Twice

Some people believe that once is chance, twice is a coincidence, and a third time makes it a pattern. But when it comes to sexual assault, once is not chance, once is not a coincidence — once is a crime. Once is inexcusable. Once is never your fault. Once is far more times than anyone should ever have to experience. Unfortunately for me, it happened more than once.

My story starts when I was a young girl in elementary school. I had always been a very petite and shy girl growing up, so naturally, I became an easy target for bullies. Two young boys would bully me every day without fail, using physical means instead of verbal or emotional ones. Of course, this bothered me, but I had gotten so used to the predictable and uniform daily abuse from them that I never imagined it would escalate to anything more dangerous. To my surprise, one day in second or third grade (excuse my foggy memory) the two boys, being much stronger and bigger than me, pulled me into the boy’s washroom during recess and forced me to watch as they pulled their pants down, revealing anatomy that I hadn’t even known existed at that age!

When it comes to sexual assault, once is not chance, once is not a coincidence — once is a crime.

They tried to get me to touch them, but I resisted. Amidst their frustration with my nonengagement, one boy slammed my head into the wall and I lost consciousness. When I woke up, still on the bathroom floor, they were calmly putting their pants back on. Taking advantage of the fact that they were no longer restraining me, I got up and ran away. To this day, I still have no idea what happened when I lost consciousness. However whatever did happen, I like to think that I’m one of the lucky ones who weren’t forced to watch as heinous things happened to them beyond their consent. Nonetheless, I didn’t understand what had just occurred, but I knew it was something bad and I knew I was far too confused and terrified to tell anyone. I begged my parents every single morning from then on to let me stay home from school (to no avail) and dealt with the bullying of the two boys until I eventually changed schools in fourth grade and never saw them again. 

Once I had changed schools and made new friends, the memory of the incident started to fog up in my brain. By eighth grade, it had become so foggy that I was uncertain if it had actually happened or if it was just one big nightmare that would come back to haunt my mind once in a while — and as a child with no concrete understanding of sexual assault, the latter seemed like the most viable option. The whole situation confused my pre-pubescent brain so much.

As a kid, you always hear about the bad guy getting caught at the end of the story, so why was the bad guy (or bad guys, in my case) walking around with no consequences? Why did it seem like I was the only one affected by this? Surely they would have to feel some sort of remorse, so why did it feel as though I was alone? Was it my fault? Was I just being over-dramatic about the whole thing? Was this kind of situation supposed to happen, like someone had failed to tell me that it was a natural part of growing up? With all these questions in my head and no answers, it was easier to pretend that it was simply a made-up story that my crazy, childish brain concocted in my sleep. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the middle of my tenth grade sex-ed class when the teacher was introducing us to the concept of consent that it all came flooding back in one nauseating wave. I will never forget the way the memories, the feelings, the smells, the voices — every painful little detail that I had tried so desperately to bury in my mind for the rest of my life — filled the walls of my brain like a PowerPoint presentation. One detail after another. And this time it was different because whereas remembering the memories of the incident as a kid felt hazy and disconnected, the memories I was faced with now were explicit, raw, and clear. I couldn’t possibly convince my brain that it was a dream anymore, it was obvious to me now that it was my reality. And that moment was the first step on my journey to healing.

Flash forward to five years later, third-year university to be exact. I’ll spare you the details of what happened between that tenth grade sex-ed class and my second semester of my third year, it was mostly filled with new experiences — some leading to amazing new friends and life moments, while others leading to triggers, PTSD attacks, and anxiety attacks. Healing is filled with constant ups and downs, but for the most part, I was able to pat myself on the back for having my shit together considering the circumstances. I wish I could say that the story ends here, but unfortunately, this was not the case. At the time, I had a part-time job at a store in a mall near my house. I became friends with people there pretty easily, and about six months into the job, I befriended a boy my age. He was very charming, funny, outgoing yet mysterious. Everyone loved him! At this point in time, I had never been in any kind of relationship before and honestly, I wasn’t even looking for one. But when he took an interest in me, I felt like I should give it a shot anyway. What’s the worst that could happen if I agree to one ice cream date? So we went on our date, and to my surprise, it went well. One date led to another, and then another, and soon we were going out pretty often. However, we hadn’t kissed yet. During one of our dates, he leaned in for a kiss and instinctively, I pulled back. This was bizarre even for me, as I had kissed people before meeting him but for some reason, I just wasn’t ready to kiss him. He got upset with me, gaslighted, manipulated, and guilt-tripped me for not kissing him. After over an hour of trying to explain through tears to him why I wasn’t ready, I eventually gave in and kissed him. Because why not? After all, it was just a kiss. Maybe I was crazy and not making any sense like he was telling me. Hint hint, this was wrong! He didn’t respect my boundaries and coerced me into submission. It was assault. And although it was “just a kiss,” it opened up a future of sexual and physical abuse.

