The Last Time I Was Sexually Assaulted It Was By a Stranger and I Let It Happen.
There is no rhyme or reason when it comes to assault and to living in a domestic abuse relationship. People always ask you why you stayed so long but the mind is a strange and complicated thing.
Growing up, getting touched without permission came as frequently as the rain. Boys would ping our bra’s the moment we wore them and flick elastic bands at our nipples the second our breasts grew. It was painful, it was embarrassing and we were taught to believe it was a compliment. It never felt particularly complimentary as you sat in class trying to learn, attempting to make sense of the information thrown at you when PING, a sharp sensation would hit you in a sensitive area. All eyes on you, boys laughing. It didn’t matter how much you would tell them to stop, they just kept doing it and the more you stood up for yourself, the more they’d feel encouraged to continue.
Standing up for myself, being bold and different was not something I feared nor was I a stranger to. My Irish mother instilled in me a great strength and sense of justice, which also placed me as a target. But that didn’t stop me. I couldn’t sit idly by when friends were bullied, put down or laughed at. I spoke up for them and I spoke up for myself, even if meant making things worse.
At nightclubs and the student union, I’d feel an arm graze across my body, my butt cheeks squeezed, my breasts caressed. All of which would happen in the blink of an eye as groups of young men strolled by. It didn’t take me long to figure out which one in the group it was and sure enough, I’d call him out. I’d march right up to him demanding to know what gave him the right to touch me like that. The public display would leave his head hanging like a puppy dog disciplined by its owner. I would hope that he would think twice before doing it again.
At times I had even thrown a slap or two after being openly violated. The groups of men would laugh at their friend and my reaction. We would then go about our night again.
It wasn’t okay but I handled it and I wonder if it was easier because often they were my peers, boys and men of the same age. It wouldn’t be until an older man unknowingly manipulated his way into my body under the guise of a practitioner, that I would begin to freeze. That fine line of what is acceptable, what is manipulative and what is assault would become blurred. It often does for many of us.
The last time I was assaulted I was wearing my favourite skirt. It shouldn’t matter but it did. I was on a full bus, in the morning, headed downtown to meet with my lawyer friend. We were working on my case to deal with my ex husband, who let’s just say had his fair share of unwanted touches and manipulation over the years.
I was used to taking the bus. I hadn’t had a car for a number of years but occasionally borrowed my boyfriend’s. That day he took it to work and I didn’t mind. It was a beautiful day. The bus ride downtown was easy and a small and enjoyable walk would await me on the other side. I sat near the back, in the middle of a row of four seats. The bus grew busier by the minute. Soon I was surrounded. It was early and I had yet to grab a coffee. I wasn’t particularly in the mood for socializing so I pulled out my phone and played Candycrush to help pass the time on the 40 minute ride into the city.
The woman sat to my left got up and exited the bus. I continued playing, eyes glued to the small screen in my lap. I felt a man pass by in front of me. I did not look up. Something felt eery. I could sense the eyes of other passengers on him. I saw the wisps of grey hair and felt the whaft of a strange pungent smell. He sat beside me. I wasn’t going to judge him. I wasn’t going to add to the looks and stares and repulsion. Everyone deserves to be accepted. Everyone deserves to ride the bus.
When he sat beside me, his body turned toward me and the tips of his fingers slipped carefully under my thigh. I paused for a moment. My eyes titled upwards just enough to see a portion of his blurred face staring in my direction and a smacking sound coming from his lips. I didn’t look at him. I automatically assumed he was drunk and once again decided not to judge. Instead, I allowed his fingers to nestle comfortably under my thigh.
I began to grow uncomfortable as the journey progressed and I could feel many eyes on me. Something about the young man to my right made me feel as though I should be uneasy. He looked at me. I wished I looked back. It almost felt as though he was going ask if I was okay, waiting for permission to do or say something. I wish he did. I needed something to alert me, to wake me out of my frozen slumber. My mind gave up on me. I could no longer think rationally. I could no longer truthfully judge what was happening to me. The man on my right stood up. I could feel him watching the white haired man and then look back to me again. I stayed frozen, sliding the coloured candies from one row to the next. The young man never never said anything, neither did I and he got off the bus.
By now there were two empty seats to my right. If I could just move over…but I didn’t want to be rude. That was the one thought that went through my mind. Of all the things to think of, I didn’t want to be rude! I could now feel his hand fully under my thigh. Wake up! I needed to tell myself. I was too scared to look up but just as my journey was about to end, I did.
I finally locked eyes with him and I could see it straight away. His hungry, dirty, cold and desperate eyes hovered over me and my body. He breathed heavily. Drool filled his open mouth. I felt sick to my stomach. His hand slid forward and back while others looked on. I grabbed my bags on the floor at my feet and slid over to the empty chair beside me, creating some distance. At that very moment he spoke.
“Are you getting off here?”
Was I getting off? He was getting off and I wish he wouldn’t. “Yep.” I swiftly responded and turned the other way, hoping he would get the hint. Allowing the sound to release from my mouth began to give me courage.
