I Am a Survivor

I was sexually assaulted by a classmate at 15 years old. This is my story.

I got a handful of text messages after the news broke that Bill Cosby was getting released from prison. Friends and family members were curious for my reaction and thoughts, given my outspoken nature on sexual assault, and the segment I used to host on SiriusXM, where I spoke publicly for the first time about my own experiences as a survivor.

Some of the people who contacted me regarding Cosby were confused that I was not surprised by the news. Disgusted and furious, sure, but surprised? Not even close. And if you are surprised, then you’re asleep at the wheel, honey.

It took 60 women coming forward and a high-profile trial to see Cosby held accountable, which only lasted the three years he was imprisoned. By the time Donald Trump was running for re-election in 2020, a total of 26 women had come forward to say he had sexually assaulted or raped them. And while Harvey Weinstein is set to rot behind bars into his 80s (hopefully), the #MeToo movement that rose up around him only resulted in charges against 12 influential people out of a recorded 262 (as of January 2019). Some famous people lost their fancy jobs, but men like Charlie Rose and Matt Lauer got exorbitant paychecks on their way out the door—they literally got paid for assaulting women (and yes, I know how contracts work—but it does not change the reality of their payout).

And that’s just the public figures.

Bill Cosby is symbolic. Trials and convictions temporarily soothe the collective, creating the illusion that significant changes are happening in our culture. We tell girls they are equal, that they matter—and then the courts let sexual abusers walk free, time and time again.

What I’ve come to realize is the system is not broken—it’s working exactly as it was intended to. And if you’re just getting acquainted with the dizzying rage of yet another rape-related injustice now that Cosby has been released from prison, then buckle up baby, because you’re about to get a lot angrier. For every 1,000 rapes, 384 are reported to police, 57 result in an arrest, 11 are referred for prosecution, 7 result in a felony conviction, and 6 result in incarceration (data acquired from RAINN). Consider those numbers the next time you are about to ask someone why they didn’t bother to report their assault.

It is hammered into our subconscious at every turn: even if someone believes your story, it’s likely nothing will happen to your abuser, and now you’ve merely exposed one of your most traumatic experiences. Not everyone can handle that, and honestly, no one should have to.

At the time of my own assault, I didn’t even realize that’s what had happened. It wasn’t until a therapy session over 10 years later where I finally named it out loud: I was sexually assaulted.

The summer before my junior year of high school, when I was 15 years old, I was sexually assaulted by a classmate at a party. When false rumors began to spread about what happened, I was targeted, blamed, and mercilessly bullied.

When you’re a survivor of sexual assault, you don’t survive just once, at the scene of the crime. You survive every day, every minute. You survive every time someone makes a rape joke, or defends an abuser. Or casually brings up or defends your abuser. Or says something dismissive about abuse and rape itself. And, maybe worst of all, you survive every time someone acts entitled to your body, grabbing at you or harassing you when you’re just trying to exist without conflict.

What you might not understand about assault, if you are not a survivor, is that it changes you at a core level. It’s in every romantic encounter, every tense conversation about boundaries. It’s on every calendar, remembering the exact day, place, and time. The trauma became part of my foundation. It never retreated to the dark corners of my memory—it lives in my peripheral vision, not skewing my perception, but always lurking, waiting for an opportunity to take center-stage. And yet, despite all of it, I move forward. That is surviving.

And sometimes, when I go through a difficult period, like a break-up, I start having my recurring nightmare. It’s the same scene for 17 years now, seemingly a carbon copy of the summer night in question; deep in my sleep I can still feel the urgency in my chest. I can feel the determination in his hands. I can hear my small voice saying, “wait, wait, wait.”

It happened on a hot summer night at a gathering with lots of friends. A new boy had moved to my small town that summer and somehow defied all the odds of being a new kid, quickly rising to popularity.

As for me—I was an extremely late-bloomer, which resulted in a great sense of humor and precisely zero boyfriends.

So when the new kid asked me to take a walk with him at the party, I was actually overjoyed. I wanted to be older, mature, experienced. And so I went, nervous but excited, and completely naïve to what was about to unfold.

Everyone found out that something had happened between myself and the new kid because it took place in the backseat of another boy’s car, and the events made me bleed badly, leaving a large circle of blood behind.

At the end of the night, as people piled into cars, the discovery began. The blood stain was unmistakable, and everyone knew who had been back there. After the initial gasps and whispers, no one asked me if I was okay, or why I had bled so much. No one asked if I had been scared, or resisted, or if it had been painful. Instead, the owner of the car and his friends immediately tagged me with a nickname: “bleeder.” And in the weeks that followed, they took the liberty of shaping my backstory, telling anyone who would listen that I had let the new kid take my pants off, despite having my period, because I was desperate to hook up and didn’t care if I menstruated all over the backseat of a car.

In truth, at the age of 15, I was not yet getting my period. Like I said—late bloomer. But whenever I was confronted with the rumors they had started, my eyes drifting to the floor, my stomach turning over on itself, I would just deny the story without revealing the truth about my body.

