“An Invitation To My Home Was Not An Invitation To Molest Me”

Trigger Warning: Mention of Sexual Abuse

I heard in a show the other day: “The more often you tell your story of being assaulted, the more it loses its power over you.” I don’t know a single woman in my life who hasn’t experienced any kind of sexual assault—whether it’s eve teasing, molestation, or any other form. We all have endured something.

I can still feel the disgusting sensation I felt when he rubbed his hands on my waist, almost as if he was about to lift my T-shirt. I was uncomfortable. My body was screaming “no,” but it felt like the words were stuck in my throat, choking me. I wanted to say “no,” but all I could do was move away. He offered to braid my hair and massage me. He hugged me longer than necessary. He held my hand, rubbing it in a way that felt wrong, and I pulled my hands away multiple times. He pulled me closer repeatedly, and each time, I moved away—a clear indication of “no.”

Eventually, I fell asleep for a while because of the medications I was on. I still get goosebumps wondering what he might have done while I was sleeping. When he woke me, I offered to drop him off. When I did, he threatened me, demanding I come into the room with him. When I refused, he yelled and insisted I drink and sleep with him the next day. I was terrified. I drove off quickly, trying to escape. I ignored his calls, but he kept calling. I finally answered near the elevator where the call would drop quickly due to poor reception.

I am shaking while writing this. My chest feels heavy, and I’m tapping my toes and moving my fingers because I feel anxious and uneasy. During our conversation, he mentioned he was an “angry young man,” but I didn’t believe him. I barely slept. The next morning, I woke up feeling disgusted. He asked me to meet him, but I stalled and managed to ignore his request. It took nearly 24 hours for me to process and accept what had happened, and even then, only after speaking with a friend and recounting the entire incident.

When I got home, I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the couch as I usually would. That day, I went straight to the bedroom and called my friend. I couldn’t believe it—he was my friend. I wanted to ask him why. The next day, I called Urban Company to have the couch washed. But it still didn’t feel clean. I took a shower for more than an hour. I even revisited the entire incident in my session with my therapist, replaying his exact words, and feeling every sensation in my body all over again. I felt disgusted for days and couldn’t sit on the couch or manage my daily tasks, let alone go to the office.

He violated my safe space. It took me over a month to turn on the fairy lights that had been on that day. Even now, sitting in the same spot on the same couch, I am reminded of his ugly soul. Yes, his soul is ugly, because an invitation to my home was not an invitation to molest me or touch me inappropriately without my consent. Every minute of every day, I am haunted by this incident. I haven’t been able to trust any man after this incident. I know it’s not all men, but I have no way of knowing who is safe. I drown in the grief of wondering how much simpler my life might have been if this had never happened. I keep imagining the kind of defence he would prepare: “She asked for it,” “I never did it,” “She’s lying.”

I am not the first or last woman to go through this. We have all been there. Moreover, survivors face immense pressure not to file a complaint because of concerns like ‘What will people say?’ or ‘Move on, it’s not a big deal,’ or ‘There’s no point in filing the complaint.’

He took a piece of my soul and left another scar on my body, just as my ex did when he forced himself on me multiple times when I was 21 or 22 years old. Yes, I have scars, but I am healing. And I know one thing for certain—IT IS NOT MY FAULT. I want to communicate this to all the survivors out there who have endured any form of sexual harassment: I see you, I hear you, I am here for you, and it is not your fault.