Yes. Me Too.

I have never written about this, but have spoken about it.  I’m going to cut to the chase: when I was in 6th grade I was sexually molested by two boys my age.  One I had had a crush on. The other just was there, maybe initiating it, maybe not. If that wasn’t enough, it happened again when I was fifteen, by a friend of the family. What I do know for sure is that I suffered and the ripple effects have lasted my lifetime.  As I matured it helped me to be a kinder, more empathetic person, but for a long time I just quietly paid the price.

As a young girl I loved nothing more than walking to the library every day.  On one of those many days I decided to take the elevator down one floor to the YA section.  Two boys, saw me and hopped in the elevator. Within seconds one of them stopped it. In the pitch dark I heard them laughing, while I was frozen in the corner, terrified.  Before I knew it I felt their hands all over me. I didn’t scream, I didn’t move. Before this I never even held a hand with a boy.

Finally, eternally, one of them started the elevator.  I got out. They got out and followed me around. One of them said he was sorry and would prove it to me if I would just trust him one more time.  I did. I got in the elevator again. And it all happened again.

When I got out my shame was etched into my soul.  I allowed it to happen. Twice. And so I lived for years, believing it to be my fault.  Tony and Adam walked away. Did they ever feel regret? I have no idea.

At fifteen I was in high school, involved in all kinds of after school activities.  I didn’t have a car, so I had two options: walk home or take the late bus. One day while waiting for the late bus, “Uncle Jimmy” stopped and asked if I needed a ride.  He was a custodian at the school and a good friend of my parent’s. Of course I said yes. Him I could trust. Wrong.

We got to my house and he asked me for a kiss goodbye.  I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek and he turned my head and stuck his tongue down my throat.  I pulled away, jumped out of the car and ran into the house.

I told no one.  

Weeks went by.  My grades were crashing, I lost weight and I was constantly shaking.

My dad came into my room one night and asked me if I was taking drugs.  I told him no. He asked me what was going on. I told him I could only tell my mother.

And I did.  I am lucky. My parents believed me and the next day we went and reported what happened to the school principal.

Me too, everyone.  I kept silent about the first attack.  I don’t think my parents have ever known.  I didn’t report it; I was a young girl, victimized, taken advantage of and shamed.  I believed there was something about ME that drew monsters to me. It was my fault.

So I don’t ask why women don’t report.  I get it. I hope you will too.