'If this letter can inspire one person to speak out, to seek help...'

This newspaper has received from readers many heartbreaking stories of sexual assault, in response to its request last week to share their experiences (http://bit.ly/2dTCWRO). We are honored that they have reached out to us.
Revisiting these traumatic memories, and setting them down for others to read, is extraordinarily difficult. We hope they will help those others who have suffered similar attacks feel less alone, and to bring them out of the shadows, where they have been allowed to fester for far too long.
Some readers who did not share stories said they were nevertheless grateful for the discussion. "This is a subject that needs much dialogue and yet so few victims and those who are aware of the predator's action do not want to come forward because of fear of reprisal or not being believed," wrote one such reader. "I applaud Chronicle editor Pam Chergotis for her bravery and commitment to use her very personal experience with the larger audience to help others who have also suffered sexual assault at the hands of sexual abusers. This is not a pretty subject but it is very necessary to put the predators on the map and make them aware of their actions, the harm they have caused and that their victims are no longer silent."
A few readers strongly objected to the paper including the story. One said it was "an anti-Trump piece" and in bad taste for what should be a "family friendly" paper. Another called the story "garbage," and said any story submitted would be faked.
One of the readers who shared his experience said, "I hope you understand the anonymous nature of my request, but please don't take it as cowardly or insincere. This is a process and a journey. Thank you for moving my journey forward just a little bit."
Please read on.
***
Nineteen years old, dancing at the hottest nightclub in Minneapolis, I felt a tug on my arm. A burly man shouted in my ear, "Prince wants to meet you!" "PRINCE!" I thought. "Wow!"
After following him up into the VIP area, I was led to a quiet corner overlooking the dance floor where His Purple Highness was perched on a velvet chair, ornate cane in hand. He slowly looked me up and down, then extended his hand, ring up, for me to kiss, So I knelt, kissed his hand, and he said, "Nice to meet you." "Nice to meet you, too!," was all I could muster. Then he dismissed me with a nod and I turned to leave.
"Wait!" said the burly bodyguard. "Prince is having an after-party at his mansion, want to come?"
"Could this night GET any better?" I thought.
I told my friends about my private invite and jumped in a car with the bodyguard. On our drive to Minnetonka, he said, "We just have to stop by my house to load up some stuff Prince needs for the party."
"Sure!" I said, just happy to be on my way to PRINCE'S HOUSE. Once inside, he fixed me a drink, turned on the TV, and said he'd be done loading up in about 15 minutes. So I sat, sipped, and waited. Then I felt groggy. I needed to lay down. I don't know how much time passed between then and my next memory, which is of me waking up on the floor under the weight of the snoring bodyguard with my underwear around my knees and my dress hiked up around my waist. I gently extricated myself from under his hulking weight, tiptoed to my purse, then eased myself out the front door. No coat, no shoes, below freezing temps, and me in a cocktail dress on a Minnesota highway in the middle of the night. Luckily, I made it to a gas station and called a friend who came to rescue me, no questions asked.
Now, forever, I have this filthy, dirty secret that colors my mind and tugs at me and won't let me get away. Forever.
Reader from Sparta, N.J.
***
In the late '70s, going to Catholic school meant being obligated to wear skirted uniforms year-round. Stairwell walls were like loosely wired fencing so boys of every age had underskirt views constantly. Although most were respectfully discreet about their natural curiosities, there were the few tweens who made comments, or even one or two who earned a nun's wrath by attempting the grab or pinch of a buttock. One would think sticking to your own gender would be safe from these assaults, but I would learn females can also be predators.
I was about seven years old the afternoon my grandmother sent me to her choir-friend's apartment after school. (This happened in the Bronx.) My regular sitter was unavailable, and although I hardly knew this woman, my grandmother's trust in her would suffice. Her daughter was about 13 and in the eighth grade of my school. I wasn't friends with this girl (I will call her Malia), since I stuck to my own age and grade for the most part.
Malia's mother stepped out, and Malia told me that she wanted to show me something in her bedroom. Since I was being raised in an all-female home I was not shocked to find Malia in the room with her shirt unbuttoned, but I did not feel comfortable. I turned to walk out when Malia gently pulled me by my arm and told me to sit on the bed. The most nauseating feeling curled in my stomach, but when I tried to get up to run to the bathroom, Malia pinned me down by both shoulders. She was athletic and my petite skinny frame was no match. She splat her mouth on mine, and tried to force my lips open with her tongue.
I wriggled and fought so hard, moving my head from side to side. She let go of a shoulder to reach up my skirt, and that is when I used all my strength to slide out from under her, and run out of the apartment, down the two flights of stairs, and outside to the street. I could not believe a girl just did that to me. I sat on the cold concrete outer stairs of the dilapidated brick building, which was right across from my school. I didn't think anyone would believe that a GIRL had done that.
