My Name is Mel, and it Gets Worse for Girls like Me in College

tw: sexual assault

I was never one to dim my light in the presence of anyone. If I had something to say, I would say it. I never feared the outcome because I knew that if I had a voice, it was my privilege and right to use it. But then came a day where I wished for nothing more than to stay silent.

The day I didn’t want to use my words for anything except the occasional greeting down the hallways of my high school. It was that day that I still realized that I had to speak up. I wasn’t speaking just for myself, but I was indirectly standing up for an entire group of survivors. After communicating to my mentor and close friend about what had happened to me, I took my story higher. I went to file a report to my dean and my high school’s officer. His response? “It only gets worse for girls like you in college.” I had never felt more humiliated in my life. 

My senior year of high school, I was sexually assaulted by someone that I considered my close friend at the time. On school property. During school hours. With other students present. 

To spare you the curiosity, I was wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt while helping my school’s charitable giving organization clean out their donation closet. We had developed a relationship beyond, “just friends’ online but at that time, I had no interest in pursuing the physicality of it. We were both strong athletes, but his height dominated mine, taking away any sense of power I thought I could have. My wrists dangled in his palm like a child’s tennis racquet in mine and the breath in my lungs felt non-existent. He texted me that night, begging me to answer whether or not I’d press charges. I said I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t stay silent.

No cameras were present in that area of the basement to defend my case, but his word of mouth did. Sitting across from my dean, I was told to relive the situation I had been through by detailing every single thing that had happened. Three times. Once written, once verbally, and once while the dean was acting out the gestures in front of my mother and I, asking me to confirm that he “understood” what I depicted. No. He didn’t understand because he wasn’t there. He can act out everything to his desire, but I did anything but act. He flung his hands up in the air and pretended they were bound between the fingers of a 6’3 man, while mine still hurt from the day I had to resist a man’s impulse. When his charades were over, time went by while the dean spoke to my assailant. Anxious for justice, I was called back into the room and what I heard next broke my heart more than anything ever has. It wasn’t a heartbreak for myself, but a heartbreak for every other woman or man who had been in these shoes. 

With my mother beside me, I expected some sense of relief. A sense that the system would protect people like me from getting hurt the way we did. The dean expressed that every detail I had provided was confirmed and accepted by my assailant. He had confessed to his actions and put forth that he did, indeed, commit the deed. In my head I was thinking, no shit I was fucking there, I can’t make this shit up. My head nodded, somewhat in excitement because I thought that maybe I made my justice. Maybe I did have the power.  Instead, the officer of my case looked me in the eyes and told me, “You can’t lead men on the way that you do. It will only get worse in college for girls like you if you keep that up.” I wanted to throw up. 

The dean looked at my mother and I and explained to us how he, my assailant, was actually a good guy who made a mistake. I was appalled and taken aback. They kept building on their excuses as I sat there, wide-eyed and angry. A good guy?! Good guys assault girls in the basements of their high schools?!

Because I was a minor at the time, I had no say in the legal actions that could be taken against my assailant, but my mother did. The officer looked at my mother and explained that, “I can go into his classroom right now, arrest him, and take him to jail for battery. But understand that you will be ruining his life if you decide to press these charges.” Suddenly, what was supposed to be my story became his. It was about what was in his best interest. I was graduating in a week and all we established was a “no contact” rule for the remainder of my time at Maine East High School. Beyond that, as I was told, was not in their control anymore and “whatever happens, happens.”  I never spoke to him ever again. And I was urged by both my officer and my dean to keep quiet. This is me doing anything BUT keeping quiet. 

My own story opened my eyes to the reality many other survivors like me face on a daily basis. He got to live out the rest of his high school career without concern.  He continued his Varsity athletic career, participated in clubs, represented our high school’s National Honor Society. For a long time, I felt powerless. It took me a while to realize that I had the power in the moment. I spoke up. I did tell my side of the story and I sought out the justice I knew I deserved. I was one strong fucking woman and to have that power stripped from me in the midst of an all-male committee was humiliating.

For the people who don’t speak up out of fear, anxiety, or anger, I feel for you. I understand you. For those who did and were belittled to the point of being brushed under an invisible rug, I feel for you too. I cannot wear your shoes, nor can I tell your story, but I can be understanding of it. Sexual assault statistics no longer resemble numbers to me. Instead, I see my own name intertwined in those percentages with the feeling of powerlessness from that moment tingling inside me. I refuse to be just a number. I refuse to be a statistic. I am a survivor of belittlement, betrayal, a broken system of patriarchy, and violation. 

To those who supported me, empowered me, pushed me to speak up and speak out about my story, I appreciate you. To those I love who didn’t know what I have been hiding under my skin for three years now, I’m sorry. But I have a special message to those who blamed me, humiliated me, belittled my experience, told me that it “wasn’t as bad as I make it out to be,”— thank you. Thank you for opening my eyes about the reality I live in. Thank you for making me realize the toxicity that I need to avoid in order to prosper. Thank you for showing your true colors for victims like myself because if you’re not supporting me—your friend, your coworker, your cousin—you’re not supporting my other sisters and brothers tearing themselves apart for a situation they couldn’t control. 

My story is not intended to be a ploy for pity. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. Take my story as you wish, but I do want you to know one thing. I want you to speak up. For yourself. For your loved ones. For your friends. If you can be a voice, be one. By that I mean, don’t go telling a story that isn’t yours or reporting a situation a survivor isn’t ready to share. We all cope differently. It’s about supporting each other and being PRESENT. Be THERE and be aware. If you went through an experience like mine, I want you to know that you are not powerless. You are not worthless. It is not your fault and they meant to do what they did. Your feelings, decisions, and actions are valid. Your experiences won’t ever define you regardless of:

• What you wore
• What you were drinking
• How much you were drinking
• Who you were with 
• Your age
• Your route home
• If you changed your mind midway through

And more…

If you or a loved one has experienced assault, please reach out to me or someone you trust, whenever the time is right for you. The National Sexual Assault Hotline is also a good source to reach out to. They are available 24/7 at 1-800-656-4673