I was 12 years old when I learned that some individuals take more than just toys that don't belong to them. I lost my innocence in the hallways of a new school in the 7th grade, something that I'd never get back. I was 16 years old when I learned that an Ivy League prospect could also be a sexual predator. I lost my sense of safety as a young, attractive woman, something that I'd never get back. I was 21 years old when I learned that my "no" somehow sounded like "yes," even when uttered over and over again. I also learned that speaking out against this behavior would be met with disbelief, not with disgust. I lost my voice in a society where victims ask for it, something I thought I'd never get back – until now.

Age at time of encounter: 12 years old; assault

I can still remember the outfit from that day in seventh grade. I wore a pair of my favorite American Eagle blue jeans tucked into short, purple Uggs. The Uggs had been a gift from my grandma. My shirt was hot pink and covered in blue floral print, complete with an Abercrombie & Fitch logo. Mom had always asked that I wear a white camisole underneath the V-neck cut, as I had an ample chest at 12 years old. For some reason, I didn't wear the "protective" camisole that day; instead, I only wore my white, lightly padded 34B bra.

I can remember the classroom I was sitting in. I can remember the way the two boys would laugh as they dared one another to touch my leg, At first, it was as if we were playing footsies. Then, they took turns placing their hands on my calves and knees. It was only about 15 minutes into my second period technology class that they had reached my upper thighs. I remember my face and chest being flushed, a tell-tale sign I live with which indicates extreme anxiety.

I had sat in the seat closest to the teacher's desk the entire year, a decision I quickly regretted as he would also make inappropriate remarks about my appearance. However, that day, I silently begged for him to notice me, to notice what these two boys were doing. But he never did. So I quickly ran from the classroom at the sound of the bell, believing that the worst was over. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

I can remember the hallway I was walking in. I can remember the way one had dared the other to run up behind me, sloppily throwing his arm around my shoulders. I can remember the way his hand slipped beneath my shirt, beneath my bra, touching my breast. I can remember the way I ran to my seventh period art class, sobbing from the encounter I had just had. Hysterical, my friends convinced me to report the abuse I had endured throughout the course of a school day. In an effort to discourage police involvement, the school assured me that the situation would be handled properly. The female dean determined that a single football game suspension would suffice after a day that began with footsies and ended with a stranger's hand in my bra.

Age at time of encounter: 16 years old; attempted rape

I had walked the same sidewalks to his house every day after school, telling my mom that I was being tutored in pre-calculus. Most days, we did our pre-calculus homework. This day, I found myself running down his block with tears streaming down my face, away from pre-calculus, away from him.

He was serious and studious, real Ivy League material – not at all my type. He sat in the front row of my class, diligently taking notes and answering every question correctly, I might add. I sat in the back row, usually looking out the window or laughing at a funny text. But when my grades become the real joke, I knew the first person to reach out to. So I did.

We began studying together in the school library, and later in the cafeteria at the end of the day. My grades quickly improved but by then we realized that we had developed feelings for one another. So we continued hanging out, more so outside of school in his empty house. I had recently lost my virginity in a two-year relationship but had decided to refrain from sexual activity for the time being, something that he said he would respect. I knew him and I trusted him; therefore, when he decided he no longer respected my decision, my encounter was relegated to the category of attempted acquaintance rape.

The same brown couch I sat on while we completed our pre-calculus assignments was the same couch he tried to rape me on. In fact, he pushed our textbooks off of the couch as he forced himself on top of me. He pinned my two hands above my head, pressing his erection against my black Victoria Secret yoga pants. I struggled under his weight as I repeatedly asked "What are you doing? Why are you doing this?" I tried to free my wrists from his grasp, which I would later find covered with bruises in the shape of his fingers.

The waistband of my pants resisted his right hand which only prompted him to push harder. He pulled the soft cotton of my panties aside, forcing his fingers inside me. I cried out in pain, still trying to comprehend what was happening to me. He mistakenly released my hands in an effort to pull his own pants down, giving me the opportunity to shove his chest hard enough to escape from beneath him. I gathered my things as quickly as I could, all while tears streamed down my face, leaving trails of mascara as they went. I yanked on the waistband of my pants as I pushed out his front door, grabbing my cell phone and dialing the first number that came to mind – 911.

