story. These are my closest friends; The people I love. They are the ones in my life that have trusted me enough to tell me their stories. Mine is pale in comparison, but I am trusting you with it because one more story told, is one more step to shaking the taboo stigma attached to subjects like sexual assault.
It was Halloween my sophomore year of college when I met him. We spent a few weeks flirting back and forth, and by the time I got up the guts to ask him on a real date, he was over it.. We still ended up at the same parties from time to time, but I've always been good at moving on, so it was no big deal.
Over at our mutual friend's apartment one night, we were playing a game of beer pong like every other college party. I stepped away because once you break the seal, it's game over for your bladder. I noticed he had been drinking more than everyone else that night. He could usually pack them away, but this time he was really working on polishing off the bottle of cheap gin with a splash of tonic.
I made my way to the bathroom down the extra-long hallway and made sure to touch up my lip gloss while I was in there. I was never really one of those girls to ask my friends to go to the powder room with me unless we had something to gossip about that shouldn't be overheard at a party. The friends I was there with were up next for the game and I had no gossip, so I went alone. This was the last time I went to the bathroom alone at a party for the next two and a half years in college.
As I turned out of the bathroom into the long, narrow hallway he stood towering over me, arms spread blocking the hall back to the party; back to my friends, back to anyone else. We were alone. I tried to go around him and he moved his arms toward me and backed me into the bedroom directly across the hall from the bathroom. Standing 6'3" and 225, give or take, my 5'3" and 150 lbs didn't stand a chance if he came at me.
As I took my space from him, he shut and locked the door. My mouth went dry and my adrenaline surged. He stepped toward me. I reached for the door handle. He smacked my hand away. I took a step back in awe. Was this really happening? Was I really being cornered? What did he think was going to happen? Then he spoke.
He told me I was going to get on my knees. Surprising myself, I remained calm and said "No." He spoke again telling me to get down on my knees as he reached to unfasten his belt. My fight or flight surged again and since flight was less of an option, I snapped back, "Like hell I will." I made sure to say it louder this time, but the music from the party was cranked and we were so far from all the other people. He reached for me and made one last demand for me to get on my knees and "suck [his] dick." As I backed into the nightstand, I was filled with panic. Running out of options I stared deeply into his eyes. The streetlight from just outside the window reflected off of his blue iris in the otherwise dark room.
Behind him I heard a sudden crack and the door frame broke splintering pieces into the room. The host of the party made a very pronounced and obvious entrance into the room. In the most calm way, as though he were trying to joke about the way he found us-- in stark contrast to his dramatic entrance-- he asked if we were both "doing alright" in there.
Suddenly breaking eye contact and without a word, the man who had me backed into a corner turned and left the room as if he didn't mean to be there. The stunned look on my face must have told the host of the party what he really walked into, because he stopped. He squared up with me, and very gently asked if I was alright.
When I remember this night, I think of how lucky I am. I remember how I was seconds away from writing a different story, from becoming a different person. Of all the women in the world, I have got to be the luckiest; and I don't think the host of that party will ever really know how grateful I am for what he did for me.
I didn't have words. Still in shock, I lied. I said I was OK. But that must have been the fight still coursing through my veins. Without any concern for the damage he had done to his own apartment, the host walked me back to the party where he plastered on a smile and hopped back in the game of beer pong. I walked over to the couch where my friends were and I sat. They asked if I was OK. I wasn't; so, I lied. No one likes to bring down the mood of the party. Still trying to process what had just happened, I sat quietly-- which isn't like me-- for ten minutes avoiding piercing glares from the same blue eyes that had just had me cornered. He was angry. I had to leave. I couldn't pretend to be OK. I couldn't sit at that party.
I grabbed my purse. Shoes in hand, I bolted from the apartment and ran down the stairs out of the building. As my bare feet hit the cement sidewalk, I realized what happened. Overwhelmed with emotion cried.
I cried the whole way back to my dorm where my roommate and her boyfriend were falling asleep. I wasn't sure if I should tell them. I wasn't even entirely of what had happened. Had I been assaulted? That seemed like such an intense word. Assault. I laid in the bottom bunk sobbing in the dark, feeling more alone that I ever had before.
I remember thinking how I had come so close to becoming a statistic; as if my experience were almost just another number to be plastered on college campuses everywhere. I didn't realize at the time, I actually was; the statistic of the unreported ones.
I never reported anything because nothing happened, right? Except it did. I kept thinking how if it were different and he hadn't been caught, how I could have been changed on a basic level. I had never been with anyone before-- never done anything like that. He would have been my first. A very traumatic first. I didn't realize I still was changed, just in a different way than I could have been.
The problem is, too many of us think like that. "Nothing really happened." Sure, it didn't physically happen. But, a man stood over me feeling entitled to me and my body; demanding things of me. I worry some nights that he did it to someone else and there might not have been someone to break down the door and coolly interrupt. I worry that my not saying anything allowed it to happen to someone else. But, what did I have to report? Nothing really happened. Except it did.
I don't share this story for sympathy or to compare my experience to that of the victim of Brock Turner. My heart is with her, and I hope she knows she is supported. I write it to remind us that there are more issues in this country when it comes to sexual assault than just the things we see in our newsfeeds or on CNN. My friends' stories of rape, molestation, harrassment are not mine to tell. This one is mine. And, it's all too common of an untold story in our culture where men are not held accountable because women are afraid to speak up because when they do, their attackers get a mere 3 months in jail. People do more time for selling pot than they do for rape. Rape Culture is so commonplace that I didn't even realize I had anything to report because afterall, he didn't drug me, he didn't actually get the chance to make me do it. He just tried to make me perform sexual acts on him against my will.
...just...
I am sad that it takes events like the one at Stanford to get people talking about serious issues. But, I hope people keep talking about it. Make it a topic that isn't taboo. Someone out there may need to hear your story; because statistically speaking, you have one too.
If anyone reading this would like to share their story publicly or privately, I am here; no judgement, no blame. You are supported.
Love Always,
Sarah
