For over two decades, I found myself dismissing my experience of sexual assault and harassment during my college years. I often rationalized that because it wasn’t overtly violent, I didn’t have the right to feel victimized. I internalized the blame, convinced there was something inherently wrong with me for not being able to move on from the trauma.
Why was I so fragile? Why didn’t I come forward and report the incidents?
At just 19, as a sophomore, I was eager to support myself and secured a part-time position as an assistant to a highly regarded professor. He initially presented himself as a benevolent figure, someone who was passionate about his research and appeared to take a genuine interest in mentoring me.
However, his inappropriate behavior escalated gradually: a casual brush of his arm against mine, his hand resting on my knee. He even suggested that I should unbutton my shirt further to look more appealing. I felt paralyzed by the fear of being rude, often responding with nervous laughter and changing the topic.
Once, while delivering research to his home, his wife escorted me to his basement office. Once she was out of sight, he unexpectedly turned and kissed me forcefully in the stairwell. I didn’t scream or resist; I was shocked and fearful of creating a scene that would embarrass his wife.
After another unwanted kiss, he professed his love for me. At that young age, I may not have understood much, but I certainly knew that this was not love. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, I reached out to my parents for guidance.
Their response was to avoid conflict. They labeled him a “dirty old man,” suggesting I simply quit the job and steer clear of him. I complied, burying my feelings deep within. I never filed a complaint or confronted him.
During that conversation, I absorbed the lesson that unwanted advances from men were a normal part of life to be ignored. I felt increasingly isolated, fortified by my own independence and self-reliance.
Years later, a friend took the same job, and I later discovered she faced similar harassment. Guilt washed over me for inadvertently placing her in that situation.
The emotions I had suppressed did not fade away; instead, they manifested in my distrust of men, increased alcohol consumption, and discomfort with my own sexuality. Recently, as I’ve heard stories shared in the #MeToo movement, those buried memories of shame and anger have resurfaced.
I’ve come to the realization that I can no longer keep these feelings hidden. It’s time for forgiveness. I forgive my younger self for doing her best to escape a troubling situation. I forgive my father for offering the advice he thought was protective, even if it wasn’t the best. Ultimately, I even forgive the professor; he can no longer exploit me.
I feel compelled to add my voice to the #MeToo movement. There is empowerment and healing in sharing our truths. I owe this to myself and to future generations. To those like the professor—employers and academics who misuse their power—I now say: #TimesUp.
If you are navigating similar experiences, I encourage you to seek support. For resources, you can explore this link, which offers valuable information on pregnancy and fertility. Additionally, if you’re interested in at-home insemination, check out our article on home insemination kits. And for further insights on overcoming trauma, you can visit this site.
In summary, my journey through denial and self-blame has led me to a place of acceptance and empowerment. It’s never too late to confront the past and seek healing.