The card that accompanied the bouquet of roses read, “Let’s go out for dinner.”
After a heartbreaking breakup, I had spent months piecing my life back together. One night, on a whim, my friends convinced me to hit a local bar. “You need to get back in the game!” they cheered. As I stood at the bar, nursing a drink, a charming guy caught my eye.
He had a disarming smile.
He approached me with the usual pickup lines, while my friends giggled and gave me encouraging thumbs-ups from across the bar. He was persistent, and I should have seen the red flags. However, his smile and the wad of cash he flashed began to sway me. He treated my friends to drinks throughout the night, his attention glued to me. Eventually, egged on by my friends, I shared my number with him. As we left the bar, I received hugs and excitement about my potential new romance.
The next morning, two dozen roses filled my dorm room with their sweet fragrance, and I was both flattered and puzzled. How had he found my address? I brushed aside my unease, convincing myself that my heart deserved happiness again. “Dinner sounds nice,” I thought. Baby steps.
I should have been cautious.
In the weeks that followed, he showered me with gifts and orchestrated our dates with impressive detail. Each outing was more extravagant than the last, from private dinners at rented venues to beautiful gems that left my friends in awe. They would exclaim, “He’s perfect for you!” and I smiled, secretly hoping they were right. Gradually, I began to lower my defenses, allowing myself to dream of him as my Prince Charming. But as his kisses became more urgent, I felt the nagging fear creep back in. “I want to take it slow,” I told him. “I won’t wait forever,” he responded, and he meant it.
Then came the evening at his apartment.
He invited me over for dinner, saying it would be just the two of us. Upon arrival, the atmosphere was set with candles, flowers, and soft music. Before I could even step inside, he pulled me into a suffocating embrace. I hesitated, and that only seemed to fuel his desire. He led me to the bedroom, showering me with kisses that felt more like a demand than affection. “It’s time,” he insisted. “We’ve been together for a month.”
At just 19 years old, I was not prepared for what he wanted. I said NO.
He wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Come on, baby. It’s me. Let’s do this.” NO. “Do you know how much I’ve spent on you?” NO. And then it happened.
In one swift movement, he unbuttoned my pants and forced his fingers inside me. My screams fell on deaf ears as he asserted his control. “You’re mine,” he spat, his words cutting deep. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll shove my whole fist up there,” he threatened.
As he violated me, I felt nothing but despair. When it was over, he pushed me aside, telling me to leave. I was in his apartment for barely twenty minutes, and that was all it took for him to rob me of my sense of safety and trust.
I drove home in silence, tears streaming down my face, feeling the weight of my shame. I tiptoed into my dorm, careful not to wake my roommates, terrified of sharing what had just happened. In the shower, the hot water mixed with my tears as I sobbed and vowed to never speak of my trauma again. Guilt and shame became my constant companions as I replayed that night in my mind for months—years.
I now understand what it feels like to be robbed of innocence in a darkened room. I know the fear of being overpowered and the anguish of having your dignity stripped away. I know the pain that lingers long after the act, haunting you in future relationships.
I understand the struggle of hearing other women share their own stories of assault and wanting to shout, “Me too!” I know the truth of being violated, and it’s far from what some men might claim. It hurts deeply, and it remains a secret shame I carry with me every day. It’s not just “words” or “locker room talk.” It’s sexual assault. It’s rape.
Though I couldn’t fight back back then, the recent discussions surrounding these issues have emboldened me. I refuse to stay silent, not for myself, but for those who still feel too ashamed to speak out. I will not let my daughter grow up in a world where such behavior is excused. I will advocate for change because I never want her to look at me and say, “Me too, Mom.”
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Summary
This raw and powerful confession reveals the traumatic experience of sexual assault and the lasting effects it has on survivors. Sharing the journey from initial excitement to devastating violation, the author emphasizes the importance of speaking out against rape culture and supporting those who have endured similar experiences.