The reality of that time is that I was more ashamed to admit that I was 15 and had not yet gone through puberty and gotten my period, than the fact that I had begged the boy to stop. That he forced his way into my body and I hadn’t wanted it, and I asked him over and over again, “wait.”

That little word—wait—allowed me to blame myself for years. I hadn’t used the right word. I didn’t say “stop.” That, along with the fact that I walked off with him voluntarily, had me believing in my bones that it was my fault. And that’s why I accepted the bullying and the rumors as my punishment.

When school started up in the fall, I had hoped the weeks between the assault and the first day would be enough for everyone to move on to something else, someone else. But the universe had other plans. During our school’s annual spirit week, I entered the gym for an assembly and was making my way across the room when I heard a chant start up, and it was all for me.

“BLEEDER! BLEEDER! BLEEDER!”

When I looked up at the bleachers, the boy’s friends were pointing directly at me.

As I turned away and finished the never-ending journey across the room, their voices echoing behind me, a new part of me was born. It was the part that quickly learned to use humor to deflect my pain—a part that instinctively knew to beat everyone to the punchline so I did not have to live within it.

I became the jester, playing into the story, making crass comments about the experience to chase away whoever was trying to choke me with their cruelty that day. I made it into a joke so I wouldn’t have to drown in the miserable truth: that he had forced himself on me, and I was deeply traumatized because of it.

I had made it into such a joke that, years later, high school acquaintances will actually bring it up in casual settings—“remember when you hooked up with -new kid- and bled in the backseat of -boy’s- car? And everyone called you bleeder?”

For years, I’d respond with, “yes, that was definitely a character-defining moment for me.” And it’s true. It was. I used to think it was because I learned how to laugh at myself. But it was actually because I learned how I would have to survive. And I continue to survive, despite the world chipping away at my faith in its desire to protect women, every chance it gets.

So please, don’t ask me if I’m angry about an abuser getting released from prison. Of course I am. But what I’m really fucking angry about, are the millions of abusers who are out there doing it over and over again. The ones who get reported to the police and never get arrested. The ones who never get reported at all. The ones who will ruin a teenage girl’s dreams of what her first encounter with a boy will be like. The ones who will not only never be held accountable, but will continue to abuse for the rest of their days, and enjoy every second of it.

If you are angry about Cosby, I’m glad. Welcome to the fight. But get clear on the fact that he is nothing but a symbol—at the micro level, in our own communities, there is much work to be done in seeking justice for survivors of sexual abuse. We live in a country that claims to champion women and equality, but often hesitates (or fails entirely) to hold abusers accountable. A country where your state might decide that a man can have sex with you if you’re unconscious and it’s not considered rape. A country where high school girls’ yearbook photos are sexualized for V-neck shirts. A country where women are murdered over a sexual fantasy, a “temptation” that was created solely in the mind of the murderer himself. A country where a teenager can be removed from her prom because the fathers chaperoning the dance claimed that her dress inspired “impure thoughts.”  I could go on for pages with these examples, but the point is this: Cosby is the big story, but sexual abuse is happening all around you, all the time. It’s in every community. That is what I’m really angry about.

I don’t share my story for a chance at recognition, or an apology, or a pat on the back for bravery. I actually struggle to feel brave when I talk about surviving sexual assault, because I still come face-to-face with anger—toward myself, of all people, for not kicking and screaming and punching his face in and running as fast as I could. For not telling my parents, who love me so deeply and support me in all that I do. I know now, after lots of internal work and therapy, why I couldn’t do it in the moment, but trauma is a relentless bitch.

There is a literal consumer market for “ways to protect yourself.” There are self-defense classes, sharpened key rings, pepper spray, safety tracking apps for smartphones, and beyond. And surprise, surprise: it’s not stopping women and girls from getting sexually assaulted or raped.

We need to stop trying to make women better fighters, and start focusing on raising fewer rapists.

People often question what they would tell their younger selves. If I were speaking to the girl who had yet to become a survivor, I would tell her to rabidly advocate for herself, and never underestimate her intuition. Scream the truth until her throat is raw and red. To speak her truth at all costs.

I wish it were a less aggressive message, but it’s a sign of the times.

I do believe that, in small ways, the world is changing, slowly—but if you are a woman, people will still try to steal your autonomy, and ultimately, your joy. Protect it with a fierceness that scares off the wrong people, but attracts all the right ones.

There are two reasons I chose to put these words and this experience out into the world in a more permanent way than I ever have before. The first is that I’m ready. After years of work, I can speak about what happened in a way that feels as though I am in control of the narrative. Having released the truth into the world, I’m no longer beholden to the lies that once buried my story.

The second reason is that, if there is one single person who comes across this story and subsequently feels empowered to share their own, that is all I could possibly hope for as a writer, a woman, and a survivor.

If I had read or heard similar words, there’s a chance I might have known I could come forward. There’s a chance I would have known there’s power in telling the truth.

I once believed the truth of what happened didn’t matter. I don’t believe that anymore.

Now, I believe in the power of my story. And if you have one, I believe in yours, too.