I never told anyone, frankly because I knew my aunts would probably kill Malia. I just put the incident away in a box in the back of my conscience because I didn't think it would matter if anyone knew. But it does matter to know that children should not feel responsible for the reactions of adults when something bad happens, and that not all predators are grown men.
I never even knew Malia's name, and I avoided her until she graduated that June. I did always have the feeling that I wasn't her first victim, probably not the last. I wish I would have told.
Survivor in Chester, N.Y.
***
I was sexually assaulted when I was 7 or 8. The details get fuzzier as I get older. Today I’m the proud father of two, happily married for 25 years and am here to tell my story, which is one I’ve held close to the vest, and haven’t told more than a small handful of people, after first reporting it to my parents all those years ago.
I grew up in the five boroughs and certainly the area growing up was tougher. It was a different time back in the '70s. Most mothers stayed at home and fathers worked either multiple shifts or longer hours to help myself and my two brothers and mother get by.
I had been signed up for Cub Scouts, as one of our neighbors located in our apartment building was the den mother. Our meetings were usually held in her apartment. Back in those days, my mother usually had no problem leaving me alone, even at an earlier age, watching my brothers, who were three and five years younger than me, even for a few hours to do shopping or to play bingo. God I wish she had continued doing that. Those were the days where neighbors looked out for each other, and sending a child to the grocery store to get a few groceries was the norm. No worries.
As my mother grew comfortable with this den mother, she determined that her teenage son (I don’t even remember how old he was, but he was probably close to 18 or older) would be an appropriate babysitter. She began utilizing him when my parents either went out or my mother went out to play bingo, which she seemed to do frequently. I’m not quite sure when the abuse began, sure it wasn’t the first time he babysat myself and my brothers, but it did happen, usually when my younger brothers went to sleep. As to my recollection, they were not involved in the acts he asked me to perform. It still is extremely difficult for me to recount these memories, as for so many years I repressed them, being stoic. Part of that may have been a result of how I remember my mother’s first response when I told her (after multiple events over a period of time, even though I was being threatened and told that my family would get into some trouble if I told anyone). At first my mother didn’t believe me, and in those days, that was a common theme, and being a boy, was unheard of at the time, with the stigma attached to it.
I didn’t ask for it, I said no to try to stop it, but the person was bigger and stronger than I was, being a skinny seven year old. Maybe my mother’s response actually was appropriate, but I didn’t see it at the time. She immediately stopped using him as a babysitter, and pulled me out of Cub Scouts as well. Again, I had to suffer for something I didn’t do anything wrong. The biggest thing that happened, and I can’t exactly say why it happened, and to this day, I haven’t had the discussion with my mother, but I probably need to, was that we moved out of the more urban city apartment living to a rental of a two-family house in a more suburban area and a better neighborhood. That may have been the answer my parents had, which I guess I can thank them for. What they didn’t do, and not sure at the time there was much support out there for it, was to go after the sexual offender so he’d “have his day in court.” For that, I have a level of guilt, because I’m not quite sure how many other victims this person had affected, and I could’ve stopped any further damage, albeit the courts and the court of public opinion kept these sort of things under wraps (e.g. the Catholic Priest scandals in Boston). I don’t remember all the sordid details, or the name of the offender, but that doesn’t mean it never happened. It just means that I have worked hard at suppressing that pain, to be a stronger person. While I easily could’ve been skeptical of the good of people, and certainly at the current times, with all the events going on, it’s easy to be skeptical. I could hate all people of color, but one of my best friends is African-American. It has made me a much stronger person.
Would counseling have helped? Probably. I did utilize my company’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP), a few years ago, when I just wasn’t happy, was stressed out with work and not doing well. And like I’m doing now (albeit anonymously), I actually was able to open up about the events that occurred so many years ago. It did help, it was therapeutic. I only went for a few sessions with him, but those few sessions did convince me that it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t ask for it. One piece of advice he gave me, and I didn’t do it, but this letter may serve its purpose, was to write a letter to the sexual predator, not for the purpose of sending it anywhere and not for anyone’s eyes (unless I felt like sharing), but to get any anger out that I have towards that person, and move on, make peace with it.
I’ve made peace with it, and have vowed to be the best person I can, the best father, the best husband, the best friend. I know this has affected the person I have become. It may take me a while to warm up to people. I use humor sometimes to mask any pain, and I see joy in making other people happy. There certainly is a distance (rhetorically speaking) that I have with my parents. They divorced and remarried many years after these incidents. I only recently told my youngest brother, who has a habit of always lecturing me and giving me advice, rather than being a brother. His first comment was, did anything happen to him from this sexual predator? My first comment was no. Unfortunately when these items get presented, and this may have been why I’ve kept it guarded, no one knows unless they’ve gone through this, the everlasting effect, whether conscious or unconsciously. In fact, the first time I heard Lady Gaga’s song “You Don’t Know How It Feels” then saw the victims of sexual abuse on stage at the awards show, I was blown away by the lyrics and the courage of those assaulted, and it’s so true. I wouldn’t want others to have to “know how it feels”; by experiencing the momentary helplessness of the situation, that is an unwelcome advance.
