I’m not in a traditional relationship with my child’s father; we simply cohabitate. It’s an unconventional arrangement, but it works for us. Despite no longer being in love, we maintain a strong bond. Recently, he expressed his frustration about receiving temporary duty orders out of San Diego. I tried to hide my anxiety, but inside, I felt a deep sense of dread.
There was something I had never revealed to him—something I wasn’t prepared to share. Years ago, I was raped by someone I considered a friend. The last I heard, he was living in San Diego.
Logically, I knew that San Diego is vast and the likelihood of him being near my daughter was slim. However, I couldn’t take that chance. So, I turned to social media for answers and began my search.
The panic I felt imagining my daughter being in the same city as my attacker was overwhelming. My heart dropped when I discovered he had relocated from across the country and was now living just a thirty-minute drive away. He was attending the very college I had considered for my PharmD, located just a mile from my daughter’s Kindermusik class.
Suddenly, memories flooded back: lying beneath him, disoriented, waiting for it to end.
I had met him during my time in the military. Let’s call him Jake. He was a friend of a mutual acquaintance, and as a sheltered 19-year-old, I thought it was exciting to have male friends. At first, I perceived him as attractive, with a vibrant personality and a love for life. He was open about his fondness for drinking and casual relationships.
However, as I became more acquainted with him, I started feeling uneasy whenever we were alone. He frequently made inappropriate comments about my appearance and would steer conversations toward his sexual interests. At one point, he even made a disturbing remark about a baby’s appearance, which I called him out on, but he dismissed my concerns. Even discussions about his family were riddled with objectification, particularly when he described his sister in a way that reduced her to mere physical traits. He never made these comments in front of anyone who might challenge him.
I was young and naive, trying to fit in with the military culture that encouraged us to brush off discomfort. My “friends” often belittled my feelings, and our command held him in high regard for his athletic achievements and academic successes. I felt trapped in a toxic environment where challenging him would only invite backlash from his numerous allies.
Things escalated as his 25th birthday approached when a mutual friend warned me that Jake had expressed a desire to engage in a double-team with me. Furious, I confronted him, but he denied ever saying it. Later, I learned that he had angrily confronted our friend for revealing his intentions, as if I had somehow betrayed him. I attempted to withdraw from attending his party but was pressured into going since I had agreed to be the designated driver.
The party followed a typical trajectory for someone like him: a strip club, and then a gathering at a friend’s apartment. Most of the night went smoothly until the atmosphere quieted. He waited until nearly everyone was asleep to sneak into my sleeping space and began to molest me. I fought him off, but he persisted, each attempt becoming more aggressive. Eventually, I fled to another room, but he followed. Fortunately, he stopped when he realized another man was present.
The next morning, I dreaded leaving my hiding place, aware that if I abandoned my role as the designated driver, I would face repercussions from command. Reluctantly, I attempted to rouse him, naively believing that alcohol had clouded his judgment. However, with most of the group gone, he tried again, pulling me close against him. At only 5’1” and 112 pounds, I felt powerless and gave in, thinking it might appease him. It did—for a while.
Months later, after a falling out with the group I had been part of, he reached out to me for a meetup. I made it clear I wasn’t interested in anything physical, and he assured me that a friend I had previously slept with would join us. Upon arriving at the club, I quickly discovered that he had lied about the arrangement, and we were alone. Despite my protests, he encouraged me to drink, preying on my stress from school and the heartache of lost friendships. After some time, we left together. I don’t recall how we ended up at my apartment, but I do remember waking up to find that we had had sex.
The following morning, while nursing a hangover, he made me promise not to tell anyone. He warned that if I did, I would face consequences for underage drinking and be labeled a promiscuous woman. So, I kept quiet—even after testing positive for chlamydia. For a long time, I blamed myself, convinced I had somehow led him on. I made excuses for his behavior, rationalizing that he was just more experienced. After all, I had known his character—what was I expecting?
The emotional fallout from his betrayal has lingered, affecting every relationship since then. As I consider my daughter’s future, I feel a heavy weight of responsibility. How can I protect her from enduring what I went through?
I scrolled through Jake’s social media, hoping to find evidence of personal growth. Perhaps five years had changed him? Unfortunately, he remained the same: posting videos of himself drinking excessively with his friends—those very same individuals who had once tried to corner me. The only noticeable change seemed to be his involvement in charity runs and his pursuit of a master’s degree in physical therapy. If I didn’t know him, I might see him as a respectable person. Should I speak out? Would anyone believe me?
I drafted an anonymous letter to his program supervisor, inspired by the idea that silence had allowed harm to persist. I was proud of my decision to not remain a silent victim. However, upon reviewing it, self-doubt crept in. My words seemed less like a call for justice and more like the cries of a wronged woman. I had left too many identifiers, and I feared he might retaliate with a defamation lawsuit. While there were no statutes of limitations on sexual violence in South Carolina, it had been five years since the incident, and I had no tangible evidence left. The nightclub had closed, my old apartment lacked surveillance, and I had changed my phone number years ago. I worried about the implications of a lawsuit, especially regarding my daughter’s well-being.
In my search for clarity, I came across a Reddit thread discussing similar dilemmas. A response resonated: “You are not seeking justice; you want revenge.” They were right. While I could never forgive Jake, I felt paralyzed by the fear of doing nothing. What do you do when your attacker is so close to home?
Honestly, I’m unsure why I’ve shared this story. Is it for closure? Or perhaps to seek forgiveness? If I were genuinely acting in the interest of others, I would confront the consequences head-on. Yet, I am filled with fear. All I can think about is protecting my little girl, and all I can do is caution her father to keep his distance from Jake, even if I’m not ready to explain why.
What other options do I have?
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Summary
This article recounts the harrowing experience of a woman who grapples with the trauma of being raped by a former friend. Now, faced with the unsettling reality of her attacker living nearby, she reflects on the impact of her past on her life and her daughter’s future. The piece explores themes of trauma, fear, and the struggle for agency in a world that often silences victims.