Kesha’s stirring performance of “Praying” at the Grammys ignited something within me. As I watched her pour her heart into every note, I found myself seeking out the name of someone from my past, tears streaming down my face. In that moment, I confronted the ghost of my attacker.
His smile, once charming, now taunted me from the screen. The same eyes that had sparkled at me across a bar now seemed to mock my memories. Time has changed him; he’s older, greyer, and now married. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if he remembers that warm Spring night from twenty-two years ago.
Does he recall the roses he brought to my dorm room? The way he brushed my hair aside before leaning in for a kiss? Did he already have intentions to hurt me? I replay every detail in my mind, wishing I could erase them. Does he remember the moment I said “Not tonight” as he held me tightly? Or the scent of my perfume that lingers in my memory like a ghost?
I can’t help but question if he feels any guilt or shame. Did he think twice about what he did after he dropped me off with a casual, “I’ll call you tomorrow”? I doubt it. To him, I was just a fleeting moment, an object to be discarded.
That night in a dark room, as he overpowered me, I fought to stay conscious, telling myself to survive until it was over. The words he used still haunt me—those vile terms that transport me back to that experience in an instant.
Fast forward to today, and I see his face again, this time beside his wife in front of a perfectly adorned Christmas tree. I search her expression for any signs of his past misdeeds, but there’s no way to tell. Survivors become skilled at masking their pain, concealing their trauma with a facade of normalcy. We learn to redirect our partners’ touches, to avoid triggering memories that cut deep.
The world around us feels indifferent, especially when a man who boasts about assaulting women is elected to lead. I watch as brave women step forward, sharing their truths and standing up for those of us still struggling to find our voices. The names of powerful men—like Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey—make headlines, but I still wonder when my attacker will face consequences.
I yearn to be as courageous as Kesha, to speak my truth and heal. But today is not that day. I often whisper “Me, too” into the mirror when I’m alone, rehearsing for a moment when I can finally say it out loud. For now, I sit in silence, grappling with my shame and trauma, staring at my phone as I confront my past.
I hope he’s somewhere feeling the weight of his actions. I hope he’s praying for a change of heart.