I was 8 when he tried to rape me. I don’t remember when he started to touch me, and I don’t remember the last time he did. I don’t remember how many years it was happening, but I know it was years. I remember the fear, the shame, the anger, the helplessness, the hopelessness, and the dread. I also remember the confusion I had in the comfort. Let me explain.
Michael lived the next street over from my parent’s house. He and my older brother had a tumultuous friendship. On again, off again depending on the day. Their friendship was hostile, but it was inevitable that they would always reconcile, and Michael would come back around. I would often find myself relieved when my brother would come home upset calling Michael names, and proclaiming their friendship was over. But this was always short lived, as Michael would always be back.
He was a tall kid with sandy blonde hair and a militant buzz cut. His eyes were riddled with mischief and malice. You’d hear stories about Michael torturing a stray animal, or bullying neighborhood kids. There were rumors he had a gun. He was that kid.
There was one incident when Michael came over to our house to hang out with my brother. I tried to scurry up the stairs as fast as possible to enclose myself in my room in hopes Michael would not “get me”.
My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, and my heart raced as I desperately tried to get away. But, it was too late. His bony hand burrowed into my back as he pulled on the elastic of my waistband yanking me and pulling me down several stairs on my stomach.
He threw his heavy body and limbs against me as he continued to pull down my pants and shove his hand into my underwear. I screamed and writhed but was quickly met with his other hand over my mouth and nose. I tried to lick his hand with my immature logic that he might be disgusted enough that I’d find a moment I could scream again. I tried to bite his hand, with no luck. My hands were occupied by trying to move his out of my pants while also trying to climb further away up the stairs.
I don’t remember how I got away. I remember nothing more from that day.
The night he attempted to rape me, my parents dropped my brother and me at his parent’s house while they had an evening out. At this time, I had told no one what was happening. His mom turned a movie on in the living room for me, my brother, Michael, and his 4-year old adopted sister.
At one point, his sister and I went to her room to play, which was in the back corner of their one-story house. I remember the far end of her room had a chest of dolls and toys. Her twin bed was beside us; her nightstand near the door. The ambient light from her bedside lamp cast a warm glow across sprays of creams and pinks.
As we kneeled down playing on the carpet, I felt Michael’s presence behind me. My body froze when he told his sister that he wanted to play a game with us. I don’t remember what happened between that moment and the next when I found myself laying on the floor next to her twin bed and Michael straddled on top of me. He had my hands pinned down with one hand, and started to unbutton my pants with the other. He told his sister, who only had broken English given she was not native, that we were playing a game and he needed her to sit on my hands and tickle me. She giggled as she crawled over and innocently placed all her weight on my hands, excited to learn a new game.
I remember screaming and crying and laughing reflexively from being tickled. I begged her to get off of my hands. I tried to plead with her through tears that this was not a game. She didn’t understand. I continued to scream between muffled yelps as Michael covered my mouth. I didn’t understand why no one could hear me. I knew my brother had fallen asleep in Michael’s room next door, and was frantic to get his attention. No one came.
In an instant, I was able to break one of my hands free and as hard as I could, I hit Michael’s bum knee. He keeled over in pain, and somehow I got up and ran as fast as I could to his parent’s room across the hall hoping I could lock myself in safely. I wasn’t fast enough.
Before I could lock the door, Michael burst in. He tackled me on top of their bed and grabbed the comforter wrapping it over my head. I couldn’t breathe. Once again, he thrust his body on top of mine and all I remember was complete blackness and the thick fabric of the comforter stifling my breathing. His hands were searching again for the button of my pants. His fingers burrowing into my sides.
I don’t remember how I got away. I remember kneeling down next to my sleeping brother as I cried and whispered for him to wake up. I lightly nudged him as I stared at the Star Wars wallpaper plastered behind the bed. I was afraid that he might get angry, so I tried as gently as possible to wake him. He never did.
Next thing I remember, I was back in the living room quietly watching the movie, studying his mom’s face wondering if she heard, but chose to ignore me. How could she not hear me? Michael came back out to the living room and sat on the floor next to my feet. He started rubbing my ankles and I felt a strange sense of comfort.
I felt chosen in that moment—special in some way. Being bullied in school and constantly feeling alone, isolated, and unwanted, I wondered to myself, maybe he likes me. Maybe he thinks I’m pretty. Maybe this is what it’s like to feel loved.
My parents picked us up that night and I said nothing. I didn’t say anything for some time. When I finally did, it was because Michael was trying to bust down our front door after he and my brother had gotten into a fight over a video game. I was paralyzed with fear and begged my brother not to open the door. I told him through hysterical tears that Michael tried to rape me.
We called our older neighbor and told him we needed help. He came over and beat Michael on our front lawn. I finally told my parents and they filed a police report, but we never discussed it. You didn’t discuss these things in those times. In many ways, we moved on and pretended it didn’t happen.
But my distorted understanding of what had happened to me lingered for years. My self worth was damaged. I spent years not understanding my value. I felt dirty. Years chasing unhealthy relationships and running from good ones. Years struggling with anger and anxiety. It still leaves shadows in my life today—my deepest wound believing that no one will help me.
I weep and grieve for that 8-year old little girl. So innocent, afraid, confused, and seemingly alone.
That wasn’t the last time I was harassed or assaulted.
My first real corporate job, I was walking down the hall when two men walked behind me and said, “Well, isn’t she a tall drink of water.” I ignored them as I felt the hallway grow longer and narrower completely aware that they were right behind me—watching me. I couldn't bring myself to look back. I was humiliated.
When I was 21, I was drugged at the bar I worked at and woke up to someone raping me. I never reported him. I don’t know his name. I don’t remember what he looked like aside from white male, average height, brown hair.
I pretended it never happened, and convinced myself that maybe it wasn’t really rape. Maybe I participated in some way. I showed up to my bar shift the following weekend with a lingering fear that I may very well be serving a drink to the person who raped me the week before.
Last night I was leaning over my car seat to reach for something when an unfamiliar car drove by and honked. I can’t get something out of my car—in my driveway—in front of my house, without someone violating my dignity.
I’ve always stayed silent feeling no one would believe me. And every time I watch these stories unfold in the public eye, I’ve relived my own stories in all the monstrous detail that I can remember. The gaps in their stories of assault mirroring my own. The pain of feeling ashamed, mocked, and ultimately denied any justice has been just as real watching someone else’s story as though it was my own.
Brock Turner, Donald Trump, Harvey Weinstein, Brett Kavanaugh, and Michael. You represent the most grotesque and vile parts of our society. While you may walk free, there are millions of us that see you as the perverse deviants and rapists that you are. You will never have another day without someone seeing the guilt that you carry for the rest of your lives. You are not the victims.
Emily Doe was the victim. The 109 accusers were the victims. Christine Blasey Ford was the victim. I was the victim. I was harassed. Assaulted. Raped. And, I will no longer comply by staying silent. I am not ashamed. I am a survivor.
To all the women I know and to those I have never met—I believe you. There are millions of us that believe you. Do not stay silent. Do not comply.