As I rounded the corner of his block, I slowed and stared at the bright screen. It seemed so simple to hit the SEND button. Instead, I froze, wondering how I would explain to investigators that yes, I had feelings for him and yes, I had willingly gone to his house but no, I did not want to have sex with him. How would I look at an officer and say, with makeup smeared across my face, that the man who took advantage of me was the same Ivy League tutor who sat front row in my pre-calculus class?

So as quickly as I had dialed the numbers, I erased them. I would stare silently at the back of his head for the rest of the year, doing poorly in the class for a completely different reason. When I first told close friends of my experience, their reactions were all the same: "Him? No way. He wouldn't do that. You know his top choice is Cornell? I'm sure he'll get in. Weren't you guys dating anyway? Why wouldn't you have just said 'yes'?"

About two things I am absolutely positive – The first, that I did not consent to the sexual interaction that occurred that windy, fall day. The second, that he was not admitted to Cornell.

Age at time of encounter: 18 years old; harassment

A certain professor had always insisted our weekly honors meetings be held at the Starbucks located in the center of campus – a public setting – as opposed to his office. I considered his gesture both proper and professional. I had never known such consideration for my comfort as a young, attractive female. I confided in him some of my darkest, memoir-worthy moments and he too shared similar struggles as he was only a few years older. However, I would quickly learn that the public setting was not for my comfort. Instead, it simply served to keep his behavior in check.

It was strange to see his name without the word "professor" in front of it. But even stranger was his name, attached to a Facebook message request, three weeks before the end of the semester. Immediately I discounted my uncertainty, even feeling guilty, seeing as we had established a strong student/professor connection. His innocent greeting was returned with simple casualties on my end. I was not expecting the turn our conversation would take as he suggested we meet up off-campus. He asked me to join him at a bar to which I reminded him that I was only 18 years old. This fact did not phase him; nor did the girlfriend he impregnated mere months after our encounter.

As for the course, he would find the remaining ten assignments on his desk the next morning. My unexplained absences would be met with concerned emails after having blocked him on Facebook. I was no fool to this feigned concern as he only wanted to gauge whether his time as an adjunct professor was nearing an end.

I have seen him on campus since the incident. I have seen him speaking with other female students, leaving me to wonder whether or not they too would fall victim to his inappropriate advances. I have seen him and he has seen me, causing him to quickly gaze down at the pavement below his feet.

Age at time of encounter: 20 years old; assault

By this point, I was convinced the words "VICITIMIZE ME" were blazoned across my back. I was uncomfortable in my own skin, uncertain of my own worth. I saw myself taking all the steps to "avoid victimization." I never wore skirts or heels. I never applied too much makeup. I never walked around alone late at night. I never accepted drinks I didn't order myself. And I began carrying both pepper spray and a pocket knife. I knew that the next time someone tried to take advantage of me, I would be ready to fight back. What I didn't know, is that my next assault would be at the hands of an individual I was tasked with interviewing.

That day, I had broken my unwritten rules by wearing a skirt and heels, and an ample amount of makeup. We had decided to meet for a dinner as our schedules constantly conflicted. Despite expressing my need to pick up the bill – a journalist's responsibility – he paid for our evening. This would not be the first, or last, time that I struggled with this, as many male subjects would either feel obligated, or inclined, towards gentlemanly gestures. These acts would only serve to irritate me as both a reporter and woman. As a reporter, I pride myself on unbiased work, free from quid pro quo. As a woman, I never want to feel obligated to reciprocate sexually.

After dinner, he walked me to my car in the dimly lit lot; I vehemently insisted he need not do so. Again, under this gentlemanly guise, he refused my request. I had deliberately parked among other cars, as I had learned of safety in numbers. However, this idea would quickly backfire.

He followed closely behind as I approached my car. When I turned to thank him, I found myself pressed up against my car door. Unable to open the door, I tried pushing him away from me, only to realize my attempt would be unsuccessful as the space between the two cars was limited. His hand slipped under my skirt, prompting me to push against him again. He willfully stepped back, allowing me to open my car door wide enough to slip inside. I would watch as he smiled smugly, walking back to his car parked on the opposite side of the dark lot.

