I’ve lived most of my life in fear. For example: as a child, I packed a suitcase every night with all of my favorite things to throw out of my bedroom window if my house was to catch fire. I have fears that diminish over time and I have fears that grow stronger as time passes. One fear has been particularly agonizing, and that is my fear of sexual assault.

I was 7 years old when I first saw the show, “Americas Most Wanted.” The story they were going over was that of the BTK killer. BTK is an acronym for “beat them, torture them and kill them.” A picture of his face filled the screen, and my body was suddenly overtaken by this sudden rush of extreme fear. I’d never seen a show like this before, and I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming feeling of, “I’m going to die like this one day.” To further perpetuate this fear, my brain wouldn’t let me stop thinking about it for weeks. Every night following that episode, I had extreme nightmares. I would stay up for hours, unable to sleep. I was nearly paralyzed with fear. My limbs felt heavy. My stomach stayed in a perpetual cycle of nausea. I replayed his face over and over again. Every time I heard a noise, I would nearly jump out of my skin. This started my fear-induced chronic binge watching of crime TV. I watched everything from minor assaults to gang rape. I’ve never gotten over it. To this very day, all I watch are crime shows documenting the horrors that people endure every day. Grotesque as it is, I can’t find it in me to stop. From here, my fears of sexual assault blossomed into a full-frontal phobia.

Growing up, I had a lot of unwanted attention that I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with. I’ve had older men hit on me since I was probably 10-12 years old. I come from a line of incredibly beautiful women. My grandmothers, my aunts, and my mother are all inherently attractive. Though I do struggle with body image, I am happy with how I look. One day, my mom and I were driving into town. I noticed that a man in a truck stared at us the entire time he drove past. I was creeped out, to say the least. I’d noticed it more and more often, so I asked my mom if she ever got used to having men stare at her. She said, “At this point, I don’t even notice it.” I was bewildered. How do you just not notice that sort of thing? It's painfully obvious.

It wasn’t until I was 15 that I started getting severely creeped out about it. Thus began the never-ending nightmares. Night after night, I had this one nightmare that I was abducted and raped, several times over. I would wake up crying, and then I would resume the dream right where I left off. It was torture. Going into public made me incredibly nervous. I was collectively afraid of the entire male population. Men have hit on me for opening doors, standing in a checkout line, at my workplace and a vast variety of other places. It’s been years since I’ve gone out in public without the fear of being taken against my will. It’s been years since I’ve gone out in public without worrying that my outfit or my appearance will get me killed because a man can’t help himself.

Now that I’m older, I know worrying that my appearance is the reason for assault is complete and utter bullshit. Why should it be my fault that a grown man can’t control himself? Why should it be me that gets blamed? Why are my clothing choices at fault? The way I dress does not give you any form of permission to touch me. If I’ve had any drinks, that means I CANNOT consent. Accepting your compliment does not equate permission. Being “nice” doesn’t equate permission. Yes is the ONLY word that means yes.

I went to a party at 16 years old. I was drunk on vodka and orange juice. I was dancing and having a good time. Drinking makes me hot, so I took my sweatshirt off, which left a t-shirt underneath. I was with two of my then good friends, and two guys that I’d never met in my life. We were drunk before they even showed up. After they arrived, they fed us more and more alcohol until I had a hard time standing up by myself. The room was swaying. My words were slurring. I couldn’t quite form a coherent thought. I stopped drinking, despite numerous attempts from one of the guys to get me to take a shot. I wanted to be more in control of my situation. I remembered all the shows I’d watched where girls had been raped in the exact same circumstances. I changed my entire attitude. Slowly, it dawned on me just how dangerous my situation was. Fear seeped into my body. I started panicking, but I didn’t want anyone to see it. For reasons unknown, one of my friends and one of the guys left. Another girl I was with was passed out on a couch.

I was alone with this 6’2” 19-year-old that I’d never met before. Mind you, I’m a dainty 5’4” weighing in only at 105.

I didn’t stand a chance.

Before they were even fully out the door, I was pinned to a couch. There was an arm over my chest, making it hard for me to move or to even breathe. My heart dropped into my stomach. My mind clouded over, and for a second I gave in. I knew I wouldn’t be able to fight him off. In the back of my mind, I felt that I should fight back. I shouldn’t be a coward. No matter what, at least I could say I tried. By this point, I started to struggle. At first, it was just wiggling because his arm was still crushing my sternum. And then I realized that his pants had been removed and he was starting to remove mine. I panicked. He didn’t expect me to fight him, so when I did, he was shocked. Enough so that I managed to get away and pull my pants back into place before I ran as fast I could to the bathroom. I’d just managed to lock the door when he started banging as hard as he could to try to get in. He screamed at me. I cried. He yelled that it was my fault. I did this. I was responsible for what happened. I was so sick that I lost all of my stomach contents. It was nearly 4 am, so when I pulled my phone out to start calling everyone I could think of, nobody answered.

Nobody tried to help me. I was all alone.

My first thought was, “I deserve this. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I shouldn’t have taken my sweatshirt off.” I should not have been drinking, this is true. I also shouldn’t have been sexually assaulted by a sober male.

Unfortunately, this was not the last time something like this has happened to me. Out of all of my friends, several have endured similar situations. I’ve only confided this information to a select few people that I trust. However, I wanted to share this to help others understand that even if you don’t tell someone about it, which you absolutely should, that there are others out there who understand what you’re going through.

I am not the reason I was assaulted. My clothing choices are not the reason I was assaulted. The man that attacked me is the reason I was assaulted. We need to stop teaching children and teenagers that “boys will be boys.” Don’t perpetuate rape culture. Inform your children on how not to be vile human beings. Hold them accountable for their actions, and do not make excuses.

No means no.

Maybe means no.

Drunk means no.

Unconscious means no. (I should NOT have to even mention this. The fact that I do is repulsive.)

Yes is the only word that means yes.