As the Sexual Assault Awareness month of April comes to a close, it is important that we remember the victims of these crimes that often go unreported. Every 107 seconds, an American citizen is sexually assaulted. 44 percent of these victims are under the age of 18, and 80 percent are under the age of 30. 68 percent of sexual assaults go unreported, and, even worse, 98 percent of rapists won't spend a single day in the American prison system. Four out of five assaults, including 45 percent of rape, are committed by somebody that the victim knows.

The following is a letter from a young woman who was once a part of this abuse that goes on, unnoticed, on a daily basis.

"To the man who sexually abused me,

As I sit by myself at breakfast in the college cafeteria, I am staring off into the distance, watching a young man sit across the table from a young woman he is dating. She is smiling, being playful with her boyfriend, stealing his food, drinking sips of his coffee, all while he looks adoringly at her. I remember my first relationship, with you. The first relationship I ever had, full of potential. I had so many ideas as to what this was going to be like. How you would hold my hand and how our first kiss would have been. Playfulness was my love language. I was the playful girlfriend. However, that playfulness has died out. You killed it. You took advantage of my body. My nervous giggling, you saw as an “invitation” to touch me in ways that no man should, other than my husband, and you, sir, were not my husband. I had told you that I liked physical touch. However, when it came to you actually touching me, I asked you to stop because it scared me. It started as playful then turned into abuse. You grabbed me in ways no man ever should. You left bruises on my hips. I did not want to hold your hand after I saw the black and blue marks of your fingers show up on my wrists. I asked you to stop repeatedly. But you never listened. You made me feel defiled.

You don’t know it, after I broke up with you, I held in this secret for two years. I thought, “I was not strong enough to protect myself from the man who promised to protect me,” “This was my fault. The sexual abuse was my fault. I allowed it.” Every time I heard your name or saw you in school, I had to make a joke about our relationship. Not because I wanted to slander you, but because I needed to get the feeling of you off my skin. I had to forget the feeling of your hands crawling up my legs. I had to protect myself from you even though you could no longer get close to me. Your actions made me feel worthless. You took the thing that was most precious to me: my innocence. You defiled the one thing in this world I get to call “my own.” My body. Since I broke up with you, I have not let men touch me. I have not been able to desire a relationship. You took that away from me. I have had a strong desire to be a mother someday. Yet, I cannot let any man get close enough to me to hug me, to comfort me, because you chose to follow your desires instead of respecting mine.

The thought that often runs through my head now is “You are only good for being abused. You are not worth anything. This is your fault. You should have been able to stop it.” I held this pain in for so long. I never thought anyone would believe me about you. You claimed to be a man of God. You wanted to serve in the church. Who would believe me? You were seen as a good young man in everyone’s eyes, the level-headed and respectable one. I was seen as the spontaneous and impulsive girl who did crazy things on a whim. I suppressed the memories, until one day I remembered. I remembered you and your abuse. I sat on my friend's couch at 2 am, Easter morning, crying, recounting my relationship with you. I had been strong for so long, but as soon as I got the words out, “He sexually abused me” I broke out into tears. I felt free from the grasp you had on me. I was freed from the loneliness of “Nobody can know. Nobody will believe you.” I told a few trusted friends at college, none that knew you from back home, I am still afraid they won’t believe me. I told my parents. My father thought you were a stand-up young man. My mom always told me to be nice to you, so telling them was frightening. I didn’t think they would believe me. You made me fear my parents. However, when I told them, they broke for me. They could not believe you had abused me. They could not believe their baby girl had held in so much pain caused by a young man they had trusted.

I finally have a few trusted guy friends. None I would consider dating. Which is a good thing, for right now. I honestly won’t be able to have a relationship until I have completely healed from this whole ordeal. Which will not be any time soon. However, these young men in my life now are displaying how much I am truly worth. They know what you did to me. They have shown me nothing but support. They respect that I don’t want anyone to touch me. They remind me “It is not your fault.” They have promised me they wouldn’t let me date a toxic man again. I have slowly begun to accept hugs recently. I may never fully trust men. But this is a start.

I wonder many nights “How could a man, who claimed to represent God, sexually abuse me? How could someone, who promised to protect me from harm, be the one I needed to be protected from?” I cry sometimes when I remember what you put me through. I have just begun to heal. This is going to be a really long process. One that may take years. I want you to know the hell you put me through. The loneliness that I have endured because of you. The distrust you have thrust upon me. I also want you to know, as I write this through my tears, I forgive you.

Sincerely,

No longer a victim."

All statistics taken from RAINN.org/statistics.