At first I thought about answering the questions in short answer format. I thought about poetry. I through about scrolling the words atop a perfect, pristine white canvas.
You see, the funny thing about white canvases…
It takes one scratch, mark or bruise to somewhat alter the appearance of absolute perfection.
The same thing can be said about the human body, and the amount of excruciating pain that it goes through (emotionally, physically and mentally) when it goes through sexual assault. When you are young and impressionable, you resemble the perfect white canvas. No bruises on your forearms or pain in unfamiliar, uncharted areas.
You’re a perfect, pristine, white canvas. Until an attacker not only deprives you of your childhood innocence; but also takes with him your trust in humanity, the chance for healthy and nurturing relationships, and your sense of self worth.
I was 13 years old the first time I felt that unfamiliar, sore pain in between my thighs. He was a tall, crystal eyed classmate that went to great lengths to make my life a living hell. He put it upon himself to torte me with venomous words, threats, and genuine unkindness.
“Scum. You’re nothing but scum.” He spat one day during lunch, towering over me like a lion about to attack a sheep.
“You might as well kill yourself. No one wants you here anyway.” He said, pushing me into a locker one morning before class.
And those were the good days.
“If you say anything; I will end your life you F***ing s**t.” He whispered as he shoved me into a dark corner of the gym bleachers.
I silently prayed as he smirked at me. Laughing at his own prey. I tried to keep my mind on other things as his hands slowly drifted towards my hips. I slowly whimpered (my last cry for help) as he undid my thrift store bought, American Eagle jeans. I held my head high and counted the dried gum pieces slapped under the seats of the bleachers as he touched my chest and moved towards my thighs.
“Please…” I pleaded with him.
“DO YOU WANT TO DIE?! I will kill you and your entire family if you don’t shut your F***ING mouth!!”
His hands flew to my neck, my airways being blocked by his angry, calloused hands.
After what seemed like a lifetime of unwanted, angry, exploration; he pushed me to the gym floor.
I don’t remember how long his hands hatefully destroyed my canvas. I don’t remember how long I sat in a boiling hot shower, clawing my skin… desperately trying to erase every single bruise and mark left by his assault.
I remember the way his fingers grabbed my inner thighs. I remember his breathing; short and almost prowess like. As if he was proud of the assault he’d done on a young girl.
This is my story. I’ve only started to be open and honest about the events that took place that rainy march day. For a long time, I felt ashamed to even say that I’d been assaulted. For there are much more heinous stories, gruesome tales, horrific events than mine. I’ve just now come to terms with the fact that I do fall under the spectrum of “Sexual Assault/Rape Survivor.” The spectrum is vast and bewildering. But there’s hope in the spectrum as well. For every woman that has been raped, sexually abused, assaulted, etc. There are women and men out there to share our stories and commiserate on the somewhat catastrophic events that ran a course through our bodies. We have the opportunity to bring light to a stigmatized subject; and if there’s a silver lining in any of the stories, tales, and events, it is that we have hope. Hope in each other. Hope in the world. Hope that our children will not have to sit in silence as their ribcages ache with three shades of purple from the attackers hands.
I first told my story when I was a freshly turned twenty year old. To a man that I consider to be my Father. (Step Father is too serious for our relationship) My legs shook and I carefully rubbed my forearms as I began to tell him my story.
I will never forget the way he looked at me.
He didn’t feel sorry for me. His eyes were filled with anger, and pure heartache that I’d kept this part of my life hidden for so long. He hugged me for a long while, promising that he would do whatever he could to keep me safe.
This is only one representation of actions. I’ve told friends and family the exact same story, to which I hear the dreaded
“Well what were you wearing?”
Or some peers laugh it off nervously; societal norms pressuring them into shrugging off the topic of sexual assault.
For a country that is obsessed with sex; we sure don’t educate our young people on it. We tell young women to be meek and mild mannered, but allow boys to be wild and obnoxious. We tell young men that they’re not “a real man” if they produce tears, and tell them to “stop acting like a girl” when they express emotion. We tell young women to take a buddy to the bathroom, never leave your drink unattended, and always carry your key in your fingers when you walk to your car. But we never teach boys and young men not to rape. We as a society are vastly undereducated when it comes to the importance of consent. Consent is THE LAW. Women are not a prize to be won, their bodies are not a trophy. NO MEANS NO. If we speak out and change our sex education policies within the private and public schools; I have hope that there will be less anger, less fear, and less rape in the US. Hundreds of thousands of sex crimes go unreported; and personally, I never want another girl to count the pieces of gum under the bleachers. If we do our part in creating healthy, safe spaces for sex education; as well as creating more shelters, affordable mental health care, and stop shying away from uncomfortable conversations, we will make a better, safer environment for all.
Alyssa Milano’s curated “Me Too” campaign, Hilary Clinton’s presidential run, and many other strong voices have come out valiantly to address the true need for change in our world when it comes to sexual assault and rape. Those who have a platform, have the opportunity to affect social and global change. That being said, I believe that change begins with a whisper; and a few voices turn into a choir, and a few thousand turn to a roar. A roar that no one will EVER dull, a light that no one will ever blow out, and an impact on our world.
I was 13 years old when I was attacked. He left me broken, bruised, and emotionally unsteady for years. But with the help of family, therapy, and the promise of hope; I’ve let my attackers hands wash away into the stormy seas, and I’ve become a warrior.
Yeah world. Be prepared.