Every so often, I find myself loudly lamenting the contents of my Facebook newsfeed. The endless political arguments are grating, the selfies are overwhelming, and honestly, can we all agree that the pose of every woman with one hand on her hip is getting a little old? But the real kicker is when I come across a photo from a party, and suddenly, I’m jolted by the realization: “Oh look, there’s the guy who assaulted me back in high school.” That revelation definitely overshadows any political debate.
This incident took place many years ago—three decades ago, to be precise. To channel Will Smith, let me set the scene: my friend’s parents had left town for a week, and she threw a wild keg party. These gatherings were legendary, filled with raucous energy, overflowing drinks, and an abundance of marijuana. We indulged heavily in both alcohol and pot back in the ’80s.
And yes, there was always an undercurrent of sexual activity. Couples were making out in shadowy corners, and drunk hookups were sneaking off to find a secluded spot for the night. Flirtation was in the air, but I was still a virgin and intoxicated. I was either in tenth or eleventh grade—who really keeps track of those details after all this time? I had endured my fair share of childhood trauma stemming from my parents’ tumultuous divorce and an abusive stepparent, yet I had held onto my virginity longer than many girls in similar situations.
I definitely enjoyed the party scene, often indulging in kissing and groping during those awkward teenage explorations. I had begun to develop a kind of emotional armor—“If you don’t let anyone in, they can’t hurt you!” became my mantra. But back to that party. I remember feeling unwell and seeking out my friend, the host. I told her I needed a place to lie down for a bit. She led me to her parents’ bedroom and said, “You can rest here as long as you want!” before returning to the festivities.
I can still picture the moonlight filtering through the curtains and the cheap nylon comforter that seemed to cling to my skin. I heard the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the party. Eventually, I must have drifted into a hazy state, perhaps even falling from the bed to the floor. That’s where I was when two guys entered the room. Initially, I thought they had mistakenly walked in, but then they closed the door behind them.
As they whispered to each other, my instincts kicked in, and I suddenly sobered up. One of them spotted me and said, “Here she is!” The other, someone I recognized but wasn’t friends with, joined him. They were notorious for their reckless behavior. At that moment, I went into survival mode, trying to remain quiet.
Then everything shifted. They began to interact with me, and I remember fragments of the encounter—fleeting visuals and muffled sounds that replay in my mind when triggered. One of the guys approached me, and suddenly I was confronted with a horrifying reality. I’ve often wondered if he remembers any of it. Does he recall my panic as I tried to get up, the shock on my face when his friend grabbed me and tossed me onto the bed?
I remember shouting “NO!” and “STOP!” but it felt like my voice was lost in the chaos of the party outside. I can still see the moment when the fair-skinned guy exposed himself. It was surreal, and even after all these years, I can vividly recall every grim detail.
What happened next is a blur, but I do know they worked together to strip me of my jeans. The cacophony of the party mixed with my confusion created a surreal backdrop to an unimaginable violation. The echoes of loud music and the smell of beer and smoke intermingled as they assaulted me.
When a knock at the door finally interrupted them, they fled, leaving me in shock, still on the bed, disoriented. I can’t remember if I returned to the party afterward. I eventually confided in a friend about the incident, but her response was dismissive, suggesting I was still a virgin. That was the last time I spoke of it.
Weeks later, I encountered one of my attackers at school. The shame that washed over me was intense, and part of me internalized the guilt, convinced that somehow it was my fault. I was drunk, alone, and I thought I could’ve done more to fight back. It’s disturbing how the mind rationalizes such trauma, leading to self-blame rather than accountability for the perpetrators.
I’m sharing this, though I’m uncertain if I’ll publish it. I don’t want to tarnish anyone’s reputation with old accusations, especially given the chance that my attacker doesn’t even remember me. I might have been just another face in a long line of victims. However, as a parent of both a daughter and sons, I can’t help but think about the reality of such events. How many others carry similar burdens?
We know this happens—now, in the past, and likely in the future. It’s a painful truth that many women and girls could share their own harrowing narratives. I can’t be the only one who has looked at a Facebook photo and thought, “Oh, there’s the person who hurt me.” Can I?
Further Reading
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Summary
This personal narrative explores the complexities of a traumatic experience, reflecting on the author’s past encounter with assault and the lingering impact it has had on her life. The piece delves into the themes of memory, trauma, and the societal implications of such events, raising awareness about the prevalence of sexual violence.
Keyphrase: trauma and memory in sexual assault
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