Update: MK has posted an “alternate account” of the events I describe below. CLICK HERE to read my statement responding to his nonsense.

Many of my friends know that I was sexually assaulted while in college. A few friends know the specifics of the assault, and the name of the person who did it. I have not been brave enough before now to name him publicly. I have watched as other women, braver women, faced that choice and took the high road. I watched while Christine Blasey Ford heroically and futilely named Brett Kavanaugh, faced death threats, and is still unable to safely live in her home. I have donated money to sexual assault prevention organizations. I have posted prolifically on Facebook about sexual assault, sometimes vaguely referencing that I am a survivor, and sometimes speaking as a concerned citizen and a woman.

That is not enough for me anymore. I am ready to name names.

In 2006, Mark Kihara sexually assaulted me in his home, in his bedroom, on his bed, after inviting me to a small house party that I attended. The main event at the party was playing a vintage version of Oregon Trail, and all of the “cool kids” in the swing scene were there.

He molested me while I was unconscious, after I drank a drink that he prepared for me himself. I remember specifically that he said “I’ll make you something special.” I thought it was kind of him to pay special attention to me, and the memory of what he said, and the drink he made me, stuck with me. It was a hot drink, some kind of hot toddy. It was in a glass mug with a goblet-type base, and was a golden color.

That was the only drink I drank that night, and I couldn’t even finish it before I started to feel irresistibly sleepy. It was early in the evening, yet I was sitting on the couch almost falling over. Mark noticed that I was falling asleep. He offered me a place to lay down. Again, this stuck in my memory because I thought it was so nice of him to be attentive and think of my comfort. I was relieved to be able to get out of the main party, where people would see that I was falling asleep.

I remember waking up the first time, vomiting over the side of the bed. At the time I thought I was drunk, forgetting that I had only had one-half of one drink, which should not have made me sick. I vomited several times over the few hours, and when I woke up to vomit I could hear the party continuing without me. I felt relieved to be out of sight, so that no one else would see my embarrassment.

I wish someone at the party had checked on me to make sure I was okay. I also wish that I had not found the trash can, and instead had vomited all over his carpet.

Sometime in the night the party stopped, and Mark came to bed. I don’t remember what he did to me once he got to bed, but I remember trying to get away. I was by then able to stand, so I tried going to the bathroom to escape. I curled up at the base of the toilet, and planned to stay there for the rest of the night.

I didn’t think to lock the bathroom door. I still blame myself for that. Mark came to find me, and led me back to bed. I was still too sick to resist, but I felt sad and scared to be going back to his bedroom. I did not want to go. It was the middle of the night, I had spent several hours being sick, and was not strong enough to fight back. It’s taken me years to stop feeling like the next events weren’t my fault, because I didn’t lock the bathroom door.

The next thing I remember is Mark biting my nipple, hard. It hurt, and it woke me up. I suddenly realized where I was, and what was happening. My pants were undone, and his hand was in my groin area, touching my skin. My shirt and bra were pushed up, and his mouth was sucking on my breast. I froze.

Side note: People talk about the “fight or flight” response to dangerous situations, comparing how humans respond to danger to the response of animals. This is wrong. Animals do not have a “fight or flight” response. When confronted with danger, some animals do fight. Some animals will run away. And many animals, especially small animals facing a larger predator, freeze in place to avoid danger. This response is instinctual, and it sometimes works for squirrels and bunnies.

It does not work for victims of sexual assault, even though many of us instinctually freeze.

I froze. This is a response that I frequently experienced in high school and college, when I got into sexual situations that I didn’t know how to handle. It’s taken a lot of therapy and feminism and supportive partners to help me understand what was happening, and be able to say what I need in sexual situations. I did not have any of those tools at the time.

Mark noticed that I was awake. We made eye contact. I remained frozen, and he took his hand out of my pants. I moved as far away on the bed as I could.

After a few minutes I was able to get up. I stood, and put my clothes back in place. I had taken the bus to the party the night before, so I did not have a car or a way to get home. I had to rely on Mark to drive me home. We said nothing on the drive. It was the most awkward car ride of my life.

