Assault: My Story
Trigger warning: I mention sexual assault and may use terms in my story that may be triggering for survivors. It is my intention to be open with my story, as I have spoken about it in pieces and never completely in an open space. My story is not long, but it is marginally graphic. It includes a 35-minute long video containing a hint of language and descriptions. I have also included phone numbers and international links for anyone who has been or knows someone who has been assaulted. My hope is that all people find their voices through the storms of assault and find closure and peace somehow.
US sexual assault hotline: 800–656-HOPE
Various websites (Includes International websites and numbers)
A Retail Beginning
I wasn’t looking for much in 2004, just a job so that I could attempt to be on my own. I had the right ideas back then and was finally willing to juggle school and work. My first job came along in the Fall of 2004 at a well-known Midwestern grocery store chain in my neighborhood. It was exciting to get those paychecks, and I remember taking my first to the now-defunct Border’s to purchase two Prince albums. It was a wet and rainy day, but I was warmed up by my proud stroll to the bookstore to get my goodies.
I liked my job. even on the days when my awkward social graces failed me, or somebody had something to say, I loved putting in the hard work to bag groceries or help somebody to their car. I was overjoyed to see people from my block coming to shop and extend a kind word. Since it didn’t seem to clash much with school, I found myself in a groove of work and classes. It made me feel very grown-up and right on track with my peers. I was starting small and paying dues. My next step would be the floral department. I was dying to be in the booth just so that I could create masterpieces and help people celebrate events. I wasn’t asking for much, just a place where I belonged. I adored flowers and envied the girls who got to hang out and be one with the plants and decorum. They were the popular department for big holidays, and I just knew my creativity was destined to be there with them.
I know that to most people, I look like an automatic target. I am not a fit woman, I am not socially beautiful, and my voice reeks of mousey book girl vibes. My body language is often tight and I know my eyes dart a bit. I've tried not to make it obvious, pushing to fit in somewhere by being less of myself. I spent a lot of my 20s doing it and failing miserably. I never wanted to be anyone’s target. If anything, I just wanted friends and active social life. I wanted to make memories just like any other 20-something wobbling into the real world. As old as I was, I knew it would be hard to fit in socially with that job. I already felt out of place with all the teens, but I tried to put it behind me.
When he saw me, I know he didn’t see a sexy thing. I know he didn’t see a person. Back then, I felt uneasy around him. I coined it up to my usual introversion. The only way I was going to make friends was to meet people. The only way I was going to make it on the job was to try and be cordial with my co-workers. I was aware of assault and harassment, I knew what to do if it happened to me, but I never thought it would. I never realized how complicated things could become. He was a non-factor on my radar, and I was just trying to make a buck to get a new computer and a lease on life. I wasn’t asking for much back then.
He was 19, I was 20.
Standard banter escalated into inappropriate work conversation quickly. Was it a test to get rid of me? I failed if it was. These were common jokes and conversations most young adults would have in their 20s. Raunchy, usually something stupid that most people would not take seriously. I remember laughing with him about a video model on the back of a magazine, calling her a hoe. I remember him joking that my grandparents probably still had sex, and I just stood there sheepishly laughing at the tired joke while I cleaned the registers. I couldn’t believe myself — I knew better. This was long before the days of being called snowflake, SJW, or too sensitive. I guess it was right on the cusp. Regardless, I knew it wasn’t right. I was functioning to work, not to start trouble. I didn't want to be in the middle of trouble, but I also didn’t want him to think any of this was okay.
I brushed everything off because we weren’t spending every working hour together. There were enough people on staff to make sure of that. I was happy to be apart from him but worked quickly and as quietly as possible around him. He was a tall, lanky, knock-off Chris Brown-looking man with eyes that looked right through me. I should have been able to break him in half, but again — I didn’t want to cause any kind of trouble or have any kind of record. In my head, he had been here longer and could easily flip this. They would definitely believe him over me. I was older, larger, and the newbie with the unknown slate. I could have easily been marked as some kind of lonely, ugly, target trying to prey on him. I was afraid of what would come next, trying my best not to give him any openings to keep things going.
When It Began
As the so-called target, we are usually the ones supposedly so in need of touch and attention that we will take what we can get. We are so starved that male attention is the ultimate compliment, and it’s best to give in because it won’t happen again. We don’t seem to have standards. I cringe at the thought of writing that, let alone having anyone believe it about me. That man was absolutely not my type, and my eyes were on the paycheck prize.
My assailant was “attractive” to other people, and he knew it. To me, he looked like a prettyboy jerk. Very run-of-the-mill looks, marginally annoying voice, and his height made his gait a little creepy. It was like watching a very tall scarecrow loom closer from the darkness. We didn’t have Slenderman back then, but he was absolutely close to it. I wanted nothing to do with him outside of work. I never gave him my number, address, email, or any social media info. I made it clear I wasn’t giving it to him.
He found it by going through employee files. He started calling and showing up.
