I trusted you with my life. The night you hurt me was the night I had the security of life taken away. After that your hands felt cold and scary. I felt disgusting on my skin when you were the one who broke my wall.

When you broke up with me, I was sad for a few days. A week later, you appeared at my workplace and screamed at me, saying I had ruined your life because I broke up with you. This was confusing. You began to follow me in your car from place to place. Sometimes you blared music, other times you held the horn down getting as close to my feet on the sidewalk as possible. You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you were going to kill me. You called multiple times some nights. A few months later, I was walking with a man and you came up behind me, put your arm around my neck and shoulders and pulled me away. I was so surprised to find you touching me, I can’t remember what you said to me. I remember your face, demonic and spitting at me. I went to the authorities. Nothing. I asked my family for help. They fell silent. I went to a psychiatrist for help, he shamed me for being afraid. One day, you showed up at my house and started bashing my car and I called the police. There were witnesses. No one said anything.

I said nothing when you pulled down my bikini top, at the pool, in front of all of your friends. I said nothing when you grabbed me at a party, pushed me onto the couch, mimicking, like we were having sex.  I said nothing when you pulled the sheet off of me, exposing my nakedness to your friend. I said nothing when you banged on my dorm room door, threatening to break in or followed me in your car, while I walked to class. I said nothing when you called me a slut or told your friend that he could have sex with me. I said nothing when you broke the window to my room and crawled into my bed.

I never said anything to any of you. I am saying something now.

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?”