For the next nine months, things only went from bad to worse. He would tell me that he loved me, he would buy me gifts, he would impersonate a normal, moral partner at times. While other times, he would repeatedly manipulate, threaten, coerce, and assault me. Week after week, he would use physical force or any emotional means to get me to perform sexual acts on him. When he was upset about anything, even things that did not involve me, he would slap or punch me. At first, I felt unsettled but was naively not alarmed by this behavior due to the manipulation. Once I started to tell people, I quickly realized that I had to leave the situation, fast. I tried to break up with him multiple times, but he would harass me at home and at work (ahh yes, did you forget that we worked together?) until I was too tired to fight it anymore and gave in. If that didn’t work, then he would threaten to “ruin my life and make everyone hate me” — his words, not mine. I was terrified. I felt trapped and hopeless, deciding it was easier to keep the peace, even at my own expense, than it was to fight a battle I was not equipped to fight. Hint hint, again: wrong! There is always a way out, and thanks to the help of my friends, I was able to tell authorities at work about the situation and they helped to keep me safely away from him. Looking back, I realize that this was not a relationship and he was not a boyfriend. I was an object to him that he felt could be used as he pleases and when he pleases. It was more of a mental and emotional prison than it could have ever been anything else. Now, I’m 22 years old. I’m over 12 years older than I was when I experienced my first sexual assault, and not even a year older than I was when I got out of my last sexual assault. But the memories, the pain, the confusion, and the defilement will stay with me forever.

I won’t say it wasn’t hard. I won’t say it wasn’t painful. I won’t say it still doesn’t affect me every single day. Because it does — all of that and so much more. But I will say that it doesn’t have to be only that! It can also be empowering, liberating, knowledgeable, cathartic, powerful. It can help people. It can bring awareness and education to sexual assault and abuse. Which is why I wanted to share my story, in hopes that other survivors won’t feel as alone and dejected as most, if not every, survivor does at one point or another. It is important to shine a light on the different kinds of sexual assault. Sexual assault isn’t always how they show it in the movies, sometimes it isn’t as obvious as mainstream media makes it out to be. Sexual assault can be conducted not only from strangers in dark alleyways or drunks at parties, it can also be carried out from people you love and trust or people who say they love you. Sexual assault can be veiled as a natural thing or something that is expected of you to do. Many victims don’t even realize that it is assault until years later. Sexual assault can affect both men and women, of any age group. Sexual assault doesn’t always need to be done by using physical force or dangerous substances, it can also be as common as not respecting boundaries or using manipulative language after being told ‘no’ to get their way. Something as inconspicuous as a gut feeling may be able to save you from an unsafe situation. It is crucial for the public to be educated in the different appearances of sexual assault so that it may become easier to identify a healthy versus an unhealthy relationship — whether it be with a family member, a significant other, a friend, or anything else. It is the survivor’s choice, and only the survivor’s choice, if and when they feel comfortable reporting the incident. And it is never, ever, the survivor’s fault. 

For most of my life, I always saw my sexual assault experiences as unwanted baggage, as something that would deem me to be unable to feel or receive love in the same way that others do. I assumed that no one would be able to see me in a ‘normal’ way anymore, that my history with sexual assault would be my defining factor. I even saw myself as damaged, or difficult. It took me a very long time to realize that I couldn’t be more wrong! I believe that sexual assault doesn’t have to be a monster constantly hanging off your back and dragging you down, instead, it can be a blooming flower sticking out of your pocket — your personal journey of self-growth, ready to blossom only on your own time and at your own pace.