When I got home, I journaled about the assault in my diary. It’s painful to re-read what I wrote. I talked about how Mark touched me, and how I did not want it to happen. But I also talked about how I felt guilty for “getting drunk”, and that I felt like it was my fault. This was before I had any education about sexual assault, consent, or what to expect after being assaulted. I didn’t connect my vomiting with anything other than drinking too much, since that was the only reason I had ever vomited before. I didn’t realize that what had happened to me was a crime. I didn’t know that it wasn’t my fault. All I knew was that Mark was not a safe person, and I felt dirty and violated.

I wish that I had been taught about sexual assault and consent. I wish that someone had told me what to do if I was assaulted.

After journaling, I tried to forget what had happened. If I thought about it, that made it real. If I told anyone, then I would have to deal with it. They might think I was a slut. Maybe they would blame me for what happened. Or they would think it was no big deal, since he hadn’t raped me. I continued dancing in the lindy hop scene, and continued dancing with Mark when I saw him socially. I made sure to never be drunk alone with him. That was the most I allowed myself to think about what had happened. I moved on.

I remained social friends with Mark for the same reason that I didn’t tell anyone – If I admitted that something had happened, then I would have to deal with it. I loved lindy hop, and it was my main social scene. All of my friends were dancers. I loved being one of the good dancers. I loved teaching dance. I loved traveling and meeting other people who danced. Mark was everywhere in the scene, and isolating myself from him would mean that I would not be able to go to the majority of weekly dances, or travel for dance events in the area. I would not be able to dance with many of the other good dancers in the scene, because he was friends with everyone. So I shoved the event into a black box in my mind, and never thought about it. Except when I needed to maintain safety around Mark. Even then, I used euphemisms in my own brain, about how he was “not nice.” I did not refer to my own memory any more than that, to avoid re-feeling the shame of what he did to me.

Many years later, Bill Cosby was accused of drugging and sexually assaulting 60 women. It was all over the news. By this point in my life I had a lot more information about sexual assault. I was married, and much more comfortable with sex. And discussions about drugging women were in the news.

This was the first time I had thought much about date rape drugs. Suddenly, I remembered Mark’s comment about the drink he made me that night. “I’ll make you something special.”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Mark had drugged my drink, and then sexually assaulted me while I was unconscious. No one expects to be drugged, especially by someone you know and trust. Suddenly I viewed the whole evening differently. It became obvious that I couldn’t have been drunk from one drink. It became incredibly strange and disgusting that Mark would engage in sexual contact with an unconscious woman who had been vomiting all night. I felt stupid for not seeing it before, but also relieved to finally understand what happened.

Of course I can never prove that he drugged my drink. The only thing I know for sure, and can prove from my diary, is that he sexually assaulted me while I was unconscious. But I don’t need to prove anything. I know what happened. So does he.

It has taken me years to be able to tell this whole story. Part of what made me braver was learning what Cosby had done, and realizing that the same thing had happened to me. For the first time, I knew in my bones that it wasn’t my fault. It was never my fault that Mark molested me while I was unconscious, but I was able to believe that when I understood he had drugged me first.

Marrying a wonderful man who is horrified by sexual assault also made me stronger. It was hard to tell him, because it hurt him to know what Mark did to me. But it was worse before I told him, when I felt like it was a secret that was heavier and heavier to keep inside. Once I told him, I could not pretend it wasn’t hurting me to see Mark in public places. Once I started avoiding Mark at dances, I needed to tell my close friends why. And once they knew, I had nothing more to lose.

I went to therapy. I went on anxiety medication to manage panic attacks that I started having for the first time in my life. Mark hired a lawyer, and there was a risk he would sue me. He went to all the people I had told, showing them copies of emails and texts I had written him. Somehow these were supposed to prove that he hadn’t sexually assaulted me. His lawyer eventually told him he was unlikely to win a defamation case in court, so he dropped it.

When I first told people what happened, I was not brave enough to talk about the details. My story came out in bits and pieces, and not in chronological order. Fortunately, most of the people I told knew enough about sexual assault to know that this was normal, and they believed me. They knew that I would never lie about being assaulted. This gave me strength.

I privately told the major swing dance scene organizers in the area. A few of them responded in positive ways. Most of them did not respond. I can infer that they didn’t believe me, or didn’t think it was important, by the fact that Mark is still teaching, DJing, and MCing in the lindy hop community. They may have forgotten by now. Newer teachers and organizers probably don’t know at all. There is nothing I can do about that.

When I first told people what Mark did to me, I asked that they not put that information on the internet. I was not strong enough to deal with public backlash from a community that I still loved.

I guess I am stronger now.