Our mutual friends Lissa and J were dating and wanted to set us up. I was not interested in dating you, but felt we could have a nice friendship. You invited us to your folks’ cabin in Vermont for the weekend. As soon as we arrived, I took in the rustic wood beamed ceiling of the 70s chalet. Before we could make our way to sit in the overstuffed living room couch, you or J offered us hash. I smoked some and immediately felt I had to lie down. You took me to a bedroom, the sheets were white. I had trouble keeping my eyes open, and it was very dark, not even a hall light was on. You started to kiss me, and I couldn’t kiss back. You said “I want to have sex with you.” I made a noise like “mhhhh.” I was thinking NO! I could not make words, and I could not move. I was afraid and frozen. I don’t know how my clothes came off. I remember feeling you inside of me. It was slow and bunchy, and terrible. I blacked out. When I woke it was still very dark. I was able to get up out of the bed! I was upset and confused, and I walked through the dark halls looking for my friend. I wanted badly to leave.

I don’t remember anything after this. I don’t remember if I found a place to sleep again. I don’t remember seeing you, J or Lissa. I don’t remember eating. I don’t remember drinking. I don’t remember putting clothes on, brushing my teeth or flossing. I don’t remember how I got back home. I remember the safety of my tiny room and hiding myself under my pale pink comforter. I told Lissa what happened and she was unsure of what to do. The year was 1989.

You continued to pursue me and I avoided you. I felt sick every time your name came up or heard that you say “hi.” I became depressed and chronically ill. I finished college and moved as far away as possible. I created a new life, with a career, marriage and kids.

If rape came up in conversation, I might say something like, “I had one date rape-like thing happen, but it was my fault.” I saw myself as very stupid. For years I shoved the memories away, actually “forgot” it happened.

20 years later, I received a friend request from you on Facebook. And for the first time, I cried about what happened. I grieved. You assaulted me and now you want to be friends on Facebook. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.  

I don’t know what you do, where you work, or how many kids you have. And honestly, I don’t care. What I do care about, is this: EVERYTHING THAT ISN’T “YES” MEANS NO. SOMEONE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL OR DRUGS IS NOT ABLE TO CONSENT TO SEX.

I have had anxiety most of my adult life. I have trust issues. I struggle to see how sex is for me. I have had chronic pain. I have spent years learning to trust that my body is safe and is mine. I have worked with more than a dozen specialists to support my mental and physical health. 

My romantic relationships have been complicated by my assault. And my kids have been affected—not because I told them—but by how I show up in the world. Sometimes it’s subtle, and other times the injustice of rape culture consumes me. I erupted in anger when Brock Turner’s face sat above the words “Frat Boy Accused of Rape Set to Walk Free!” I sobbed throughout the Brett Kavanaugh hearing, reliving my own fear, my inability to escape. One day, while I yelled at the news, my oldest kid asked, “Mom, are you going to #metoo?”