I’m taking an emotional U-turn and discussing a sad subject today. I haven’t told this story to more than a couple people, but now seems the time to tell it, and let it go.

A friend posted this depressing article from the New York Times website, The Twice-Victimized of Sexual Assault. I am frustrated and bewildered at the fact this subject has to be brought up again and again and again:

More often than not, women who bring charges of sexual assault are victims twice over, treated by the legal system and sometimes by the news media as lying until proved truthful.

The numbers are staggeringly depressing. Last year, 272,350 Americans were victims of sexual violence, 80 percent of whom were under age 30.

So here’s my story. I want to share, I am yet another statistic, although my story is not one of extreme violence or assault. Thankfully, I have not carried it as a deep dark shameful secret, nor has it impacted (as far as I can tell) my relationships with men or trust issues or anything like that. Not that it didn’t suck and that it should never have happened.

And I don’t like tunnels anymore, that’s for sure.

When I was 14 I lived with my father and stepmother on the grounds of a hospital in New York. My west coast friends may not know this, but often there are vast tunnel systems running under large building complexes back east, which carry the steam pipes and electrical wires and such. These tunnels are often open to the public, so that one can get around during the winter time.

This particular tunnel system went on and on — there was an entrance/exit right near our house near the edge of the hospital campus. I used it often to get over to my dad’s office or to the cafeteria or bus stop. These tunnels were as creepy as you might imagine them — low ceilings hung with industrial bulbs; mysterious hissing and clanging around every corner; and a sameness to the twists and turns that could get one lost pretty easily.

It was there I encountered someone I recognized, a guy worked in the cafeteria. I was headed into the tunnels just as he was there at the entrance, taking a cigarette break. He followed me down, being friendly and chatting. I felt compelled to be friendly back, though I was creeped out. At some point, he cornered me, grabbed me and tried to kiss me. I ducked under his am, still smiling (nice till the end), and waved bye as I ran and ran away.

I went home, crying, to my stepmother. After I told her what happened and went to my room, I could hear one of my stepsisters asking what happened. My stepmom was dismissive in her tone when she said “oh, just some guy tried to kiss her, that’s all.” I’ll never know if she was minimizing it for my stepsister’s benefit, or if it just didn’t sound like a major issue to her.

When he got home, my dad wanted the details. Though I begged him not to, he reported the incident to hospital security. Strangely, he gave an inaccurate account of my story, which implicated someone else entirely. I have no idea what happened with the error, or with what happened next, at all.

And that’s it. End of story.

Of the things that have stayed with me is the “no big deal” attitude that pretty much everyone had in connection with what happened, including me — I didn’t want my dad to take it security because (partially taking a cue from my stepmom) I didn’t want to make a fuss about something so “minor.” No making waves for me!

I also am amazed  at how my (society-imposed?) need to be nice got me into, and continues to get me into, trouble. Every instinct was saying no from the second I saw this guy, yet I need to be friendly, to be passive, to be nice.

God know what was this dude’s game, and if he got away with that behavior — and if he got away with more with other girls. I’d suspect so, wouldn’t you?

Just so we’re clear, I was very naive at at that age, and a late bloomer — I looked like a kid when this happened; there was no mistaking me for anything but a young girl. Ugh.

If I had a do-over, boy would I make some waves now.