The first time anything happened, I was five years old. My neighbor was babysitting me, and we were playing hide and seek. I was seeking. I found him, under the covers, in his bed.
“I found you!” I yelled.
“You did,” he said while he drew back the covers. “Climb in with me, just for a little bit.”
I obliged. I lay down next to him, as he turned me around so as to readjust us into a spooning position. He began to rub himself against me, his moaning growing from a small whisper to a full bodied shudder. I told him I wanted to leave. He held me tighter, he told me: “Just a little bit longer.” Sometimes, I still feel his arms holding me back, not allowing me to leave.
It felt like hours had passed; I felt my fear as I felt his pleasure reverberate against my back. I ran from his house to mine, a 30 second run. As I stood outside my door, dry-heaving, I started to cry. I had no idea what happened, and wouldn’t for the next 15 years. But I knew something was wrong. Something was off.
I’ll never tell my parents because I never want them blaming themselves, which I know they will do. They would be devastated. So I hold it in. I don’t tell my mom why I don’t like it when she hugs me from behind without warning, or why tight hugs scare me. She doesn’t know my triggers. She doesn’t know why I would have any triggers in the first place.
11 years later; I was groped for the first time. I slapped his hand away when my friend expressed anger. In all honesty, had my friend not been there, I would have done nothing. I felt numb. 1 year from that; I’m pressured into showing my breasts to my new boyfriend. As I took off my shirt, I cried as I heard him emphatically yell: “YES.”
6 months from that; I lose my virginity. In the middle of it, I ask him to stop. He keeps going. He finished as I began crying.
2 years from that; senior year homecoming, that same boyfriend and I were both drunk. As I fell asleep in my bed, he flipped over on top of me. I told him no. He ignored me, kept going. I laughed it off the next day, doing what I do best—repressing how I feel.
I know I don’t deserve any of this. I know all the platitudes and affirmations. I know I should seek help. But sometimes I feel so passive and helpless that I don’t know what I should and shouldn’t feel responsible for, or why these instances of sexual assault have been the benchmarks of my life. In my darkest moments, I can only wonder—what if I deserve this?