Sometimes I find myself grumbling—quite vocally—to no one in particular about the content that appears on my Facebook feed. The endless political debates can be grating, and the abundance of selfies is frankly overwhelming. And why is it that every woman feels the need to pose with one hand on her hip, elbow sticking out, as if she’s performing an exaggerated version of “I’m a little teapot”?
But what truly gets under my skin is when someone shares photos from a gathering, and as I casually scroll through, I think to myself, “Oh look, there’s the man who assaulted me back in high school.” Yes, that memory overshadows all the political chatter.
It seems like a lifetime ago—three decades, to be exact. To borrow a phrase from Will Smith, let me set the scene. My friend’s parents went away for a week, and she threw a wild party. These events were legendary—packed with people, overflowing with alcohol, and an abundance of marijuana. We indulged in a lot of weed back in the ’80s.
And of course, there was always some form of intimacy happening. Couples would be making out in corners, while others were stumbling off to darkened basements in search of a private spot. Flirty looks and not-so-subtle advances were the norm.
I was a virgin and, admittedly, I was intoxicated. I can’t recall whether I was in tenth or eleventh grade, but those details have faded into the background. I came from a broken family and a challenging home life, yet I had held onto my virginity longer than many of my peers, who often sought validation through reckless behavior.
I was no stranger to partying, though. Oh, I partied alright—frequently and enthusiastically. While I engaged in my share of innocent teenage exploration, I had constructed a protective barrier around myself. My mantra was, “If you don’t let anyone in, they can’t hurt you!” A philosophy I still cling to, unfortunately.
Returning to that fateful party, I remember approaching my friend, the hostess, feeling unwell and in need of a place to rest. She kindly led me down a hallway and opened the door to her parents’ bedroom. “You can sleep in here as long as you want,” she said, leaving me alone.
I recall the moonlight filtering through the curtains, the cheap nylon comforter that snagged at my skin, and the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the party. Eventually, I must have drifted into that disorienting state between consciousness and sleep.
At some point, I found myself on the floor, wedged between the bed and the wall. Two boys entered the room. Initially, I thought they had mistaken the room for another, but when they shut the door, my heart raced with fear.
One boy whispered, “Here she is!” and I quickly recognized them. They were older, notorious for their mischievous behavior, and not friends of mine. I wanted to scream, but the fear paralyzed me.
In a matter of moments, they were upon me. I remember their intentions clearly, as if I were watching a horrifying film on repeat. The panic surged within me, but I was trapped in that moment, unable to react.
As I stared at one of them, now older and heavier, I wondered if he even remembers that night. Does he recall my shock when they threw me onto the bed? Or how I yelled “NO!” and “STOP!”? I can’t forget any of it. I remember the details vividly, even the glint of his genitalia, which surprised me with its sheen.
The sounds of the party faded, replaced by my racing thoughts and the chaos of what was happening. One boy attempted to penetrate me while the other guarded the door, the music drowning out my cries for help.
Eventually, they left, and I was left alone, confused and terrified. I didn’t tell anyone for a while. A friend dismissed it as boys being boys, and I accepted that. I thought it was my fault for being drunk and alone.
Years went by until I stumbled upon his photo on social media. I was taken aback, the memories flooding back. I have a daughter and sons now, and I can’t fathom this kind of nightmare happening to them or being perpetrated by them.
This reality is shared by countless others. How many women carry similar memories? How many have felt the sting of violation while society turns a blind eye? It’s a tragedy that continues across generations.
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In summary, this experience is a haunting reminder of the past and a call to address the ongoing issue of sexual violence. Many of us have stories to tell, and it’s crucial to acknowledge and validate those experiences.