when i was 22, i was approached by a photographer about doing a photo shoot. i had always been deeply camera shy, and preferred to be the one behind the camera, but was convinced by this man that it would be a very casual and comfortable experience as he showed me dozens of tasteful photos of women he’d photographed over the years. he was polite and unassumingly charming as he told me about his three children.
after two weeks of purely professional emails and working out scheduling, i arrived at the agreed-upon time for the photoshoot. he asked me once again (though we’d spoken about it previously) what my limitations were and what i was comfortable with in terms of clothing and proximity. i answered without any shred of uncertainty that any amount of nudity was off of the table. i’d brought some clothing options with me. he led me to where we’d be shooting.
as we walked through the doorway, the thin veil of charm fell away and the pretense of politeness was abruptly abandoned. within moments it became abundantly clear what was standing before me. he raped me.
most women reading this will have experienced some degree of sexual assault in their lives. more often than not, it isn’t anything like the dramatic depictions in film portraying an armed assailant and a frantic woman screaming or running away. it can be piercingly silent. it can slip under the guise of perceived concern, periodically asking whether you’re okay even after you’ve said “no” several times. it isn’t always fight or flight – sometimes, it’s freeze.
when i realized no amount of protest seemed to matter to this person, i froze. to survive, to make it out alive. if i don’t scream, maybe you won’t slit my throat. if i don’t move at all, maybe you’ll let me live and i will get out of here. i obviously had no idea what this person was capable of. still a photographer, he photographed the entire event. he gave me the photos.
i left in a daze. shock and denial took the wheel and i somehow auto-piloted my way home. when i called the police, i didn’t know what to say, but they arrived, and i took every step i was supposed to. i couldn’t shower before their exam and was stuck smelling him on my skin all day, a scent that i unfortunately still remember. i felt like i’d never be clean again, a feeling that did not go away for years.
within hours i underwent an interview, a rape kit, and had to surrender the clothes i’d been wearing for evidence. i still have the pink and orange flower-print cotton underwear they sent me home in. days later, the boy i’d been dating had to give a spit sample to ensure they were pin-pointing the right DNA – over six years later, he still won’t talk to me. i went to work the next day. life continued around me.
despite these efforts and his initial arrest, my case, like most sex crime cases, died. several months later, another woman came forward about an attempted assault by the same man, and the process repeated – back to the station, reinterviewed for story comparison. again, there was no follow-through.
earlier this year, i happened to stumble upon a photo of the man who raped me on social media, accompanied by a caption asking if anyone had had a non-consensual experience with him. i reached out immediately and accompanied the woman who posted it to submit a police report that same day. months later, the justice system continues to fail us, and he’s still roaming free, most assuredly taking advantage of women almost regularly. i think back to the photos he first showed me and wonder how many had been victims of his.
for years it was something i refused to think about and could not process. it deeply affected my intimate relationships, sex life, self-esteem, anxiety, body image, and ability to trust others. i developed several self-destructive habits. over the last two years specifically, i made a painful choice to confront my trauma, aggressively ripped off the band-aid, and delved headfirst into various forms of therapy – solo, couple’s therapy in the hopes of helping my then-partner understand my neuroses, as well as intensive hypnotherapy with the intention of feeling safe in my own body again – and have largely reclaimed a sense of balance and peace i thought i would never be able to accomplish.
it took me about three years to tell two of my sisters (the third went with me to the police station that day), and i was eventually able to tell my father in june last year, about a month before he was diagnosed with brain cancer. i was most afraid of his reaction, but i’m relieved that i was able to tell him before he passed. i hated having secrets between us.
i’m not writing this for sympathy or recognition. i’ve made my peace and unpacked everything i’m conscious of housing in my mind about this countless times now. i no longer cringe or self-soothe or avoid eye contact when discussing the events of when i was raped. i’m currently working on refraining from saying “my rape” or “my rapist” – i don’t want to hold ownership of the event or person by calling either “mine.”
i am writing this because no one should live in fear of others’ opinions that may arise from these situations in which you have no control. my deepest hope is to give others hope and perhaps even help to catalyze the strength to come forward and seek justice. the process is…frankly, horrifying at first. but if anyone needs help, direction, an ear, a hand to hold, someone to go to file a police report with you, or any other form of support i could possibly offer you, please, please do not hesitate to reach out to me and know that i will keep anything said to me in absolute confidence. feeling like you can reclaim power over your own body can feel impossible, and while it absolutely is possible, it can be very difficult to do on your own.
you are not alone.
