The following is a true to my life story.
It’s an odd feeling living with a secret you know you should tell, but one you also know will change your life if you do. I spent the last five years of my life wanting to be an alcoholic, a drug addict, a tobacco user—just to have an excuse to sit in a meeting of people I didn’t know and tell them my darkest secret. I wanted to tell them all the details of that day; how it started, how it ended, how uncliche it was. But instead I spent my energy on avoiding relationships when they started getting serious, eluding to the past but never telling anything definite, pretending to be fine for no one’s sake but mine. This kind of secret doesn’t go away with a confession, I knew this. And telling people would change their perception of me forever—I refuse to wear that stamp on my forehead the rest of my life. But, I’m here tonight to tell you: I am a victim of sexual molestation.
They cram sex education down your throat at the beginning of middle school. They tell you the basics about not going anywhere with strangers and avoiding dark alleys and to leave if you feel uncomfortable and all the things that seem like common sense, but they don’t tell you about the dangers that lurk inside the building they teach you from. You don’t expect it, but then again…can anything really be ‘expected?’ They don’t tell you that it could be your best friend or your boyfriend or both at the same time when you are in high school: “All dangers lurk outside in the real world” is what they seem to claim.
When I was fifteen years old I thought I was just the sweetest thing to walk this earth. I was on the junior varsity and varsity volleyball team as a sophomore, I had straight A’s, I was dating a gorgeous senior and my life was just perfect—until I met Ray. Ray was my boyfriend’s best friend. He was a senior as well, but not the typical ‘hottie’ we all seemed to go after. He spent a lot of time playing video games and was rather overweight, but he always seemed like a nice guy to us.
We all three had a class together with only two other people who were always roaming and the teacher was rarely in the room. Why did she need to be? Our school was safe. We all sat at the same table—my boyfriend, Ray, and me. I remember this day like it happened yesterday, it replayed in my head for months. I had a skirt on that day, a jean skirt with frayed lining (it was all the rage then). I had a white tank top on with wide shoulder straps (we weren’t allow to wear thin ones) and a pair of Adidas sandals. Ray was sitting between my boyfriend and I, and he was messing around with me a bit. We were both on a computer, both on AOL instant messenger. He started tickling my leg and I’d giggle each time—I was a typical fifteen year old. But, each time he’d put his hand higher and higher up my leg. I don’t know why I didn’t stop, but I just kept giggling until it became a problem. Suddenly, Ray’s hand made a giant jump up my skirt instead of tickling my leg.
I remember saying specifically “get off of me!” in the classroom; it was so quiet. But he didn’t, it only got worse and with my boyfriend right there he molested me in my school in a classroom in broad daylight. My boyfriend did nothing, everything I had believed him to be ended right then and there. It didn’t last too long, the teacher came back in—she didn’t even question the situation and I've always kind of held that against her. Maybe if she had, this secret wouldn’t have stayed with me so long. I’ve heard all the commercials and all the slogans that say “it’s never your fault,” and until that point in time I never understood why victims felt like it was. But for the life of me I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for egging him on—for asking for it.
That was the last bell of the day, and when school ended I met up with an older friend of mine on the way out the door. I told her what happened. She laughed. For three years she was the only person who knew and she never, ever brought it up with me or with anyone else that I know of. She was on the volleyball team with me, and even that day as we headed to practice she acted like when I spoke it was in a foreign language that she didn’t understand, like I never said a word to her. I don’t know what I would have done in her situation, and the fact that I told her was merely a timing circumstance—but I couldn’t bear to tell someone else and have someone else act the way she did.
Later that night the messages started pouring in from Ray. He begged me and begged me not to tell anyone, “I’m not usually like that” he claimed. Over and over again he apologized, making me say I wouldn’t tell anyone about it. And I followed his orders because by the events of the day he had suddenly taken over my life and would continue to do so even when he was no longer there. Ray and I did not speak again after that night, and my boyfriend and I broke up shortly after my conversation with Ray, and I buried my secrets so far within me that it ate at every little cell in my body every day.
By the end of the year Ray was gone, but he did not stop haunting me. In my senior year I finally told one of my friends a short version of what had happened—I just blurted it out to her one day in our math class. I don’t know if she took me seriously, but this time I didn’t care, I just wanted it out of me. By the end of the year I had told two more friends and a teacher about it in secret, but none of them ever wanted to talk about it. Now I had gotten it out, I stamped myself molested, but wasn’t allowed the chance to tell my side of the story. I found my refuge in internet sites that had confessionals or had resources for victims of sexual abuse. I bought books that I thought would help me understand why I was feeling the way I was. Knowledge was power, and I needed power. I found a special release within my writing, often planning storylines around rape and abuse but always stopping before I had to write out the scene of betrayal. Just knowing that maybe there were other people like my characters in the world with the same secret made it almost seem bearable.
When I went to college no one knew my secret. No one questioned my life, no one wanted to know more, no one would have cared had I told them. It was and is normally easy to suppress these days, but the more and more I confront it the easier it becomes to overcome. My family still knows nothing of this event, other than one of my sisters who had a similar experience in high school—even she doesn’t talk about it, and the moment I told her we shared nothing but a silent understanding of the way our lives intertwined in a new and undeserving way. Those four people I mentioned before were the only ones to know until this very moment sitting here, writing my deepest secret out to all of you.
I saw Ray some years later at my work. He came up to me and talked for a minute. I guess he couldn’t see that all I wanted to do was scream for security to get this molester out of the store (the same store where I had been cornered in a private office by another man). I have heard in recent years that he has become an active member in his church, even plays in the band. I have hated him for this; I never really understood why he thought God would want him there after what he did. I suppose maybe he felt guilty and that was a place to turn, or maybe he needed people to support him—I wonder if they know his deepest secret.
It doesn’t show much anymore, only in the fact that I am nearly unable to be close to any man without the scene from that day flashing right before my eyes. After that day every man in my life became a predator, it didn’t matter who he was or what he was or how helpful or kind he had been to me. I have no idea why I decided to write this, but when I did I needed to do it then and there. It’s two o’clock in the morning and I am here at my keyboard, trying to release what I have been unable to let go of all these years. I do feel a bit odd telling my secret, like a piece of my soul is being ripped out of me and violently thrown over these sheets of paper—open and vulnerable for the world to view. My heart is beating very quickly; I hope it can withstand sending a piece of itself off into the world. But, as I sat here I promised to declare to myself and the rest of the world one thing:
Ray *insert last name here, he should still be protected* will never, ever rule my life again.
1 in 6 women will experience some form of sexual abuse in their lifetime. Surprised?