I can’t complain. I’ve been married to a beautiful woman for 25 years, have two beautiful kids: a boy and a girl, have a nice house, a nice job. Everyone has their voids in life, and you can’t turn back the clock, and wonder what would my life be like, if those events over 40 years ago never happened. It serves no purpose, but if this letter can inspire one person to speak out, to seek help, to seek the advice of others, then I feel pretty good about that. I’m a very reflective person and have taken up exercise, which helps the mind and soul and of course body heal itself.
Thank you for this outlet, and I hope this makes the paper or other means of communication so that others may hear a story of regrowth, of resiliency and happiness, despite events which can not only derail the psyche, but cause someone to lose hope that there is goodness and kindness in this world.
Anonymous
*****
I'm 35 years old now.
For the longest time all I thought about was you. And then I forgot. And then I remembered. And it's been hell ever since.
I don't know what you look like beyond a general impression that my infantile eyes caught and my adult mind has tried to make sense of.
You were tall. You were dark. I knew you. My family knew you. But then again, my parents knew a lot of people and were always eager to give their trust to a new grifter with a new grift. You made me laugh when we were around other people. I liked you so much because you paid attention to me and I was a lonely little girl. And then you began to hurt me. Not physically. But like my parents and my sister and brother hurt me. Tearing me down. Making me feel less than I was. For an eight-year-old kid that you had been abusing since I was seven, maybe I wasn't that much to begin with. The only difference between them and you was that you never hurt me physically. Well, not in the traditional sense one might say. After all beatings heal.
As for you being tall... I was only about 5 feet 1 inch, but at 5 feet 11 inches now I know I would tower over you. As for you being dark.. you were Caucasian, but I guess you wore dark clothes or had dark hair and eyes or maybe had a tan.
I remember putting on my teal one-piece bathing suit with the pink hearts with ribbons because I hoped you wouldn't be able to touch me. Not like if I was wearing panties. God, that was practically inviting your touch. And I didn't want you to touch me.
I remember my mom and dad forcing me to hug and kiss people I found repellent or unworthy of my affection. I didn't know those people and touching them in such an intimate manner, like I would with my parents or someone I loved, made me cringe. I was told, "no." My personal need for my own space or my own ability to bestow affection on whom I liked was unimportant. Suddenly all those kisses and hugs, I just disassociated myself and I was somewhere else.
It was like that with you. I don't want to leave you with the false impression that you blew my eight-year-old mind with how awesome of a...lover? boyfriend? pedophile?...you were.
All I remember is this one time and it's bare bones. I have the impression of other times, but they're just beyond my reach.
I remember being scared and anxious that you were going to be watching me and no one else would be there. I remember putting on my bathing suit because I didn't want to ask for it. In my juvenile mind, I thought that it was so easy for you to molest me because I wore panties. Little girl panties with hearts and stars and stuff, nothing special. If he didn't have ease of access, then maybe he won't hurt me? How wrong I was.
That night you introduced me to a new game. After pulling me into your lap, forcing me to face the television and watch the Sunday night Disney movie playing, you tried to touch me, but you couldn't. I prepared to leap off your lap, but you caught me. You pulled me back against your body and I felt something hard against my back.
I kept on watching the movie. I broke away from what was happening. It was just like when I had to kiss or hug people I didn't know or didn't like. It's OK. It'll be over soon.
You made me touch you and I hated it. I hated the way you felt, soft and hard and slimy all at the same time. I hated that you made me do that. I just focused on the movie and let your hand guide mine. I wasn't there and I didn't need to be. It wasn't me you were doing this to. It was this body. I hate this body. I hate that I'm tall and too big for my age. I don't want this.
That's all I remember. I know that this bare bones account isn't all. But, I don't want to know the rest. This memory plays like a home video at unexpected times and places. No rhyme nor reason, though intimate contact does tend to be a trigger.
But the lesson my parents and you taught me, that I'm not in control of my own body, has lasted my entire life. I am not autonomous. At any point, my desires and needs can be overridden by another.
Consent is a tricky issue.
I said no. When I was 8. It was ignored.
I said no. When I was 13 and my sister's boyfriend stuck his tongue down my throat and my sister just watched. It was ignored.
I said no. When I was 17 and thought losing my virginity should be special. It was ignored.
