With the five year anniversary coming up in a few days, I want to tell my story. I want to tell my story to the world, but I still feel too ashamed to bring it to light. Instead, I’ll do so anonymously because, unlike many of the women who recently have come forward with their stories, I am not yet courageous enough to do so.

It is so easy to sit here and think, “If I was ever sexually assaulted, I would come forward with it immediately.” I can tell you this — it’s not that easy. With accusations of sexual abuse on the rise, I see skepticism by uninvolved parties due to the victim not coming forward when the assault took place. They attribute this to a desire for money, fame, or attention. I promise, the last thing women who have been sexually assaulted want is attention. You want to crawl in a hole and avoid all human contact for as long as possible, because, for some God-forsaken reason, you feel responsible. You feel dirty. You feel ashamed.

It is nice to think that if you were ever sexually assaulted, you could rely on the system to protect you and to find justice for you; unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for me and for so many other victims. The system failed me. And by doing so, it set a tone for other women who are facing a battle of whether or not they should report their abuse. So, with that, I want to share my story in hope that it brings attention to the flaws in our system, in our mindsets, and in the way our society handles these situations.

To understand my story completely, we have to back up to when I was a child. Because, like most women I know, I have been sexually assaulted more than once in my life. When I was about eight years old I was living with my mom most of the time, but spent every other weekend with my dad. Both my mom and dad were remarried. Along with two step-parents, two step-brothers also were brought into my life through my dad’s remarriage.

It was my dad’s weekend to have custody. Sometimes on these weekends, my step-mom’s sons would also be at the house with us. We would often explore the woods surrounding our home, play video games, or play with the dogs. It was fun having more siblings. I loved them, and I trusted them. This particular weekend was no different. My dad had picked me up from gymnastics practice and I was anxious to get home to run around with my sister and step-brothers. After a long day of playing, it was time to head to bed. I remember being too lazy to take off my gymnastics leotard before bed. This becomes relevant shortly.

Shortly after I went to bed, I got up to walk across the hall to the bathroom. On my way back, I heard one of my step-brothers call me over to his room. I went. We were just talking for a while, just as we often did. You see, my step-brother and I were fairly close at this time. He was a few years older than me, and I never had a brother before, so I looked up to him. I thought he was “cool.” So, sitting in his room in the middle of the night caused my eight-year-old self no concerns. We played with a Rubik’s Cube, and he began to ask questions about the things I have “done with boys.” I started to become uncomfortable, partly because he made me feel stupid when I said, “nothing.”

He moved on to say, “Let’s play truth or dare.” I quickly came to the realization we were playing “dare” because I was a wimp if I said, “Truth.” The dares started out harmless, but that quickly changed. “I dare you to take your pants off and walk across the room.” I protested, to which he responded, “Its fine, you are wearing a swimsuit [my leotard] underneath, anyway.” He got angry that I wasn’t complying, so I did. The dares didn’t stop there. “I dare you to kiss me with an open mouth…I dare you to take your swimsuit off…I dare you to let me move your swimsuit to the side.” It became evident to me that I had no choice in the matter. I was going to do these dares whether I wanted to or not. I was sexually assaulted by someone I loved and trusted.

I immediately felt like I had done something wrong. I felt that I would get in trouble for being in his room if I decided to tell anyone what happened. I felt like I could ruin my dad’s happiness with my step-mom if I talked to someone about it. I felt like no one would believe me if I told them what had happened. So, I didn’t. Instead, I didn’t sleep for weeks. When I did, I would wake up crying and in a cold sweat. I faced sexual assault alone at an age where most kids shouldn’t have to face anything alone. The irony? If I would have spoken up, I would have learned my sister was going through the exact same thing.

I learned to live my life normally in the coming years. I would have the occasional nightmare, but soon I would learn how to sit across the dinner table from my step-brother and act like everything was fine. That is, until he was arrested and sentenced to jail for raping a 15-year-old girl when he was in his early twenties. This brought on a new slew of guilt for me. I had to live with the fact that if I had come forward, maybe I could have prevented this girl from the harm he caused to her. Maybe this girl (and possibly others) wouldn’t have had to go through what I went through if I had just had the guts to speak up. But, I didn’t. That is something I have to try and live with every day.

With him behind bars, I finally had some peace though. I lived my life with little concern or worry that this would happen again. Then I went to college.

Like most campuses now, there was a strong push where I went to school for educating students on the very real concern of sexual assault. Students took mandatory training on how to avoid it, ensure consent, and always make sure you were creating safe environment. We learned about SAMs (Sexually Aggressive Males) and that if someone doesn’t say “No” it doesn’t mean they are saying “Yes.” Billboards reflecting these concepts were all over campus. Everywhere you went, you saw something reminding you to ALWAYS establish consent. Unfortunately, paper signs and billboards don’t always do the trick.

