I can’t remember what my assailants face looks like. I know that he was in high school at the time, I know that he had some sort of accent, French I think, and he may have worn glasses. But that’s all I know about him.
I was 15 and at a party when he assaulted me. By the time I was able to process what was happening he’d situated him between the door and me. I was so drunk I could barley hold my own head up, let alone defend myself.
In the end he only stopped because a friend of mine entered the bathroom we were in. I’m not sure if it startled him or if he was just done with me but I took the interruption as an opportunity to put my clothes back on and he didn’t try to stop me. I don’t like thinking about what would have happened had she decided to use a different bathroom.
The first thing I did when I got home the next morning was shower. I thought somehow if scrubbed hard enough I could wash the memory of him off my body. Once I was done I brushed my teeth, threw my clothes in the washing machine and finished my English essay.
Later in the week, when the friend who walked in on it asked what had happened I told her it was nothing, that I had wanted it. The idea of telling someone about it, even admitting to myself that I’d been sexually assaulted, felt like I was re-living it all over again. And there was nothing I wanted more than put it behind me and move on with my life.
To this day I haven’t reported it. I have no idea who he is, I have no evidence, and some small part of me still thinks that by not talking about it, it’ll somehow go away.
But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. My hesitancy to share my story and the fact that I never reported it doesn’t mean that I’m lying or that I am ‘remembering it wrong’. It happened, and for now I choose to heal in privacy, but it might not always be that way. Maybe one day I will be strong enough to tell my story out loud.