I was sexually harassed and physically assaulted when I was 19.
I wasn’t alone; I was in a very public place.
It was extremely loud and overstimulating. It could’ve been easy to be distracted.
In fact, I was at first. I couldn’t hear what was being said the first few times, so I brushed it off.
They said it again. It would’ve been flattering, albeit a little off putting, if they hadn’t been obviously drunk and obnoxious.
Of course it didn’t end there. They kept putting their hand on my leg. I didn’t respond other than to move it away and say no, and stop touching me.
The lights turned on and they didn’t stop. It was getting on my nerves; I think I was too bothered to be scared in the moment.
They asked if I wanted to go with them when I left. They tried to touch my ass as I stood up, but instead — thank god — only grabbed my pants.
They tried to get to their feet, but they slipped on the beer that’d been spilled and fell. I have to admit I smiled a little, it felt like karma.
For a while I think I was just shell-shocked. It wasn’t until some time had passed that I comprehended what happened, that I had been harassed.
Most of the time I forget about it… until I don’t.
I’m kind of used to being touched without much consent. In most cases it’s just what’s necessary. Clinical, detached, and a bit cold, but necessary. It’s just a part of my life.
I’m not used to attention, not the good kind at least. People stare at me a lot when I’m in public… or they don’t, and they walk right into me and start apologizing like they saw me the entire time. Honestly, I just want to be left alone and allowed to live my life without it becoming a spectacle. I want to be seen as a human being.
I tend to downplay things that’ve happened to me. I don’t complain much, I don’t want people to feel bad for me or worry about me. I can tell by the looks on their faces when I tell them about something that feels normal to me. I want to seem fine; better than fine, like I can handle everything. It’s easier that way.
Part of me was (naively) happy to have been considered hot by a man at all, despite there being little to no good judgment and a lot of alcohol involved. The other part of me (rightly) felt like my personal space and safety were violated. I didn’t know if it was “bad enough” to use words like “assaulted.”
My body has never really felt like it’s mine. As much as I’m hyperaware of it because of the parts that don’t work well, I feel disconnected from it. It’s never not been open to other people’s eyes, hands, and tools. I’ve never had the privacy to form a good relationship with it. At best I’m indifferent and at worst I verge on punishing myself because I can’t get rid of the pieces I don’t like. Positivity comes in waves, often pulling out into low tide and coming back in like a flood, only to disappear again just as fast.
I think what I’m best at protecting is my personhood. It’s the one thing I can control, and being disabled there aren’t tons of times where I’m in control. My body just happens to be an extension of it, in a literal and figurative sense. Usually I’m seen as an easy target, clueless, someone you should pay no attention to. In saying no and not bending when I felt uncomfortable, I think it showed a strength I didn’t know I had at the time. I’d always been smart and firm in my opinions, but saying no when someone else has power over me? For a long time, I kept my mouth shut because I was too scared to cause any trouble.
I still struggle with how to balance that protectiveness. When to loosen my grip, when to let others have access to me, when to feel safe. I’m so accustomed to being in survival mode. I try to keep an open mind but there’s still part of me that finds it hard to trust — regardless of gender, but especially men.
It can happen to anyone, and it does more damage than we think.