when I was 12 or 13...
When I was 12 or 13, I was a pretty outgoing girl. I was fun to be around and I had a mental list of my favorite jokes to tell to new people I met. I loved wearing neon-colored clothing and I had just discovered what make-up was. I had also only recently moved to a new town with my family due to my father's job and even though I didn't feel a real connection with anyone at my new school, I felt pretty at easy with how things were.
When I was 12 or 13, I went to mess every Sunday. My father worked at the church next doors, which was connected to our home through a dark basement corridor, only blocked from our house through a small door we, however, kept open at nearly all times. At mess, there always was an extra program for the kids to which I went to until 2014 when I became to old for it. I had a friend at church, we'll call her Susan, and I always got excited when she was there for the mess, because that meant I could play with her during the kids program.
One specific Sunday, I think it was in winter, Susan was at mess and we talked and chilled as always. After mess, we stayed in the room where the kids program was held and just ran around or something, I don't really remember what exactly we did, but I do remember that we had a lot of fun. For some reason, there were deflated balloons lying around the place and we decided we wanted to inflate them, just for fun, you know. While we were doing this, a man from our church entered the room. He has a mental illness. Anyways, he entered the room and offered to help us with inflating them, he had a ball pump that would make it so easier and he'd go grab it. My friend and I already were uncomfortable. Maybe it was due to his mental illness, I don't know, or just the fact that a grown man interrupted two little girls playing.
He came back and we started inflating the balloons. Susan was still there so although I was extremely uncomfortable and would've liked to run away from the situation I was currently in, I told myself it's okay, Susan was here with me and it's also not okay of me to judge this man just because he has said mental illness. But then, after a while, Susan's mum showed up and said they were gonna go now, so Susan said goodbye to me and left. Left me alone with that man in that room. Now I was starting to get really scared. I wanted to leave. I tried to find reasons to leave. Reasonable reasons. I didn't want to say "I'm uncomfortable, I want to leave". I didn't want to make HIM uncomfortable. I also thought that maybe he wouldn't understand, he'd say it isn't a good enough reason.
I don't remember how it came to be. My mind is completely black between Susan leaving and the situation happening. All I remember is at one point, I was trying to inflate a balloon with the pump, but I was too weak, so he sat down on top of me. On top of my shoulders. And pushed me down. I was terrified. I wanted him to get off of me. I froze up. He kept sitting on top of me (I'll never forget this moment). My parents were upstairs. They wouldn't show up any time soon to pick me up. I felt helpless. And I felt ashamed of myself. For letting him do whatever he wants with me but also for already thinking I am a victim and what was happening was not okay. He has a mental illness, I told myself. That's just how he behaves. Accept it and move on.
Eventually I quietly told him some made up lie, about how I still need to get some homework done, and he let me leave. I ran up to our guest room and laid on the bed and immediately started crying. I couldn't comprehend what had happened to me. I didn't WANT him to touch me, that much I knew. But why did I then let it happen? Didn't I consent by not saying no? My mum came home after a while and I roughly told her about what had happened. She laughed and said I shouldn't worry, that that man has a mental illness and it's just the way he is, nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about. The mantra I have been telling myself for years.
The following Sunday, I was scared. When I left the room the week before, the man had said we could "repeat this next week". I was scared I would be alone with him in this room again. Helpless. I never left my mum's side that Sunday. And the following Sunday. And the following Sunday. And so on. To this day, I am terrified of going into our house's basement alone. I always think he'll somehow turn up. We'd be locked in this room again. And he'll touch me again, but this time not only the upper part of my body but everything.
Half a year after these events, I was walking home from school. I had a terrible day at school, people were calling me names and I was sad all the time. I saw two guys walking towards me, with a smug grin on their face. They were maybe two, maybe three years older than me. As soon as I saw them, I knew what would happen. I felt helpless. I ignored their stares, pretended I didn't exist, speeded up my pace so that it would be over soon and maybe then they would be quiet and wouldn't say anything but they did. "Hey, you lush hoe!". I froze up internally. I forced a smile. I walked past them. I pretended it never happened. Again. It's a compliment, I told myself. You should feel honored. Or they're just dumb and it's stupid you're getting upset over such a small thing again. This is how it is supposed to be.
This is how it's supposed to be, is what I told myself many more years. I repeated it like a mantra every Sunday when I was at mess, and I saw that man, and he stared at me lustily (he still does. every Sunday. it never ends.). I told myself it's normal to be anxious when random men were walking past me on the street, looking at me greedily, and I thought maybe they would touch me the way he did, because men can take whatever they want and leave and that's just the way it is.
Then I suppressed it. Until like a year ago. When I read sexual harrassment stories, that event never even came to my mind. Never. And then it did again when Taylor Swift's sexual assault case was a big topic. And #metoo. But I shrugged it off. All he did was to sit atop of me, and he has a mental illness after all, I said to myself. My mum was probably right and it is not a big deal, I'm blowing things out of proportion, it's not worth sharing, I'm taking away the light from REAL survivors of sexual assault. I should just shut up about it.
But the thing is, I cannot shut up about it anymore. I cannot shut up about it when that situation still impacts my mental health. I cannot shut up about it when I still think every man I meet will eventually assault me. That's just how men are. Boys will be boys. I cannot shut up about it when it has impaired every chance at a romantic relationship with any man ever. Because after a short while I got scared, I thought they would touch me against my will like that man did, since all I was taught was that my body was an object I had not control over. I cannot shut up about it when it has made me choose horrible men to fall in love with because I thought their shitty treatment of me was all I deserved. I cannot shut up about it anymore. I don't have the energy to keep quiet anymore. I cannot. I simply can't.