It was close to Christmas break and all the students were preparing for finals week. And by preparing, I mean throwing parties to avoid the burden of studying. One of my friends in class told me he and his teammates were having a party, and invited me (along whoever I wanted to bring) to join. Nothing out of the ordinary. I got in touch of a few friends and my roommates, and everyone was on board. My boyfriend at the time had to work the next day, so we turned the event into a girls’ night out. We did the usual pre-game festivities, took way too long to get ready, and set-off to have a good night.

Upon arrival to the party, I remember thinking it was going to be a fun night. So many of my friends were there, and I didn’t have to worry about class the next day. The night went on, countless pictures were taken, and drinking games carried us through the night for hours. I was ready to head back home, but the friends I had come with either wanted to stay longer or had already gone back to my place for the night. So, my friend who invited me told me I could catch a ride home with him and some of his teammates. Trying to be responsible (despite the fact that I had been drinking underage), I made sure the individual driving was sober — he was. So, I hopped in the car to head home.

In driving home, I told them where I lived as it was right on the way to their apartment. They all kind of passed off my directions and didn’t acknowledge me when I said we were coming close. They drove by my house. My friend looked at me and told me that we were just going to head back to their place for little while, and then he would take me home. At this point, I start to get a little worried. All those seminars, movies, and stupid damn billboards popped into my head.

We arrived at their apartment and he immediately got me a drink. Being that I was beginning to get worried about the situation I got myself in, I kept going to bathroom to dump the drink down the drain a little at a time so he would think I was drinking it. I had a general idea of where I was, and texted another friend of mine to see if he was around to help. In my text to him, I told him something just didn’t feel right and I wanted out. Every time I would ask to leave, they came up with a reason not to let me. I began to panic. My friend on the other end of the phone was trying to figure out where I was. He told me to open my maps on the phone, zoom in to my location, and take a picture to send to him. I did.

The next thing I know, I am being brought into my friend’s bedroom because the other guys wanted to head to bed. I again asked that he take me home and I got the same answer–in a little bit. Now, sitting in his room, I am terrified. I KNOW this isn’t harmless anymore. I KNOW it isn’t in my head at this point. He makes a comment about hoping I don’t call him a SAM. At first, I didn’t understand. Then I remembered — Sexually Aggressive Male. I became sick to my stomach and was dying for my friend to come pound the door in to save me. The knock never came.

Every single memory from when I was sexually assaulted by my step brother came rushing back. I became weak with fear. I always wondered why some women claimed they were too paralyzed by fear to kick and scream when they are being raped, but it all became so clear to me in that moment. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t feel anything. I was being sexually assaulted again, and I just went numb.

It felt like an eternity before it was over, when in reality I am sure it was only minutes. He stood up, pulled his pants up, and made another comment along the lines of, “I hope this isn’t on the campus alerts tomorrow.” You see, he’s referring here to the fact that whenever there was any crime on campus (i.e. theft, assault, rape), a text alert would be sent out to all students so they were aware of the potential danger. I couldn’t even process his comment. Was he taking this as a joke? Does he think this is okay? Does he know he did something terrible?

He walked out of the room for the bathroom and I knew that was my opportunity to get out. I ran out the door, into the alleyway behind his apartment building, ran for a block or two, and then just sat behind a dumpster and cried for a while. I felt it all again. The shame, the guilt, the feeling that no matter how many times I shower, I will never feel clean. I felt that I had done something wrong. It was my fault for putting myself in this position.

I gather myself enough to call my friend to see where he is. He said he had been looking all around the area for me, but couldn’t pinpoint exactly where I was. We were to meet at a bus stop just up the street from where I was. I began walking. On this short walk, I saw the signs. I saw the billboards. “Not saying no doesn’t mean yes.” It hit me. I had been raped. THIS is what they were talking about. THIS is what they encourage students to come forward with. I couldn’t sit silently by again and watch another woman get hurt because of my silence.

I saw my friend and immediately collapsed in tears. He carried me back to where he lived, and helped me call my mom (who lived close to my school). It was the call no mother ever wants to have to wake up to. I was crying so hard she could barely understand me, but she knew. “I need you to say it, honey. Were you raped?” Yes.

I handed the phone to my friend who then gave my mom directions to where we were. She was there with my step-dad moments later. From that point on, everything was a blur. For some reason, that I still don’t understand, I told them I didn’t know who did it. So, the investigation began. Campus police were notified, the text alert went out, and I was taken to the hospital to have swabs taken in hopes of obtaining DNA. In the hospital, they had to take my underwear for testing. I wish I could adequately explain that feeling — having someone take your underwear off you right after an assault occurred is one of the most terrible, vulnerable feelings in the world.

