Do you remember me?

I was invincible, just turned 18. I knew about sexual assault, but it wasn’t supposed to happen to me — I was precautious. I didn’t walk home alone in the dark, didn’t leave my drink unattended and didn’t get too drunk with strangers. I even took a self-defense class.

But nothing prepared me for that night.

Remember the party? It was out in the country, at one of my best friends’ houses — the big one with the cold rooms. It was loud and dark, to your advantage. Faces and names were blurred.

You probably arrived between 10 and 12, like everyone else. I probably met you, shook your hand, laughed at your joke.

But around 1 a.m., I was tired. My friend said there was a futon upstairs. I went to bed, alone, a few feet from her bedroom.

I don’t remember what I was dreaming, but I’ll never forget the moment I realized I wasn’t dreaming anymore, wasn’t alone anymore. My heart stopped.

My pants were pulled down, just enough for your hand to fit in between my legs. I could hear your heavy breathing. Smell your breath. I’d never felt so repulsed, violated and terrified all at once. But I did nothing. I laid there, limp, eyes closed, for what seemed like forever. Two seconds? Ten minutes? I don’t know. I was too scared, too shocked to think straight.

Silently, repeatedly, I asked myself: Is this really happening? How could I let this happen? Is he going to hurt me if I move, if I scream? Will he stop if he knows I’m awake? Why am I letting this happen?

This isn’t happening.

Finally, I moved. But it was more like an involuntary twitch. You were almost on top of me. I resisted, turned away, pulled the blanket up, eyes still closed, still silent.

And you ran.

I heard your footsteps on every stair, the door slam behind you, your wheels crushing the gravel as you peeled out of the driveway.

I opened my eyes, pulled up my pants, grabbed my phone. 3:00 a.m. Someone was snoring downstairs. My heart was pounding. My phone was dying.

My mind raced aimlessly: Maybe that wasn’t him who drove away. Is he still here? Is he hiding, watching me, waiting for me to fall asleep? I couldn’t let myself fall asleep again. I couldn’t make any noise. I couldn’t knock on my friend’s door. I didn’t even know what he looked like. Why the fuck didn’t I open my eyes? What’s wrong with me? I texted my friend, my ex boyfriend and someone else. Then my phone died.

I laid there in silent terror until sunrise, trying to figure out who you are and what I would do if you came back.

Around 9 a.m., my friend opened her door and asked what happened. I whispered in her ear and told her not to tell anyone. I was still scared. She asked why I didn’t do anything, why I didn’t yell, or knock on her door when he was gone. I had no answer. Embarrassed and frustrated, I asked her to drop it.

I later heard that her boyfriend called the guy who he knew was the last to leave the party and told him never to go anywhere near their house again. He was sure it was him, you.

That should have brought me comfort. It didn’t.

It scared me to imagine if I didn’t wake up, if I had another drink, and how easy it will be for you to assault the next woman, or three. I was beyond furious, beyond ashamed.

From then on, I trusted no one, not even my friends, not even myself.

I’d be lying if I said I’ve moved on. Four years later, I still haven’t told my family. I know now that it wasn’t my fault, but that’s much easier said than believed.

I’m thankful to know the truth now — that living in a constant state of paranoia is necessary. But the truth is infuriating. Because of people like you, the only way to be safe is to never feel safe.

You’re the reason I can’t be alone at night, can’t wear half the clothes in my closet and question the intentions of every man I see. I’m called a bitch, uptight, irrational. I’ve lost friends who didn’t understand, who couldn’t support me. I thought I hated them. But you’re the one I hate.

If it weren’t for you, I could be myself, I could say yes. You’re the reason I have to say no.

I’m scared. But I’m not irrational. I’m not weak. I’m not the bad person. You are.