This man was so well-liked at this job that he had special privileges to chill in the store manager’s office at any time. The rest of us were in the breakroom eating failed bakery goodies and watching the shoppers below from the tinted windows. I never knew the extra perks gave him the right to snoop for my personal information as well. I was shocked to see him at my door. He boldly and openly told me how he got my info, and I was speechless. My grandmother had let him in, and I can't blame her for falling for his nice guy act — but I have always blamed myself for how I handled things. I wish I had been angrier and more outspoken. I wish that I wasn’t trying to place nice at a crappy entry-level job that saw me as a cog in their machine, not a valued employee. I had rights, agency, and authority to protect/be protected…
but I failed myself.
Why didn't I throw him out that first time? Why didn’t I say no to what he did to me? Why did I go along with anything, even when my body went numb and BEGGED me to get away from him? I wasn't a woman, I became a large and pliable object. Those moments weren't sexual and freeing, they were abrasive, nasty, and rough. I was just getting to know my body and my freedom as a sexual being prior to meeting him. I found safe and good ways to love and explore my body. I knew what pleasure was and it was beautiful, exciting, and healthy. What he did to me felt like a scraping and invasive rod against and inside my body, not intimate skin-to-skin pleasure. It was a cheap detergent-like body wash on an even cheaper washrag in hard water. It was awkward, unnerving, and forceful. It was, bluntly put, a shocking contrast between my own self-made fluttering orgasms and a trip to the gynecologist for a pap smear. I was on a roster of women he was having sex with up and down the block. I don't know why he bothered to tell me that. I guess it was supposed to be flattering to be on the team, but I just felt worthless, embarrassed, and dirty.
I didn’t fight him because I was afraid. Despite his size, he had proven to me in the breakroom hallway that his lanky frame had power. The way he grabbed me and held me tight was terrifying. Lovers usually grab and hold somebody they love like that. The way he did it was like some kind of proof that he could overtake the big girl. I fought him off at that moment, playing it off to avoid having to explain any outbursts or reactions. I knew how they would treat a woman like me. I wasn't strong enough to face it.
I let things happen to me that I did not want.
He would come over and do things to me that were all about his gratification. I felt nothing but pressure inside and out. There was no eye contact, just swift hands and positioning where he wanted. There was no pleasure, no reactions, just positions and getting it done where and when he wanted. I was silent the entire time, focusing on the green carpet or the world outside. Just let him do what he wants and he’ll leave faster. Get it over with.
Looking back, that train of thought mixed with my actions gave him the idea that I accepted and enjoyed what was happening. This reeks of victim-blaming, but at the time all I could think about was “the ugly old hag and the strapping young thing”, trope. If he cared, if he were truly interested in me as a person…then he would not have treated me like some sex object. All the while, I was reminding myself that I couldn’t say anything about this at work. I couldn't cause trouble because nobody would believe me. I could not speak out because I knew that he would put it all on me: I coerced him, I consented, I wanted it, I set it up — and he would just be the innocent worker who fell for it. I kept silent to avoid scrutiny and all eyes on me because I saw how society treated women, and I didn’t want the mental damage from the experience.
I brushed everything off. Everything was out of control but I found a way to compartmentalize it all. I worked, I went to school, I came home. This was just something that happened, as far as I was concerned. I never said yes, but maybe my “no” wasn’t strong enough to get. I never showed interest, I didn't get nasty and mean enough to make him back off. I wasn't blunt enough. I made up a lot of excuses to avoid what happened. I hated him, but I was even harder on myself. I kept asking myself how could a young lady let it happen. I kept reprimanding myself about not pushing away harder, despite all that literature and the visuals about harassment that I’d been exposed to since the 90s. I froze, and I hated myself for it.
During one of his pit stops, I got up to wipe my face. My glasses were off, my hair was disheveled, and I'm making a beeline through my grandmother’s room to the bathroom to clean up. I crossed my father’s path in the hallway. I felt a white-hot burning shame that he saw me that way — sweaty, ugly, and stained. In a shaky voice, I sheepishly greeted him and wiped my face off in my room. I knew what he was thinking: that I’d had some illicit rendezvous with some guy and he caught me. He said very little to me, concern wrinkling his face. He moved fast to get to the bathroom. I sank deeper into my shame. Not only had my father seen me at my worst, but when I needed him, he couldn't be there for me.
This all happened in my childhood home.
A place where gorgeous flowers grew in the front and back yard, a brown bungalow decorated front to back in 60s-70s kitsch, and my haven from a world quick to call me weird and cast me aside. It happened in a place where home-cooked meals and love-hewn lessons raised me. It happened on a plastic-covered loveseat that was white with golden floral detailing. This all went down years before the carpet would be pulled up, and was sixteen years before I decided to go natural. It was long before the days of social media being as expansive as it is now. We had it, but it certainly wasn’t the driving force of cancelations and call-outs as it is now. Would that have made it any better? Would I have gone to the internet for help? Would anyone have cared? I was in a place that was supposed to be safe, yet shoved between the celery green walls of my own home, I was assaulted.
