Sometimes, I find myself grumbling—quite audibly, actually—about the oddities that pop up in my Facebook feed. The endless political debates? No thanks. Selfies? Enough already! And can someone please explain why every woman seems to strike that same hip-out pose in her photos, as if reciting some childhood rhyme?
But the real kicker? It’s when I stumble upon party pictures, and while scanning the faces, I suddenly think, “Oh look, there’s the guy who assaulted me back in high school.” Yep, that memory certainly overshadows the political chatter.
We’re talking about a long time ago, decades even. Thirty years, to be precise. To paraphrase Will Smith, let’s set the scene. My friend’s parents took a week off, and she threw one of those legendary keg parties. You know the type—packed, wild, and overflowing with drinks. And there was plenty of weed, too. The ’80s were something else, right?
Parties were a mixed bag of couples making out in corners and strangers slipping away for a quick hookup. I was a virgin back then and definitely buzzed. I can’t recall if I was in tenth or eleventh grade, but honestly, does that even matter now? I was already navigating the fallout from my parents’ bitter divorce and the challenges of an abusive step-parent. Somehow, I’d made it this far without losing my virginity, which was not exactly typical for girls like me.
I loved to party—oh boy, did I—but I was also building these defenses around myself. I figured, “If you don’t let anyone in, they can’t hurt you!” That motto stuck with me, unfortunately.
Back to the party. I remember seeking out my friend, the hostess, and telling her I felt awful and needed a place to rest. She led me to her parents’ bedroom and said, “Sleep in here. You can stay as long as you need!” And then she vanished back to the festivities.
I recall the moonlight filtering through the curtains and the cheap comforter that snagged at my hangnails. The muffled sounds of laughter and music echoed through the door. At some point, I must have drifted off into that hazy state between sleep and consciousness, but when I came to, I realized I had slipped onto the floor.
That’s when I saw them—two guys I vaguely recognized but wasn’t friends with. They were older, notorious for their troublemaking ways. Initially, I thought they’d made a mistake walking into that room. But then they shut the door and whispered to each other.
Suddenly, I was wide awake and aware, a wave of fear washing over me. One of them announced, “Here she is!” and before I knew it, they were right there, blocking my way.
I recognized them, but we weren’t friends. The one with the light hair was the one who approached me first, and that’s when I realized the horror of my situation. I remember bits and pieces, flashes of sound and vision that replay in my mind whenever something triggers them, like the sight of that guy smiling at me on my screen.
I wondered if he remembered me—the girl he assaulted. Did he recall me trying to escape, or the way I yelled “NO!” and “STOP!”? I do. I remember every detail, from the shock of being pulled up and thrown onto the bed to the first glimpse of an erect penis, shiny and unexpected.
The other one? I can’t even remember what he was doing during that moment. But I do know that once the fair-haired one realized I wasn’t going to comply, the dark-haired one helped him strip me of my jeans.
The music thumped in the background, carrying the sounds of a typical teenage party, while my world crumbled around me.
Eventually, they left me there, confused and alone. I don’t even know how I got back to the party or if I did at all. I mentioned it to a friend later, who dismissed it with a simple, “Those guys are jerks!” and reassured me that technically, I was still a virgin. That was the last time we spoke of it.
Weeks later, I encountered one of them in the school hallway, grinning, and I felt a wave of shame wash over me. Was it my fault? I was drunk, I was alone… maybe they liked me? The teenage mind is a strange place, and I buried that night deep within, like a forgotten holiday decoration.
I’m sharing this, but not sure if I’ll publish it. I’m not out to ruin anyone; I doubt that guy even remembers who I am. Perhaps I was just another face in a long line of victims.
But, I have a daughter and sons now, and I can’t bear the thought of such a thing happening to them.
This happens more often than we care to admit. How many others carry similar burdens? How many have felt that same helplessness? It’s a sad, shared truth that far too many women can relate to. I can’t be the only one who’s felt that jarring recognition when spotting a face in a photo. Can I?
In Summary
This piece reflects on the heavy memories that can surface unexpectedly, particularly through social media. It emphasizes how many people carry wounds from their past, often in silence. It serves as a reminder of the need for awareness and support around these issues, particularly in the context of parenting today.