Trust, confidence, body image. All were damaged or destroyed that day.

The fire that consumed the final physical reminders of the worst day of my life.

I owe you nothing. If I don’t trust you, don’t be offended, I rarely trust men these days. And even women, few knew my story before I finally decided to word-vomit it all here.

Telling a story like this requires a strength of will that you should never ask of one who’s view of the world has been colored by the trauma of an assault like this. Telling this story has taken me years. And I’m still leaving out so many details.

Because something like  this is intensely personal. It gets into your bones. This story has become a part of who I am. A part that I can’t share because it is inappropriate in most situations. Because I know what effect hearing others’ stories has on me, so I don’t want to force that on anybody else who is not ready for it.

I committed the physical reminders to the flames as a celebration of survival, and as I watched it all burn, I tried to let it all go. It’s a thing that clings to you though, leaves a permanent scar. I’m moving forward, and I can only do that by acknowledging my scars.

This isn’t your story, you don’t own it. This is my story, and I will tell it when and how I need to.

Is a question that I shouldn’t ever have to answer. But because I wasn’t born yesterday, I know at least one person is going to ask. I’ve known for quite some time, so for a while I kept the actual clothes I’d worn that day. Ultimately, on the three year anniversary of my survival, I took a trip to the coast with my older sister and ceremonially burned the clothing that had no right to own my life. I always knew I’d eventually be writing about this though, so I took pictures.

The shirt I wore on that day. I valued this shirt primarily because the way that it was cut allowed me to hide the form of the breasts that I had recently grown, and secondarily because it hid the maximum amount of arm possible while still being as breathable as a tank top. I showed no cleavage, and the size and cut hid as much of my “womanly” form as possible. I know someone somewhere will say that this shirt was too revealing, that I therefore somehow brought tragedy down upon my own head. That theoretical person can go die for all I care.

They’re shorts. Sure, my legs were visible, but so is everyone else’s legs in the summer. As far as shorts go, these were as shapeless as they could possibly be, just bulky bits of fabric I wore to fit our society’s standards of what we should be ashamed enough to cover no matter how hot the weather.

My father warned me against the bogeyman, told stories about the bogeyman, used the bogeyman to scare me into doing my chores or homework or leaving the park when it was time to go. My father never told me what a bogeyman was, what it looked like, what it would do to me, I just knew that a bogeyman was some kind of monster.

Everyday Monsters

Most sexual assault victims know their abusers. Many must continue to interact with the one who violated them. Calling rapists monsters does nothing to help these survivors.

Not Monstrous Enough

It’s difficult to own your experience as the assault that it was if you’re used to hearing about monsters and bogeymen. Many stories focus on the perpetrator; how many times have you heard about how good a man he really was? About his promising future as a football star? About the high quality entertainment he produced?

I Fear

Speaking about my bogeyman. I fear invoking him. Because I truly have relegated him to a bogeyman. He doesn’t live in my city, I’ve long since forgotten his name, and his only place within my life and my story is as a monstrous bogeyman who emerged from the shadows just long enough to shatter what was left of my mental health. I fear sharing my story could leave other survivors feeling as if their story is worth less. I fear enforcing a cultural narrative that loves to tell stories of nameless bogeymen attacking young innocent and conventionally cute people who inhabit bodies we’ve encoded as feminine.

There are no Bogeymen

Young children are fed stories of clear-cut good and evil, and we act like young children when we continue to rely on these same categories. Hitler was not a monster, but a man. Rapists are not monsters, but men and women who value their own sexual gratification over the agency and health of their fellow human beings. (Because yes, women can be rapists too, and men can be rape victims).

The bogeyman is dangerous only in the stories we tell about him. The bogeyman is dangerous only because his stories shield the real evildoers from any need to examine their own actions.