*Trigger warning*
My stories are not unique. They’re practically anecdotal. But, perhaps they’re important. I’m hoping that by writing them out I can take away their power. Because as many, many, many (So many) of you know – these thoughts, these memories can control you. Can hold you captive. Maybe, by writing this out, I can take away this feeling of acid climbing up my throat whenever I think about it.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t always understand the difference between sexual harassment and people just being… people. #boyswillbeboys.The countless instances that pop up in my mind of sexual harassment in my life happened in public spaces and seemingly safe places.
For instance, during college at Olivet when I decided to where shorts in the quad after 4:30 pm (when they were acceptable) and I was yelled at,
“Hey girl, hey girl! Look at you wearing those shorts.” (repeat x3)
(This is separate from the incident where I was fined for my shorts being too short)
Or the popular “Hey, whore!” When I’m crossing the street. (Repeat x1000)
One day at track practice during college, a group of local high school boys walked by screaming towards me. Listing several things they wanted to f***ing do to me. One of my male teammates looked at me with his jaw dangling open, “Are you hearing this?”
“Yeah, it happens all the time. I just ignore it, ” I say nonchalantly.
I say nonchalantly….
* * *
So, I am in 9th grade. In a 15 passenger van packed with teenagers headed on a mission trip. I am not a morning person, but that day I woke up even before Mcdonalds opens. Everyone is finally situated. I am in the front row of the van next to the window. A 8th grade boy is sitting next to me in the middle. There’s another boy to his right. Maybe 15 minutes into the trip, I’m drearily resting my head on the cool, foggy window, knodding in and out.
Then, I jerk awake. Perhaps a strange dream? I felt something on my skin, under my shirt. But as I sit up, awake, nothing. I drift back to sleep.
Again. I startle. I’m disoriented. I look at the boy next to me. His hands are clasped neatly in his lap and he’s staring straight ahead. I still could be dreaming. But my skin feels hot and clammy. It feels like tiny bugs are somersaulting up my torso and down into my throat. I’m too amped up to fall back asleep. I try to listen in on the conversations buzzing around me. I try to gather clues. Did anyone but me notice something? I look at the boy at the end of my row. He’s turned around in his seat, on his knees, laughing with kids in the back. I dont know any of the kids in this van.I look towards the front at the driver and the shotgun talking and gesturing. Nothing amiss. Am I going crazy?
A couple hours pass. Nothing of note. I don’t want to fall asleep. My thoughts are tumbling, tripping over each other. My face feels too big. It’s a bilboard. But, eventually, my hoodie is too cozy with my thumbs tucked into the holes that I ripped in my sleeves.
Again. A hand brushes up under my shirt. Fingers slide underneath my bra. I do not jolt awake this time. I sit up slowly. Frozen. Mechanical. Eyes on the floor, till I chance a sideways glance at the lap next to me to see those hands folded neatly together. Still. Unflinching.
We finally make our first stop to pee and refuel. A chance to find a new seat when we pile back in the van. A chance to find someone else to sit by. But I’m afraid of being obvious. I’m afraid to show that this has affected me. I slide glacially into that same seat by the window. But that boy does not sit next to me. He slides into the seat directly behind me. I feel relief for a breath and then I feel the dread again. What little control I had on the situation was now completely gone. I know this is what he wanted. To seize control of my emotions. His hands controlling me without touching me. I wasn’t sure if he was going to touch me again. Or just stare at the back of my head triumphantly. I sat stiffly, not wanting him to notice that the skin behind my ear itched. I ignored it. Not wanting him to see me swipe the hair out of my face. I let it dangle there. I ran through scenarios in my mind about what i would/should say to him. How to confront him. I promise myself that if he touches me again, I will do something.
He touches me again. His hand slips, squeezes between the side of the seat and the upholstery of the van wall. Smudging my skin, grabbing more forecefully. I whip my head around and glare at him.
I’m not sure what I expected on his face. Guilt, shock, remorse?
No.
His eyes were level. Set. Maybe gleaming, but mostly unmoved. But he did not touch me again after that.
I had a great time on that trip. I had fun, I participated, I talked to people. But there was a hazy film that draped over me the entire time as well. Negative, destroying thoughts burrowed in my mind. I was terrified. I did everything I could to avoid this person. And I did. I haven’t seen him since this trip. But over ten years later, it still affects me. And now my worry is that if he went through all that trouble to touch me back then in broad daylight, in public, without remorse, what else was he capable of?
I know way too many people can relate to this story and much much worse. Don’t let it overpower you. Don’t let it rule you. You don’t need to post it on social media, you don’t need to tell the world. But tell somebody you love and trust. Take that power away from these parasites.
I appreciate if you took the time to read this. A lot of anxiety and a lot of emotions were tumbled out in order to write this.
Thank you
Enjoy Your Mediocre Life 
You must be logged in to post a comment.