When I was 12 or 13, the world I was living in was maybe naive, but I wish I could turn back time and prevent it all from happening. Somehow. I don't know.
Just trying to find a life of my own I guess.
xxx Sarah
When I was 12 or 13, I went to mess every Sunday. My father worked at the church next doors, which was connected to our home through a dark basement corridor, only blocked from our house through a small door we, however, kept open at nearly all times. At mess, there always was an extra program for the kids to which I went to until 2014 when I became to old for it. I had a friend at church, we'll call her Susan, and I always got excited when she was there for the mess, because that meant I could play with her during the kids program.
One specific Sunday, I think it was in winter, Susan was at mess and we talked and chilled as always. After mess, we stayed in the room where the kids program was held and just ran around or something, I don't really remember what exactly we did, but I do remember that we had a lot of fun. For some reason, there were deflated balloons lying around the place and we decided we wanted to inflate them, just for fun, you know. While we were doing this, a man from our church entered the room. He has a mental illness. Anyways, he entered the room and offered to help us with inflating them, he had a ball pump that would make it so easier and he'd go grab it. My friend and I already were uncomfortable. Maybe it was due to his mental illness, I don't know, or just the fact that a grown man interrupted two little girls playing.
He came back and we started inflating the balloons. Susan was still there so although I was extremely uncomfortable and would've liked to run away from the situation I was currently in, I told myself it's okay, Susan was here with me and it's also not okay of me to judge this man just because he has said mental illness. But then, after a while, Susan's mum showed up and said they were gonna go now, so Susan said goodbye to me and left. Left me alone with that man in that room. Now I was starting to get really scared. I wanted to leave. I tried to find reasons to leave. Reasonable reasons. I didn't want to say "I'm uncomfortable, I want to leave". I didn't want to make HIM uncomfortable. I also thought that maybe he wouldn't understand, he'd say it isn't a good enough reason.
I don't remember how it came to be. My mind is completely black between Susan leaving and the situation happening. All I remember is at one point, I was trying to inflate a balloon with the pump, but I was too weak, so he sat down on top of me. On top of my shoulders. And pushed me down. I was terrified. I wanted him to get off of me. I froze up. He kept sitting on top of me (I'll never forget this moment). My parents were upstairs. They wouldn't show up any time soon to pick me up. I felt helpless. And I felt ashamed of myself. For letting him do whatever he wants with me but also for already thinking I am a victim and what was happening was not okay. He has a mental illness, I told myself. That's just how he behaves. Accept it and move on.
Eventually I quietly told him some made up lie, about how I still need to get some homework done, and he let me leave. I ran up to our guest room and laid on the bed and immediately started crying. I couldn't comprehend what had happened to me. I didn't WANT him to touch me, that much I knew. But why did I then let it happen? Didn't I consent by not saying no? My mum came home after a while and I roughly told her about what had happened. She laughed and said I shouldn't worry, that that man has a mental illness and it's just the way he is, nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about. The mantra I have been telling myself for years.
The following Sunday, I was scared. When I left the room the week before, the man had said we could "repeat this next week". I was scared I would be alone with him in this room again. Helpless. I never left my mum's side that Sunday. And the following Sunday. And the following Sunday. And so on. To this day, I am terrified of going into our house's basement alone. I always think he'll somehow turn up. We'd be locked in this room again. And he'll touch me again, but this time not only the upper part of my body but everything.
Half a year after these events, I was walking home from school. I had a terrible day at school, people were calling me names and I was sad all the time. I saw two guys walking towards me, with a smug grin on their face. They were maybe two, maybe three years older than me. As soon as I saw them, I knew what would happen. I felt helpless. I ignored their stares, pretended I didn't exist, speeded up my pace so that it would be over soon and maybe then they would be quiet and wouldn't say anything but they did. "Hey, you lush hoe!". I froze up internally. I forced a smile. I walked past them. I pretended it never happened. Again. It's a compliment, I told myself. You should feel honored. Or they're just dumb and it's stupid you're getting upset over such a small thing again. This is how it is supposed to be.
This is how it's supposed to be, is what I told myself many more years. I repeated it like a mantra every Sunday when I was at mess, and I saw that man, and he stared at me lustily (he still does. every Sunday. it never ends.). I told myself it's normal to be anxious when random men were walking past me on the street, looking at me greedily, and I thought maybe they would touch me the way he did, because men can take whatever they want and leave and that's just the way it is.
Then I suppressed it. Until like a year ago. When I read sexual harrassment stories, that event never even came to my mind. Never. And then it did again when Taylor Swift's sexual assault case was a big topic. And #metoo. But I shrugged it off. All he did was to sit atop of me, and he has a mental illness after all, I said to myself. My mum was probably right and it is not a big deal, I'm blowing things out of proportion, it's not worth sharing, I'm taking away the light from REAL survivors of sexual assault. I should just shut up about it.
But the thing is, I cannot shut up about it anymore. I cannot shut up about it when that situation still impacts my mental health. I cannot shut up about it when I still think every man I meet will eventually assault me. That's just how men are. Boys will be boys. I cannot shut up about it when it has impaired every chance at a romantic relationship with any man ever. Because after a short while I got scared, I thought they would touch me against my will like that man did, since all I was taught was that my body was an object I had not control over. I cannot shut up about it when it has made me choose horrible men to fall in love with because I thought their shitty treatment of me was all I deserved. I cannot shut up about it anymore. I don't have the energy to keep quiet anymore. I cannot. I simply can't.
When I was 12 or 13, the world I was living in was maybe naive, but I wish I could turn back time and prevent it all from happening. Somehow. I don't know.
Just trying to find a life of my own I guess.
xxx Sarah
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