The National Center for Victims of Crime reports that 6.6 million people are stalked in one year in the United States. This past year, I was one of those 6.6 million individuals.
In my case, it started out innocently. One day I would receive a text that complimented my outfit or my hairstyle. I simply admired the fact that someone was taking time out of their day to recognize my efforts.
The following week, it turned into confrontations, whether it be at the local grocery store or at a varsity football game. These led to conversations that were the epitome of small talk. We barely knew each other, yet the individual seemed to know quite a bit about me.
As the weeks passed on, the same habits occurred, although they were committed in a more aggressive fashion. My phone turned into a dispenser of unwanted, repetitive texts. I'd respond once or twice a day, in order for that individual to not feel alone or ignored. Yet had I ran into that individual before responding to those prior texts I had ignored, I would be questioned as to why I hadn't responded.
"I know you have your phone with you. I texted you. Respond to me," I was warned.
On daily outings, if spotted, I would be greeted with whispers mouthed against my neck. This individual wanted me to know that they could see me. This individual wanted me to know that they knew where I was at most times of the day.
These haunting reminders led me to actions only a victim of stalking would live out.
Whether I was coming home from school or work, I would take alternative routes home. On days where I felt as if eyes were on me from a hidden angle, I would stop at a friend's house for a while before I headed to my house.
My pepper spray and cell phone became my best friends. I knew that I had a form of self-defense at hand, and that officials or a loved one were just one call away.
I made use of such great friends. Whenever I was going into a public place, I would dial a friend's number and stay on the phone from the moment I opened my car door to head into the moment I returned back to my car.
Shortly after a serious run-in with the individual that had been watching from near or afar, I had had enough.
Reaching out to my loved ones was the best decision I had made. I was finally able to raise my voice. For so long I had felt as if I had led this individual on, or that I somehow asked for this attention.
I was wrong.
No one asks to be watched, followed, or manipulated. Everyone has the right to privacy and security. This individual had invaded my privacy, and my only wish is that I had spoken up sooner. I wish that I had spoken up sooner because now I am assured that nothing further can happen without affirmative action following.
To this day, I constantly check my rear view mirrors. I jump when someone yells my name. I shiver if someone whispers to me. I have panic attacks when my phone is bombarded with multiple texts. I flinch if someone touches my hair. I am constantly checking over my shoulder.
To this day, I am haunted by your shadow.
Your shadow was once pitch black, but now it has faded to a light shade of grey. Light, yet visible enough to remind me to keep my guard up.