I spent years in the role of young pretty female salesperson and I dealt with stuff like that on a daily basis. I usually laughed it off but it wears on you.
I worked for one sales agency and over a period of several years I established myself as a product specialist, an expert in an extremely technically involved electrical automation product.
And I leveraged this into a job with another agency with the first one went out of business. I got them the contract to sell the product in exchange for a job.
But I’d only been there a couple of weeks before my new bosses decided that they wanted me to wear short skirts and heels and go on general sales calls with the “guys”. They thought my “strengths” were being wasted on “that engineering stuff”. They asked me to spend a couple of hours with one of the guys and “teach him everything you know” so he could handle the product I had dedicated my career to learning and selling.
I quit. I got the manufacturer of my favorite automation product to give me the contract directly and I even got them to give me a small start-up loan. And I went into business for myself.
My sister took this path. She was very promiscuous - most of her partners were men in their twenties. She had at least one pregnancy that I know of - she was fourteen. She was a wild teenager.
I was not. All I wanted to do was disappear. I never got in trouble and tried my hardest to never draw attention to myself.
My sister ran away with a couple of guys in her twenties when she was 12. She was missing for 3 months. She turned up in the hospital ward of a juvenile detention center. She had advanced pelvic sepsis, she was literally torn up by rape. The incident left her infertile due to massive scarring.
She was never considered a victim and the men were never considered criminals. She was troubled her entire life and died of at a fairly young age in a house fire. Her alcohol and drug abuse where contributing factors to the fire that killed her.
THIS is what it looks like when a life is ruined by sexual abuse.
I’d just like to echo the thoughts of appreciation for those of you sharing your stories in this thread. And to the women specifically, please don’t leave The Dope. This thread is exactly why your presence here is important. Though we may be lurkers who mostly keep to ourselves in the shadows of this board, there are many of us listening with open ears and minds, growing from your shared experiences.
I was 5, and I didn’t understand until years later that my friends father, stark naked and playing with his penis in front of me (although clearly weird) was wrong.
I was 12, and I froze. And I thought if I froze, no one would believe that I didn’t like it.
I was 13, and I did report. The man had pulled his junk out on the bike path I was walking home on, then chased me home when I ran. The cop laughed in my face, because I was having a difficult time describing the man’s face… but I was pretty clear that he had no pubic hair. He laughed. Heartily. I learned many years later from friends in the neighborhood, that this pattern happened multiple times to multiple victims, until he raped someone. He is now in prison. And looks exactly like I described. Tall. At least 6’3". Slender build. Dark hair. Blue eyes. 25-30yo.
I was 19 and he was my boyfriend. It didn’t matter that I was crying and told him no. He was my boyfriend. Who would believe me?
I was 24 and in law school. Drunk as a skunk. The last thing I remember as I was passing out was my pants being pulled off and something going inside me. I couldn’t move my arms. I woke up the next morning and fled. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was now one of “those women.” Broken. Dirty. Unclean. Tainted.
I’m sorry, are you saying belief and support are all that’s needed to prevent trauma? Surely not. Yes, I was believed. But my mother was a wreck, as I knew she would be, and KNOWING she’d be a wreck was the main reason I kept what happened a secret for several hours.
I gave no details, so allow me to clarify. I was walking home from my bus stop on the other side of an always-deserted public park in a “safe” neighborhood, in broad daylight. My assailant came down the park sidewalk. (Cops believed he was waiting for me, having stalked me and learned my schedule.) I veered off, he veered off, I veered on, he veered o–until I saw his face and knew I was in trouble. I ran, knowing it was futile. He caught me and pinned my arms firmly from behind. From the violence of the attack, I assumed he was going to murder me. The realization that I was going to die and my parents would never know how or why was terrifying. He molested me thoroughly and constantly while pouring obscenities in my ear.
I never stopped fighting. I only stopped screaming when I realized nobody heard me. I hoped if I listened to him, he’d tell me what to do so he wouldn’t kill me. This went on for some time. I don’t know why he let me go. I suspect he was tired. He yelled a taunting threat as I ran off.
I was humiliated and terrified. I felt contaminated. I insisted my parents not tell my siblings or bring up what happened again. They didn’t. I only told my siblings 2 years ago. For years,I didn’t tell anyone except my now-ex, who told me I’d probably incited the rape by acting nervous. I never forgot what happened, but I pushed it aside. I started having panic attacks and inexplicable crying jags a few months afterward. I thought I was going crazy. In October of 2016, the arrogant tone of a man bragging about how he grabbed women by the pussy and they let him threw me back to the incident. I had nightmares and crying jags. This is the price we pay for keeping assault and rape secret.
