Men terrify me. When I get on the Metro and see a car full of men, I feel like a gazelle walking into a lion’s den. Walking in the city, I play music so loud that I don’t have to hear construction workers catcalling over my headphones. I walk home with my keys between my fingers and pepper spray at the ready. My guard is always up.

My deep rooted fear of strangers bleeds into my relationships. I have intimacy, trust, and commitment issues. Getting close to a man, physically or emotionally, takes an extreme toll on me. I can't handle it. I feel undeserving of love. Any healthy affection and attention seems too good to be true. I don’t believe that it’s real.

Why?

Because I have been sexually assaulted.

The first time I was sexually assaulted, I was 17. I wouldn’t admit it myself for years. My friend had set me up with a cute guy. I trusted her judgement. I knew she would never do anything to hurt me. She just didn’t know that he would. Whenever a high school classmate would lose their virginity, it was a horror story filled with scandal, but crying and bleeding was normal. It was a part of “becoming” a woman. Despite my curiosity, I never wanted to have sex before marriage. When the time came, I said no. Over and over. It was like he didn't hear my cries, or just that he didn't care.

The second time I was sexually assaulted, I was 19. He was the second man to touch me. I liked him and even wanted his kiss, but not what happened after. He told me not to tell anyone about us. It would “cause too much drama” in our social circle. His friendship meant a lot me. I didn’t want to be “the girl who cried rape.” Everyone would hate me, call me a slut. They’d say I wanted it. My crush was very obvious, so who’s to say I shouldn’t have been happy that he gave me 20 minutes of action?

The last time I was sexually assaulted, I was 21. Earlier that day, a man followed me off the Metro to my work. It was harmless and even humorous, but shook me up. I dealt with creeps on the Metro and street on a daily basis. Sexual harassment was a necessary evil of being a woman in the city. My day went along, and I had an amazing night. There was an event at work with my favorite actress. That memory is now stained with what happened afterwards.

The whole night is a blur, but distinct memories play in my nightmares over and over, reliving the events and everything I should’ve done differently.

I shouldn’t have held the elevator for him.

I shouldn’t have been so friendly.

I shouldn’t have kept walking to my apartment as he continued to follow me.

I shouldn’t have been quiet.

I shouldn’t have taken an hour to process everything before calling the police.

I shouldn’t have called the police.

“Why did you take so long? Was is pressured or forced? What did he look like? What was he wearing? What were you wearing? Sorry, there’s nothing more we can do from here."

I shut down. This was the first time I had ever reported anything, which only made it hurt more. I finally spoke up, and nothing happened. I felt foolish, ashamed and scared. I felt like it was my fault, even though I knew that it wasn't.

I felt like damaged goods. His breaking and entering my body took something that can’t be replaced. He stole a part of me: my confidence, my sense of self, my comfort, my security, my happiness. But I am building myself back together, because I refuse to let him take away my voice.

I am a victim; I am a survivor. Everyone has their own way of coping and doing what they need to do, and I’m choosing to speak up. My pain is part of me, but I will not let it define me. I am not who I am despite what happened, I am who I am because of what happened. I will not let myself be ashamed. It’s his shame, his burden to carry.

I want to tell my story for a number of reasons. I wanted to tell this story for myself. I want police officers to know that all cases should be treated sensitively and carefully. I want people to know that it's not okay to rape people. I want people to know not to downplay sexual assault and to stop doing so. I want people to understand. I want survivors to know that they are not alone.

If you have been sexually assaulted, know that you are not alone. You should also know that you are not just a statistic. Your story is your own. It’s okay to talk about it, but it’s also okay not to talk about it. It’s a sensitive subject. It’s hard to talk about. Whatever you need to do, as long as it’s keeping you and others safe, do it. Scream. Cry. Laugh. Do what you need to do to find your voice, no matter the action. Because this is not your fault. It’s never okay and will never be okay.

But I promise that you will be okay. We will be okay.