Somewhere, in the midst of all this terror, he texted me. He got the campus alert, screen-shot it, and texted me saying, “This sounds a lot like what happened last night.”

My mom brought me home and by then my boyfriend at the time had gotten there too. He sat next to me while I cried for hours, until I finally looked up at him and said, “I know who it was.” He immediately got my mom to come upstairs so I could tell her. They notified campus police to which they said they would like me to come in and give them a statement. I put on a coat and my mom drove me to the station. They brought me into a room and my boyfriend and mom were not allowed in. There were two officers — a man and a woman. The woman starts the conversation off by saying she heard I knew who did it. I said yes, and told her the man’s name. There was no change on the look in her face. No, “We will go find him!” attitude. Instead, she looked at me and said, “We actually already talked to him.”

At first I thought, great! They found him on their own, so they have to know it was him! Evidence and witness testimony brought them right to his front door without me even having to say his name. A feeling a relief came over me. Justice was going to be served. I was going to be one of the women who makes a change and encourages others to come forward. Then the officer said, “Only, he has a very different story about what happened.” My stomach dropped.

She went on to explain that she not only spoke with him, but also spoke to all of the boys who were in the car and in his apartment the night prior. They “all had the same story.” Of course they do. At this point, they would have read the campus alert, and with their spots on the team in jeopardy, put together their rendition of what happened just in case they were questioned. I wasn’t worried yet. I proceeded to show them the text messages of my location that I had sent my friend in hopes that he could come get me. I showed them the text message HE SENT ME. They took pictures of these messages.

Hours. I was in that room with those officers for hours. They told me they had pictures of me that night at the party with him. Yes. They said I was seen playing drinking games with him. Yes. They said I willingly got in a car with him. Yes. They brought up how I claimed I didn’t know how it was at first. Yes.

Within hours I was convinced, once again, that this was my fault.

The officers then made me call my mom in to the room to “tell her how I lied.” My mom sat down and all I could do was look down at my fidgeting thumbs and tell her maybe I wasn’t raped, that maybe I had asked for it. Imagine having to do that.

Furiously, my mom drove me home. She rightfully began yelling at me and telling me that I needed to now tell my boyfriend the “truth” and that I needed to apologize to the officers who spent so much time investigating this. And then I told her. I told her what had happened to me when I was younger and how that played a big part in the way the night went. I told her everything. She quickly understood, thank god. She was no stranger to sexual assault and immediately was able to comprehend why I acted (or didn’t act) the way I did.

For several weeks, I had to go through the aftermath of sexual assault again. At least this time, I had my mom and my boyfriend to talk about it with. I wasn’t completely alone. The nightmares were back, the cold sweats, the feeling of guilt. I was going to have to learn how to live normally once again. Unfortunately, my nightmare was not over yet.

The District Attorney’s Office was called about this incident. It was reported that one of the officers (not involved in the investigation at all) that I knew personally, was under investigation for not handling this inappropriately. They were saying that because of my personal relationship with the officer, I was not charged for a “false report.” One of the Assistant District Attorneys called me and asked me to come in and give a statement. I did.

I had to relive it all again. I had to walk her through every single detail: explain to her why I didn’t kick and scream and punch, explain what led me to drop the case. Thankfully, she was very kind to me. She went on to explain that rape cases are the most difficult and emotionally draining to prosecute, that such a small amount ever make it to trial, and even then, few get prosecuted (especially in cases like mine). Hollywood portrays rape as something that happens by a stranger in a dark alley, not by someone you know. It portrays a physical battle with scrapes and bruises, not one with numbness and weakness. The jury expects Hollywood, when in reality, those cases are the exception and not the rule. In that moment, I became thankful this case didn’t make it to trial. I was thankful the case was dropped so I didn’t have to live through even more skepticism.

I am now just another statistic.

We have normalized and rationalized sexual abuse against women for decades and we continue to do so every day. With all the recent reports of sexual abuse against public figures, I have never been so angry at the way people are responding. Some people are still joking about it and making light of the situation. Those people, the ones making a mockery of women finally choosing to come forward, they are part of the problem. Sexual assault isn’t what we see in the movies. It is the casual, uncomfortable encounter with those who take advantage of their power. It is the daily comments and touches that we are just expected to live with. It is sometimes silent and without a fight.

Until we understand that, women will remain silent. Abusers will continue. Until women stop being blamed when they finally decide to come forward, stories like mine will always exist.