I stared down at the notes in my lap as my tears smudged the blue ink. I knew that this encounter would forever remain a secret as I could not fathom the certain public scrutiny that accompanied accusing well-known individuals of sexual misconduct. In 1991, the world watched Anita Hill accuse then Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas of sexual harassment. Then again in 2018, the world watched Dr. Christine Blasey Ford accuse then Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh of sexual assault 36 years prior. In reporting, neither woman was awarded justice; instead both Thomas and Kavanaugh were rewarded for their behavior with Supreme Court bench seats.

In publicly reporting, victims are forced to relive the details of their encounter as they attempt to prove their credibility. In publicly reporting, the lives of victims are laid bare, allowing for scrutiny and criticism by strangers. In publicly reporting, wealth, status and a record of professional accomplishments often speak louder than bravely-shared traumas met with disgust, disbelief and dismissal.

Age at time of encounter: 20 years old; assault

I am a Leo. People born under the sign of Leo are considered natural born leaders. They are also known to be passionate, dominant, self-aware and humorous. It was with these characteristics in mind that I decided to include a lion among my collection of tattoos, prominently displayed on my outer bicep. A Leo is also extremely hard to resist. I would quickly learn that this characteristic was in the forefront of my chosen artist's mind.

I spent nine hours with him as he created, by far, my most impressive work of art. The piece I requested – a black and grey lion with green eyes to match my own – came to life as we discussed our personal battles, and triumphs, against substance use disorders. Nearly ten years clean, he proclaimed his dedication to sobriety while acknowledging his fears of relapse. Those nine hours, filled with support, validation and understanding, were quickly forgotten.

He had offered me a ride back to my Airbnb at the end of our day together. I eagerly accepted as I was exhausted and far away from the place I called home. I had been the last client of the day, so we stepped out of the empty shop and into the dark, cool night. With my right arm sore and securely bandaged, I joined him in a beat-up Chevrolet he had agreed to help sell for a friend. With the windows down and music blaring, we began the ten minute drive back to my rental. I spent the ride gazing out the window, appreciating the quiet streets of a rural town.

We rolled into the gravel driveway, the sound of the engine likely waking the neighbors. I thanked him for the incredible work he had permanently inked into my skin. He insisted on a "proper hug" which prompted him to turn off the ignition and exit the vehicle with me. I don't recall any inhibitions, as we had spent the day connected on such a personal level. However, in letting my guard down, I quickly found myself in a hug which left his hands splayed deliberately across my butt cheeks. The hands that had permanently marked me a passionate and self-aware natural born leader had also seized the opportunity to grope me that summer night.

My initial shove was met with "C'mon, don't be like that. Don't end a great day on a bad note." My second shove sent him forcefully against the side of the rusted car. With tears in my eyes, I quickly turned toward the white, vinyl fence and pushed the gate open. Safely on the other side, I pressed my back against the gate, allowing my body to slide down to the concrete path. I held my breath as I waited for the sound of his footsteps to disappear. He tore out of the driveway as the Chevy roared to life, leaving a victimized client in a cloud of dust.

Age at time of encounter: 21 years old; rape

Twice, he carefully fastened the seven buttons of a dress shirt before coming to see me. The first, on the day I met him. The second, on the day he raped me.

I stepped away from him, uttering the word "no" but he did not stop. Instead, he used his left hand to grab me by my throat, leaving his right hand free to undo the single button on his pants. I cried out in pain but he did not stop. Instead, he muffled the sound with his tongue in my mouth. I shoved him with both hands but he did not stop. Instead, he pinned them above my head, pressing hard on my recently broken bones. I began sobbing but he did not stop. Instead, he pulled my shorts aside, shoving himself inside my clenched walls. I tried to pull myself out from under the weight of his body but he did not stop. Instead, he laughed and said "you know this is how you want to be fucked."

If dress pants had seven buttons, would I have had more time to fight back? If dress pants had seven buttons, would I have been left with bruises in the shape of his fingers across my neck? If dress pants had seven buttons, would my screams still rip me from sleep in the middle of the night? If dress pants had seven buttons, would I have been raped?

Call 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area. You are not alone.