My grandmother stopped one encounter from happening in my bedroom. My boring, yet sacred little bedroom. Purple walls — a color I picked myself back in 1994. Hardwood floors, two tacky gray rugs, and a modest collection of decorations and ends I called my own. He was going through my CDs and I was several feet away making wack conversation. He found a used sex toy and commented, and that’s when she came in and politely told us both that men could not be in my room. The relief that washed over me when he left felt like a cool shot of streaming water throughout my body. I didn't want him in the house and I certainly didn't want him in my bedroom on my bed. I wrote my poems in that room. I played my little games, built my wobbly ambitions there, and escaped the world in that little boxed space. I didn’t want a violator leaving any of his energy there.
I never will forget the voicemail he left.
“I’m comin’ over to scratch that cat tonight, Ma…”
He always thought he was so smooth and sexy. I never will forget my co-worker who always stared daggers into his back whenever we were on the work floor. What did she know? Was she another victim? I regret never asking her. For every woman who accepted his advances, I wondered how many others, like me, didn’t want him around? How many had been assaulted? How many spoke up, failed, and faced the wrath of negativity I was too afraid to face?
My Story: A Video
Ending It All
I would like to say that the 2004–2005 version of myself found the courage to fight him off, beating him up and becoming a verbal beast. I would like to say that the 20-year-old me stood up for herself. I’d love to, but I can’t.
I quit my job in May of 2005. He came over a few more times until I began to evade him purposely and precisely. What made him leave me alone wasn’t my own words nor protest, but rather a former paramour from New York who text spammed him to death. Back then, you had to pay for each text you sent. If you went over, you paid more. It was a very easy way to run up a cell bill.
That’s all it took.
It took another man, not my saying no or pushing away to make him stop. He thought he had access to use me. In the end, I evaded everything I worried about, coming out with an inability to trust men. I still need time to figure out if they actually want me or see me as some sort of easy target. I find myself almost ruining conversations by asking, fearing that I will be used and damaged once again. With every failed relationship, I sit back and wonder if that person loved or tolerated me to get what they wanted. I wonder if they saw potential or did they use my living, warm, large self just to masturbate.
I think of myself, often, as something to be cast aside. I must constantly work on self-love. Some days are very good, while others are a dark place. I often keep most of it to myself, running to write or post on social media when things get too bad. I really have a hard time talking to people about it, or my struggles with self-love. Being open, honestly, has become harder. People tend to get to know me over time. I have to not only get to know myself again but love and forgive. I am not the same person I was in 2005.
I cringe whenever the news focuses on abusers over and over in their stories and social media posts. I want to argue with strangers who write callous things about assault victims. I especially hate people who victim blame and laugh about who is or is not r*peable. they always say “it’s just jokes” and how sensitive we all are, but where is the humor of the mental and physical damage from any level of assault?
I look back at myself split down the middle. I remember being one of those people, even after my own assault. I never registered it as assault but a bad series of hookups with a wack man. I didn't have the full vocabulary and understanding I do now. I also did not stop to consider how hypocritical I was being. It doesn’t happen to “a certain kind” of woman. It’s not just “thotties and groupies”, and it’s not just women. You can be sexually open and free, but nobody deserves to be assaulted or forced into a situation where they haven’t given consent. It doesn’t matter who wore what, or what their body count may be. Nobody “does anything” which means they deserve assault.
I look back and cannot believe I ever victim-blamed like it was some sort of black and white thing. The gray area between is expansive and complicated. The judgment is disgusting, and the internal trauma is absolutely horrific. It’s upsetting to see how people stand behind abusers to this day. How it seems easier to believe assailants over victims — especially if they’re talented or popular. Especially when people “just can’t see them doing something like that”. Folks will be quick to blame somebody for being sexually open or looking a certain way before they want to hold a sexual abuser accountable. The worst thing is seeing them be celebrated while the whole world flocks to social media to chase and shame victims.
It took years of re-examination and hearing the stories of others to get it. Once I realized what had happened in my own life, those jokes and the culture of blaming sickened me. I wish it hadn’t taken so long to realize, for me to stop seeing other victims and survivors that way, but there I was….realizing…
I was one of those women.
I was wearing a tacky uniform with cheap Kmart shoes when he grabbed me in the hallway. I was wearing a red tank top and shorts in a hot, old house when he assaulted me. Whenever he came to see me, I was wearing either house clothes or pajamas. It wasn't for sexiness, it was for my own comfort. I never asked him to be around — he pushed himself inside my space. He sought me out, exploited my weakness, and used me. I didn't have the knowledge then but ill be damned if I EVER let any man treat me that way again. I don't care what drama or what consequences come from it — for that young girl who felt she had no voice, no rights, power, nor agency, I will fight tooth and nail.
NEVER. AGAIN. I have power, agency, and the right to be valued and protected. I will exercise that right to the best of my ability. I will love, honor, and be better to myself.
Never again.