I learned that to make friends and have love and to even be a person, that you need to have sex. Doesn't matter if I want to have sex. It really only matters if you do. My only worth is whatever sexual gratification you can get from my unresponding body. And, what is even worse, is that I crave sex, despite not wanting to have sex at all.
If immortality is granted to those who are remembered, then you have achieved eternal life.
J. Smith
***
1. When I was young, I don't remember when it started, I was sexually assaulted by my grandfather. It went on until I was old enough to find ways not to be home when they visited or not to sleep in their home. One of the instances I was about 12 and we had just renovated our upstairs and I was asked to show him around. I remember trying to avoid it but I couldn't because nobody knew. When I showed him a bedroom he pulled me into the bedroom and onto the bed. What I couldn't believe is that two of my aunts were outside cleaning windows and he was still so brazen. Another time my brother and I were sleeping over at their house and, for some reason, my grandmother was in another bedroom. I begged my brother not to go to bed but eventually it was getting so late he couldn't stay up. My grandfather carried me into his bed.
The worse part of all of this is when it all came out, my sister was also his victim. She was the one who revealed the abuse. We didn't know about each other. I had told one aunt in confidence a few years before it all came out. We were called liars, wild girls (that would not be anything anyone would ever accuse me of being then or now), troublemakers. My aunt never revealed that I had confided in her years before.
2. A drunk assaulted me on a street in broad daylight. I was 13 years old.
3. At 19, traveling on the New York City subway, I was standing on a very crowded train. Something felt wrong and when I looked behind me some creep was rubbing himself up and down against the back of me.
I would prefer to remain anonymous for family reasons on the first story.
***
I was a junior in high school and the teacher of a special elect art class asked if he could photograph me in the nude. He happened to be the photographer at our reunion and I was able to publicly embarrass him when I asked him if he remembered asking me that. It is in my mind like it happened yesterday and it is over 35 years.
Gee, how could I forget the eighth-grade punk coming up behind girls with larger breasts and grabbing them. I kicked him with clogs so hard I'm not sure if he was able to father children.
Then there was the cop 20 years my senior who proceeded to woo me when I would babysit and after a year decided it was time to grope etc. That was super traumatic and confusing.
There are plenty of other NOT OKAY stories that are in my history, that I can't put them all here. Luckily I met an amazing man and although it took 20 years to trust in his love completely, he and I stuck with it and we will be celebrating 37 years together.
Anonymous
****
Once upon a time, an innocent, and loving young girl was feeling very happy. Although Mommy and Daddy were divorced and she and Mommy lived with Gram and Gramp, she nevertheless had visitation every Sunday afternoon with Daddy. He would pick her up in his Cadillac convertible and if was warm enough they would go out on "The Hot Canary," Daddy's bright yellow cabin cruiser and swim off the shores Fish Island. Since Daddy and his new wife, Auntie Marie, had recently adopted a baby girl, Auntie Marie no longer came with them when they went to Fish Island to swim.
The young girl had recently been baptized although she was already ten years old. It had been her own decision and one that her mommy had opposed. Daddy, according to conversations she had overheard, despised the Catholic Church, the Pope and most Catholics except Gramp.
Ever since she was old enough to ask, the girl had begged Gramp to take her to church with him and when she was four he began to take her with him to Sunday Mass. She loved going with him. She loved the angels and God painted over the altar, on the ceiling and over the stained glass windows. She loved the voices of the choir and hearing the mysterious Latin language, the smells of incense and the perfumes of the lady parishioners. She loved the candles in the low light of the church and way she felt transported into peace.
At home, she drew angels by the multitudes and asked Mommy to please let her be baptized. After she learned to read, she loved reading the lives of the saints, especially the young virgin martyrs. She often walked to the church after school, lit a candle and prayed that Mommy would change her mind and let her be baptized. And it had finally happened.
She loved God, it seemed, with all her heart and best of all, because she was so "old" she alone started taking lessons at the convent with Sister Rita in preparation for her first holy communion.
One Sunday though, when she and Daddy anchored off Fish Island on "The Hot Canary," Daddy told her to go below deck and change into her swimsuit. Suddenly he appeared naked and sat down on one of the two bunks. He told her to come to him. There were things she needed to know and he explained the changes that would soon come to her body while he touched her. He reached between her legs and put his fingers inside her.
She was petrified. Her mind was racing. She thought of the young virgin saints who had suffered death rather than let such things happen to them. She pictured herself jumping into the sea, drowning to escape what was happening, she wanted to do it but she did nothing. She felt dirty and ashamed. She told no-one what had happened.
In no time at all, she had no memory of any of it, until, at age seventeen and pregnant, under sodium amytal administered by her psychiatrist, she remembered all of it.