But that’s not why I was crying last night. I was crying because I was reading story after story on this thread, while in other threads where women are not believed and sexual assault is excused. I was incoherent with rage. This is the price we pay for divulging the secret.
Secondly, it’s clear that women all over the country, and maybe the world, are waking up and realizing that they’re stronger than they knew and if we want to have a better, more fair society, they’re going to have to use this power wisely and not repeat the mistakes of the patriarchy before them. I don’t agree with Ms. Milano’s statement “Every person who refuses to loudly and openly reject Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination is telling every generation of Americans that an alleged abuser’s career is more valuable than a survivor’s humanity.” I think there’s an excluded middle there, and I think we need to find it. Most of the voice on the street type comments I’ve heard are along the lines of “pause the nomination, get a complete and tranparent investigation done, make a decision” and I think there’s a lot of wisdom in that.
No, obviously not. Many of the people here have mentioned how they weren’t believed or weren’t supported, and how horrible that was. I did wonder if you were crying with rage, reading the comments in other threads, or if reliving the incident was causing the tears.
I haven’t gone into any of the Kavanaugh threads. I’m afraid of triggering a depressive episode and I really can’t afford one right now.
When and where was this that a TWELVE-YEAR-OLD who had been gang-raped and had PID wasn’t considered a victim!?!?!??! You can PM me if you don’t want to share it here.
That sounds like something that would take place in a Third World war zone.
p.s. As for the men who did this to her, this is what sexual abuse of boys can do to men.
There’s a lot of women in this country who feel that the people who voted for the Orange Menace were pretty much saying the same thing. Sexual assault doesn’t matter, women don’t matter.
I think each and every Trump voter was not only okay with sexual assault, but actually enjoyed that he was an unapologetic abuser. Bitches need to be put in their place, amirite?
I am fortunate enough never to have been raped. I know that I am lucky. And I know it is luck, not anything that I have done/not done.
Like most women, I have experienced comments in public places, groping, unwanted attention, men exposing themselves, etc. But I find that the incident I keep recalling is one that occurred when I was a young teenager. I had a regular babysitting job in the afternoons after school. Usually the mother of the children came home first, but on one day the father arrived before her. I waited around for a while, since I was expecting him to pay me before I went home, the usual arrangement. Instead, he propositioned me. I was a very naive, completely inexperienced 15-year-old. I had no idea what to do, what to say. He didn’t touch me beyond a hand on the shoulder. But for some reason, this experience is seared in my memory. I didn’t tell a soul until years later because I felt so ashamed and thought I had somehow instigated his actions by not leaving the house as soon as he arrived.
I remember the first time I heard the expression “sexual harassment.” It was a relief to finally have language to describe that experience.
I understand. And I recognize I was incredibly lucky that I was believed and taken seriously, though dammit, that shouldn’t BE “lucky”; it should be the fucking norm.
It’s extremely painful for me to read the stories of those who weren’t believed because I know if my parents hadn’t believed me, I probably would have committed suicide before I would have left the house: suicide offered some control, and murder did not. There’s a lot more to my story that I had to leave out, but I believe my attacker continued to stalk me after the assault.
Even when we’re believed by parents and cops, we aren’t by most of the country. To deny someone’s reality, to attack her for being attacked, is a sort of psychological and social obliteration. There are so many of us, and still we’re not heard. It takes me back to that time when nobody heard me scream.
This happened in 1972 USA. In the suburbs of a mid-sized city in the South. It was at a time when there was an epidemic of runaway teenagers and she was just another one. The prevailing attitude seemed to be that she consented to what happened to her and it was her own fault. Things really were different then.
To be honest, I was very young myself and there may be reasons I’m unaware of for the lack of serious legal action.
Your sister’s story will haunt me for a very long time, Ann Hedonia. Having been a young girl myself in 1972, I remember the prevailing attitudes in law enforcement among most adults was that Free Love and the Drug Culture were turning America’s kids into promiscuous, stoned brats. A popular movie, Wild in the Streets, was a cautionary tale about teens running amok and ruining the world. Date rape wasn’t a concept yet, as two of my friends found out the hard way. The view of the time was if you agreed to a date, you agreed to anything that came with it. It was horrible.
But your sister was TWELVE! I can’t wrap my head around the fact she was just a little kid and this wasn’t pursued. There can’t be any sound legal reason. This is just unconscionable. I’m so sorry, both for your sister and you.
I didn’t report because it would have been worse than the rape. For me.
I tried dipping into some of the Kavanaugh threads but I couldn’t, my eyes kept skittering across the text without processing it.
[Aside]I don’t like ‘rape survivor’ any better than rape victim. Both define me by one act not committed by me. Fuck that. I was raped; I am not a rape anything. But that’s me.[/Aside]
She had at least one pregnancy that I know of - she was fourteen. She was a wild teenager.