Sexual violence on campus: The story of my rape

I never thought it could happen to a person so young, and it did not register until many years later what had actually happened. I recall my first encounter of being raped when I was 4 years old, and, worst of all, it was done by people I deeply trusted: family. I was raped by my father’s adopted kids, the youngest being four years older than me.

They threatened me whenever I tried to stand up for myself. Whenever I refused, they would threaten to tell my dad that I was trying to hurt them or whatever excuse they could come up with. I thought my dad hated me enough—I certainly didn’t want him to hate me more on false accounts. So if I did what they wanted, I had nothing to worry about. This strategy worked for about two years until one day, when I was visiting my father’s house. He was eerily quiet throughout the entire drive there. I wanted to ask him why, but part of me felt that would not have been a good idea. Then we entered the house, and there was a circle of family members surrounding me. I could tell something was about to happen, but I had no idea what. My father did not even look me in the eyes. My heart nearly dropped from the words that came out of his mouth next.

“So, I hear you have been sexually assaulting my two boys?”

I felt a surge of emotions: sadness, confusion, hurt, rage. I had no idea how to even respond to the accusation. To this day, I am not sure what confused me more—the fact that he did not trust his own son, or the fact that he thought a toddler really had the capacity to sexually assault someone.

From then on, my Dad was never able to look at me the same way again. That confrontation was the last memory I had of him before hearing from him 12 years later. For those 12 years, I worried about what he and his side of the family thought of me. And when I consider why he left, one scenario has never left my mind—the question of sexual abuse.

As if being let down by my own father was not enough, I was sexually abused again. When I was about 9, I was staying with a babysitter and her foster son, who was about 13. Her foster son not only made me perform disgusting acts of fellatio against my will but also threatened my life whenever I showed even the smallest sign of refusal to do anything. He ran away from home a few months later, and I never had to hear from him again. Even though this period of abuse was shorter, it was not any easier to deal with.

I felt so ashamed of myself and what I had let happen that I kept it as one of the deepest secrets in my heart for most of my life. I spent most of my teenage years thinking, crying, physically hurting myself, punishing myself for what I could not convince myself was not really my fault. Another thing that really lowered my self-esteem was the response that I got from the few people I confided in. One person scolded me for not being strong and “manly” enough to prevent any of it from happening, saying that it never would have happened if I had only “been more of a man” about it. A woman scolded me for having acted like a “crazy white woman,” insulting not only my race and my gender but also my integrity. Even a friend of mine from high school, my best friend until a certain point, acted peculiarly after I told him—he began to cover up his crotch defensively as he walked past me, yelling things like, “Stay away from me! I’m not gay!” or, “I don’t want to be molested!” For a very long time, these situations crushed what little self-esteem I had. No words can express how much it hurt that, even in time of trauma, people still resorted to stereotypes. To this day, I still have trouble coping with some aspects of it.

In the end, it was a number of factors that helped me get through the rough times, time and perseverance being very important ones. The second was the mindset of moving beyond the stigma of being a victim and moving on to doing bigger and better things with my life. This is in no way a formula, as everyone operates differently, but it was what got me through hard times. The feelings I had at the time and the experiences of my formative years will live with me for the rest of my life, but how I respond to them and how they affect me differ greatly. If I had to give any advice to a victim of sexual assault, it would be to remember that life goes on and that there are 10 times as many aspects worth living for as there are seemingly worth dying over.

The author is a Columbia College sophomore. He is majoring in Slavic languages.