“Do you live around here?” His breathy words pushed out and his body leant closer to me.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” I retorted.
I think I went to stand and in that quick moment he slid his hand so fast under my skirt and between my thighs I barely had time to catch it. I jumped up in an instant and my mouth began to spit out words so loudly the whole bus stopped and grew silent.
“How dare you touch me!” I screamed. “You just sexually assaulted me!” I called out.
I found my voice at last. I laid into him, word after word after word. I pointed my finger towards him, wagging it at him like the bad dog that he was. I took his photo with my phone and informed him I would show the police. And as I stood there declaring what he had done secretly between us for the past 20 minutes, not one person came over. Not one person said a word. In fact when I turned around I could see a number of people people laughing to each other at the commotion I had caused. I walked down the three steps to the door and turned back once more, yelling at him. “Don’t you ever touch any woman ever again!” He followed behind and leaned in to another woman standing nearby. “No thanks” she said to him. It didn’t seem a big deal.
I do remember one tall man in the middle of the bus near the front, looking back at me. His expression mixed with rage and concern. I caught his eyes for a brief second and wished he had walked back to help.
I made my way through the small crowd of people stepping off the bus. Certain he was still behind me, I raced across the street and walked as quickly as I could. With my phone in hand, I called my boyfriend at work.
“Someone just sexually assaulted me on the bus” I said to him, fighting back the floods of tears beginning to flow down my cheeks. Even though I had just launched a full on verbal attack on the man, I was shaking to my core and scared. A woman passed by me and asked if I was okay. I said yes, shrugging her off, assuming she was only asking because I was crying into the phone. It only dawned on me later that she had been on the bus too. I wish I had told her no. I was being brave. I was keeping it in.
I continued to walk. My boyfriend, at that time, asked me where I was and to send him the photo of the man. Protection mode began to kick in for him. All I knew was I just needed to reach my friend who I was meant to be meeting with. It was a 15 minute walk and I raced to her office. I was still shaking. As much as I wanted my boyfriend to come downtown and pick me up, there is something about finding solace in another woman. Women know. They get it. In that moment they are the safe place.
SPOILER ALERT: EVENTS FROM THE MOST RECENT EPISODE OF GREY’S ANATOMY.
I was watching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy last night that triggered the memory. It was a particularly sensitive one that was dealt with in the most powerful of ways. A woman had been raped and beaten. She was scared and didn’t want to, or could not, acknowledge what had happened to her. The female doctors rallied around her; held her, protected her, listened to her and gave her space. When it came time to be wheeled through the hallways she panicked, scared to see any man, knowing it would trigger an intense fear within her.
They cleared the hall of men and instead women stood on either sides of the wall as a barrier, as a shield, as protectors and as women who would know what she was going through and why this was necessary. No-one to tell her she was being irrational. No-one would tell her it was her fault. No-one would cast a snide remark or look behind her back, no-one would say she was playing the victim.
I wept. It brought up all the emotions of the many times I had been hurt and the powerful and beautiful women in my life who stood by me, rallied around me, empowered me and held me up until I could carry myself.
Later that day, after I had reported the assault on the bus at the police station with my lawyer friend by my side, my boyfriend left work and drove me home. He stayed with me and I was grateful for that. I felt safe with him. It was a Friday and he was due to leave on a boys trip for the weekend. He asked me if he should stay. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to not even ask but deep down I knew he wouldn’t really get it. For him, I had just been touched on a bus by a stranger. I hadn’t been raped. I hadn’t been beaten. It wasn’t a big ordeal. Or so he might think.
But to my female friends who know and to the women reading this, you know. It’s not just about that moment. It’s about the many moments that preceeded it and the guilt and shame that would follow.
I beat myself up that day for wearing that skirt. Then I beat myself up for thinking that. I wrestled with myself over why I didn’t stop him, over why I froze. Why I didn’t just get up and move down the bus. I was devastatingly disappointed in myself for freezing. I was mad I hadn’t been stronger and my boyfriend wouldn’t understand, however sweet he may have tried to be.
I wanted to throw away the skirt but then I wanted to keep it as a defiant act, to not allow him to have any control over my life. I still have it. I tried to wear it once. Now it sits in at the bottom of a drawer as a reminder, a potential trigger. It also acts as a reminder for my strength that came in the end.
Just as the woman in Grey’s Anatomy spoke up and told her story, the female doctors (with permission) could stand by and support her. Our stories are powerful and so are we. When we speak up, when we speak out, we find that we are not alone.
We find that we are in fact, surrounded by an Army.
As women we are strong, together we are stronger.
Note: After I reported the man to the police they were easily able to identify him because of the photo I had taken. I reported the incident on camera before a police officer that same day and footage taken from the bus backed my account. He was picked up that day and imprisoned until his trial. I was later informed that he had been released as his sentence had already been served during his wait. He was and still is a repeat offender.
