Author’s note: I am writing this because my sister is going to the grade I was when this story happened. This vignette was written just to share my story and get my thoughts onto a page. Each year about 433,648 women are victims of sexual assault in America.  You are not alone. If you or a loved one has been sexually assaulted, call 1-800-656-4673. Your voice matters; use it.

I was sitting in her office as my leg bounced up and down. She patiently clicked around her computer. She stopped and turned to stare at me. The school counselor looked at me patiently awaiting my answer. She gave me a small, concerned smile.

“You’re not in trouble,” she said, “I just want to get to the bottom of this.”

“Okay,” I responded, smiling back to not worry her.

“So I had a girl come in here earlier claiming that a boy had harassed her along with multiple other girls; she gave me your name, telling me you guys discussed it in your Home Economics class.” She looked at me for confirmation, and I gave her a slight nod. “Can you talk to me about him?” My stomach dropped.

What he said to me that day would stick with me. I tried not to show the emotion I felt. Disgust. My stomach dropped. The idea of him made me want to throw up. She began discussing that day.

She asked me for details about that day. “What specifically did he say to you?” “What did you say?” “How did that make you feel?”

My thoughts bounced around in my head. Trying to hold back vomit. All I remember from that day was disgust. I remember walking into that gym. I remember feeling excited to hang out with one of my best friends. Then I remember a quick water break and, from there, disgust. I felt like I needed to shower 25 times to be clean. I needed to scrub my brain clean of him. Of his words and hands. I felt I had to watch where I went to never bump into him again. I thought it was nothing.

I had known him for years, he was always creepy. There was always something wrong with him. But he never talked to me. I had heard about him. My friend used to go out with him. I heard about his vile requests and horrible ideas.

My friend had told me, “That’s just how he is.” I mean, boys will be boys. They will be dumb and immature. And, I was a girl. It was my responsibility to worry about my safety. Even if it was the boys that concerned me, that was my problem. I had to watch what I wore, where I went, and who I talked to. I needed to always check my surroundings and be aware, or I could end up on the missing person’s wall in the store. So, I did. It wasn’t the boy’s job to ensure my safety; it was my own. I did everything I was told to do. I was at school. The safety of my middle school. The place I would go to every weekday. The place where they ensured our safety. Yet I was unsafe. I had taken the steps to be safe. But still.

My thoughts swirled around my head. The school counselor noticed my silence and stopped talking to stare up at me. My leg continued to bounce up and down faster. My thoughts scrambled together.

“Take your time. If you can, would you talk to me about that day?”

So I recounted it. I told her his words about my past experiences with him. All I remember from that meeting was the feeling of dread. I finished talking and stared down at my shoes.

The counselor looked at me with a troubled expression. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked with deeply empathetic concern.

“He does it all the time,” I said. She stared at me with confusion and sadness. “All the girls know it. That’s just how he is,” I said.

“He doesn’t have the right to do that, though. I’m sorry you didn’t come forward. You know that you can talk to the counselors, right?” she asked.

“Yes,” I responded. That was all I could say. I thought I was being dramatic. I mean, he did it all the time. The girls in the school knew him for being disgusting. I mean, I was probably being dramatic, wasn’t I? He did it all the time.