I’m not married to my child’s father, but we share a home. It’s not your typical arrangement, and everyone has their own thoughts on it, yet we maintain a strong bond. Recently, he expressed disappointment upon receiving temporary duty assignment orders out of San Diego. I tried to hide my feelings, but inside, I felt a wave of dread wash over me.
What my partner didn’t know was that I had been a victim of date rape by someone I once considered a friend. As fate would have it, I learned that he was living in San Diego.
The logical part of me understood that San Diego is vast, and the likelihood of him being anywhere near my daughter was slim. However, I wasn’t willing to take that risk. Thus, I resorted to the only means I knew to gather information—I scoured his social media profiles.
My heart raced as I discovered not only had he relocated from across the country, but he was now living just a thirty-minute drive away. He was even attending the very college where I was hoping to pursue my PharmD—just a mile from my daughter’s Kindermusik class.
The memories came flooding back, overwhelming me; I felt as if I was suffocating. I hadn’t seen him in years, yet I was transported back to a time when I lay powerless beneath him, feeling dizzy and trapped.
I met him during my military service. (Let’s call him Mark.) He was a friend of a mutual acquaintance, and as a sheltered 19-year-old, I thought it was perfectly fine to have male friends. Initially, my only impression of him was that he was an attractive guy, over six feet tall and built like a tank, with a zest for life that was hard to ignore. He was upfront about his love for partying and casual encounters.
However, as I got to know him better, I began to feel uneasy when we were alone. He frequently made comments about my body, steering conversations toward my appearance. His remarks about other women and even children made me uncomfortable. On one occasion, he showed me a photo of a baby and commented on her appearance in a way that was deeply unsettling. Even his family wasn’t off-limits; he’d describe his sister in a way that objectified her completely. He would say these things only when we were alone, making it difficult to express my discomfort.
I was young and naive, trying to adapt to the military culture of brushing off feelings. My concerns were labeled as irrational by so-called friends, and since he was viewed as a star due to his athletic achievements and academic record, I felt trapped. I allowed him and others to disregard my boundaries, believing I was fortunate to be part of their circle.
Things escalated as his 25th birthday approached when a mutual friend warned me that Mark had told him he wanted to double-team me. I was furious. I had never given consent, verbal or otherwise, and when I confronted him, he denied it vehemently. Later, I learned that he had confronted our mutual friend for sharing this information with me, turning the tables as if I had betrayed him.
Despite my instinct to avoid his birthday party, I felt pressured by others who reminded me that I had agreed to be the designated driver. So, I went.
The party unfolded like any other for someone like him. We ended up at a strip club and later at a friend’s apartment. For the most part, everything was fine until the atmosphere grew quiet. It was then that Mark sneaked into my sleeping area and began to molest me. He forcefully grabbed my body and tried to get under my clothing. I fought him off, but he only became more aggressive each time. Ultimately, I fled to another room, but he followed me. Thankfully, he ceased his advances when he realized another man was in the room.
The next morning, I dreaded leaving my hiding place. I considered leaving altogether but knew I couldn’t abandon my role as the designated driver, risking punishment from command if something went wrong. Hesitantly, I tried waking him, thinking he might have been impaired by alcohol. However, when he woke, he tried again, this time holding me against him. I was small and exhausted, and I reluctantly submitted to his desires, hoping it would make him leave me alone. He did, but only temporarily.
A few months later, after the group of friends I had been with stopped talking to me for dating one of them, he reached out and invited me out. I made it clear I wasn’t interested in anything physical, and he assured me it would just be a catch-up, even claiming the guy I had been with would be there too. Upon arrival at the club, I realized I had been deceived, and we were alone. Despite my insistence on leaving early, he kept offering me shots and using my recent stressors as an excuse to drink. Eventually, we left, but he refused to return to his dorm, insisting on staying at my apartment. I don’t recall how we ended up back there, but I remember waking up the next day to find myself in bed with him.
Still recovering from the hangover, he made me promise not to tell anyone. He threatened that I would face consequences for underage drinking and that people would label me a “slut” for sleeping with him. So, I kept silent—even when I later tested positive for chlamydia. For a long time, I loathed myself, convinced I had somehow led him on. I made excuses for his behavior, rationalizing that he had more experience and should have known better.
The emotional scars from his betrayal lingered, echoing in every relationship that followed. Now, they haunt me as I worry about my young daughter’s future. How can I protect her from experiencing what I endured?
As I scrolled through his social media, I thought, “Maybe he has changed.” However, I quickly dismissed this notion; even in his 30s, he continued posting videos of himself drinking heavily with friends—the same friends who had once tried to corner me for sexual advances. The only difference I noticed was his online persona, showcasing his charity work and pursuit of a master’s degree in physical therapy. If I didn’t know him, I might think he was a great guy. Should I expose him? Would anyone believe me?
I contemplated writing an anonymous letter to his academic program head. I was inspired by the silence that enabled abusers like Larry Nassar to continue their actions unchecked. I felt empowered to break my silence, but as I reviewed my letter, doubt crept in. It felt less like a pursuit of justice and more like a call for revenge. I left identifiers in my letter, knowing that if it reached him, he would easily figure out who I was. I worried about the potential for a defamation lawsuit. Although South Carolina has no statute of limitations on sexual violence, five years had passed, and I had no tangible proof. The physical evidence was long gone, the club was closed, and my contact details had changed. I feared the repercussions for my daughter if he pursued legal action.
Seeking advice online, I came across a Reddit thread discussing similar dilemmas. A response struck me: “You are not seeking justice; you desire revenge.” That was true. I could never forgive him for what he had done, yet the thought of doing nothing felt equally wrong. Now, I find myself at a crossroads. What do you do when your assailant lives so close to home?
Honestly, I’m not sure why I felt compelled to share my story. Perhaps it was a search for peace or forgiveness. If I were truly advocating for others’ safety, I would confront the consequences. But deep down, I feel cowardly. All I think about is my little girl, and all I can do is caution her father to keep his distance from this man, even if I’m not ready to explain why.
What other options do I have?
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Summary:
This article shares a harrowing personal experience of a woman who, while navigating her unconventional living situation with her child’s father, discovers that her rapist lives nearby. It explores the emotional turmoil and lingering trauma associated with her past assault, her struggle with the decision to confront her assailant, and her urgent desire to protect her daughter from similar experiences.