Grace Adams*
Sadly, I have experienced two assaults within my eighteen years: one in high school, where a teacher asserted his unwanted power over a vulnerable girl, and the other within my first fresh relationship as a wide-eyed college freshman. Both men have traumatized me and scarred me for life.
Knocked down, Abused, Scarred, Silenced, Broken.
This was my reality for two years after my brutal sexual assault. As a sophomore in high school, I was not the perfect student in every subject. There was an important test next week. I stayed after school for tutoring. One on one, a new teacher, kind and considerate, answered my questions… and then closed the door. Suddenly, I felt the board against my back, the ink getting all over the back of my shirt. Then it got worse. Hands where they should not ever be. They traveled, they grabbed, they scratched, they tore.
I tried to run, but I was not fast enough. I could not see through the window; he had used the lock out covers. Those hands came again, but harder. I felt that door handle embed into my spine… there is still a scar… felt those hands violently crawl from my chest to my butt to my throat. Only after did I knee him where it hurt, grabbed my bag, and ran past the pathetic man on the floor.
Thankfully, I had clothes to change into. It was time for practice. No time to think about what was just done to me. Don’t think about it, just breathe. Breathe.
Victim, Student, Weak, Empowered, Survivor.
After becoming a college student, my reality shifted once again. A wide-eyed freshman, full of hope, love, and positivity about the four years to come; a relationship with a boy was added a few weeks later. Kindness, patience, love, compassion turned to demands, increased physicality, no communication at all. His bed became a place to be feared, a tower that I could not escape. His hands on me, not caring about who heard his brutality, I fought back. Once again, I kneed him and watched him fall apart in agony. I jumped down, grabbed my clothes, and ran out of his room.
Months later, it is difficult to see him. His name sends daggers into my stomach, and saying his name feels like being punched all over again.
While I may not have the strength to be able to proclaim to the world that I am stronger than my assaulters, that I am a survivor of violence and sexual assault, I can share my story. I encourage others who share these wounds to speak up, but share what you want to, where you feel safe, to those who will listen to you.
Thank you for listening to me.
All my love,
Grace Adams
*pseudonym