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Which, in retrospect, I feel like I should've been the one giving.

All of the bedrooms were downstairs, except for mine, which happened to be next to my host father's office. If I had a question or wanted directions to get somewhere, he would ask me to come into his office and close the door. I would refuse, saying I was uncomfortable and that he needed to chill out a little, to which he would reply: "This isn't America, sweetheart. You're living in my house. You live by my rules."

In retrospect, I should have spoken up sooner, but I was 19 years old, naive, and didn't want to come across as difficult. I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place: speak up and have people call me a liar or a drama queen, or stay quiet and feel unsafe. Be accused of being a spoiled American brat, or risk having something really awful happen.

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Spoiler: It did.

I had a key to lock my bedroom door, but, unbeknownst to me, my host father had one, too, ironically "for my safety." One night, I awoke to find him masturbating next to me with his hand down my pants. That was the last straw because what would be, if not that?

The next morning, I called a friend and moved in with him. As I mentioned, it was taboo to be alone in the company of a man who isn't your husband, so we told everyone we were married. Note: When I lived with my host family, I was only allowed to be alone with my host father, which is fucked up on at least seven levels. I counted -- it's at least seven.