Because I am a Womxn

Written by Aleeza     (CW: sexual assault)

And so, it was a fresh, open wound.

No, it couldn’t be me.

I was taught better than that. I was taught to protect myself: to always be cautious no matter what. To stand up for myself. To always have the lingering thought that something could go wrong if I let myself slip. 

It couldn’t happen to me. 

I’m stronger than that. I would never let someone strip me of all my dignity that I have worked so hard to build all because I simply had too much to drink. That is stupid and careless. It couldn’t happen that easily. That isn’t how I learned it, that isn’t what I was taught. My parents taught me better. I have responsibility for myself. 

It couldn’t be me. 

I shouldn’t have had that much to drink. I shouldn’t have let myself lose control over myself. I’m a woman, I have to be more put together than that, but not too put together. I have to be strong, but not too strong. I have to be smart, but not too smart to challenge a man. I have to have fun, but not too much fun, because that’s dangerous for a person like me. For a girl like me. For a woman. 

It could not be me. I refuse to believe it. 

I’ll just go back to sleep and think about this in the morning. I’m still a little drunk. My mind must be playing tricks on me. Silly me. I’ll learn from my mistakes, right? Go back to bed you stupid girl. You’re better than this. Sleep it off. Just sleep. Don’t think about it. It’ll go away.

And the knife of my mind slit deeper.

It cannot be me. 

“So, did you two…?”

“I honestly don’t really know what happened.” 

I know exactly what happened. I just don’t understand. It does not make any sense. I cannot make sense of this. I could not give my friend a solid answer. For I did not understand it myself. 

Go home. Wash it off. Wash your face. Clean up and take a deep breath. You’ll feel better. That always makes you feel better. 

I still feel filthy. Why do I feel filthy? I’ll take another shower. 

And infection filled my mind.

I can’t tell them. They raised me to not be taken advantage of. I don’t want to scare them. I want them to have faith in me as my first day of college starts tomorrow. I can’t tell them now. It’s too late. It will only hurt them. What if they are mad at me? What if they expected better? What if they freak out? I can’t control what they do.

What if they go and tell someone else? Just keep it to yourself. You’re stronger than this. Move on. It’s time to move on. Pull yourself up. 

And it followed me. 

Wow, it really did happen to me. What did I do wrong? I hate thinking about this. I have to let it out to someone. But I don’t want to hurt my family. 

I want to be a leader for my sister. Not a failure. I have failed myself. I let myself go too far. I don’t want to be pitied. If I tell others it will define me. I’ll be the girl that was taken advantage of. I won’t be strong. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I’m tired of you telling me that you’re sorry. Everyone is “sorry”. 

I have to tell them. I have to tell my parents. There has to be something they can do.

So I let it out. 

“…Mom?” 

“Yes, honey, what’s up? We’re at dinner with friends!”

My voice shook. “I have something—something to tell you.” 

“Go ahead sweet pea, tell me anything.” 

“He….he took advantage of me mama. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What do you mean boo? – Honey come here please.” She whispered to my dad. 

“I don’t want to ruin your dinner. I’m really sorry.”

“You are not ruining anything. Don’t ever say that. We are here for you, always.”

I just cried. I couldn’t even say what he did in words. It could not leave my lips. I don’t remember much more of the conversation. It was so overwhelming for me. But the last thing I remember is both of my parents, with full confidence and support telling me:

“He will feel the full force of the law.”

And three years passed. 

And so, he did. He felt it. He went to jail. I won the case. He is now registered as a sex offender for the next 20 years of his life. With only texts as evidence. With statements from friends. I won. Nothing else. 

I won, so I should feel better right? 

Where is the relief I was waiting for all that time? All the turmoil and stress. An anxious waiting game. Where is the weight I wanted to be lifted? Where is the breath of fresh air I thought I would feel? Justice was served. Justice was served in the court system, but not in my heart. Not in my mind. 

Why do people from my high school not want to hang out with me anymore? Why did my friends at the party, who I thought would support me, tell me to only have my attorney contact them? Why didn’t they want to support me? 

Am I doing something wrong by reporting it? Am I once again a burden? Not just to myself but to my family and friends? What does my younger sister think? I want her to know what happened but I don’t want to scare her. 

I never wanted to get my friends and family involved. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you talk to my attorney. I’m sorry for asking you to help me. I’m sorry for burdening you after one night at your party. 

Do people question my truth? What does his family think? Do they hate me? Are they going to punish their son or are they going to fight for him based on his “truth”? Are they proud of me? What does his mother think? As a woman, does she feel broken, angry at her son, or more angry at me? 

I’m scared. If only I didn’t go to that damn party. One simple decision, right? I shouldn’t have had that last shot. One simple decision. 

All of these questions. 

Only one truth: I came out of it all. I came out of the ridiculous waiting game that the United States court system has turned into. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and I knew I could reach it. 

Not only did I reach the end, but I reached it at such a low point that it gave me tougher skin. I am so strong now. Stronger than the person I was before. So, through some lenses, I am grateful. 

So yes, it did happen to me. 

But guess what, I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for reporting it. I’m not sorry for bringing my family or friends into it. It showed me what support should look like. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for sending you to jail. I’m not sorry for pushing so hard to get you behind bars. I’m not sorry for taking nine months to report it, letting you think you could get away. You messed with the wrong woman. 

A woman. I have redefined that word in my mind and what that means for me. There is no such thing as too strong, too much fun, too knowledgeable or too much whatever it is that seems to bind us. You cannot bind me. You never will. 

Strip me of all my dignity, pride, strength and I will fight back harder. Harder than reality. 

Although I do not allow this to define me, I allow it to teach me. Not to teach me from learning from any mistakes. But to teach me that if I can get through this, there is absolutely nothing else in this world that can stop me because I am a woman.

Nothing.