Don’t You Dare Ask Me What Was I Wearing

What were you wearing? Did you invite it?

“What were you wearing?”

I was assaulted while in school for my career. My mother asked me this question the next day.

I had been set up on a date with a coworker of my father’s. He had sexually assaulted me, and instead of asking was I okay? The question of what exactly was I wearing was asked.

I held onto that anger against my family for years. My father seemed to believe that what had happened wasn’t as severe as I recounted it. The only way this man did not rape me was that I fought him off. My father would repeat, again and again, how this man smiled at lot. So, he couldn’t possibly be that serious of a threat.

This was after years of molestation and sexual abuse by a multitude of men. They’d gain my trust first. It was never strangers when I was a young teenager and even a little girl. Then, their hands would roam into places I knew was not theirs. When I went to my parents about this, yet again, I was told to enjoy the attention.

I realized at a young age I would need to be my own defender. That I would have to fight off my own assailants and keep them at bay. Tell them no, not have my no respected, and resort to my teeth, fists, and feet to fight them.