She Has a Name....and it isn't Emily Doe

*Trigger warning-rape/sexual assault*

"You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, ...in newspapers, my name was ‘unconscious, intoxicated woman.’ Ten syllables, and nothing more than that."

Her name is Chanel Miller.

Her rapist....he's that swimmer guy that the judge thought should get leniency because of his background. His dad was sad that his son "could no longer enjoy a steak dinner". I'm not discussing his name, his school, or anything else about his background because that's irrelevant. What is relevant is that he is a rapist, he was found guilty of 3 felonies, he has to register as a sex offender for life. He tried to have that changed but was denied *thankfully*.

Chanel is the story.

She is the epitome of strength, grace, courage, and determination in the face of "boys will be boys". She is why I teach my boys consent. She is why I teach bodily autonomy. Her victim impact statement profoundly changed me.

It can be found here:

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/katiejmbaker/heres-the-powerful-letter-the-stanford-victim-read-to-her-ra#.trgR8Q5Xz

Sometimes, I think it changed me because I couldn't talk about my secret. I never shared it with friends or my parents. I never told the police. I never had the chance to address the court (and probably wouldn't have been able to).

But now, I'm stronger than then.

I'm more confident. I'm more comfortable in my skin. I'm aware that I did nothing wrong. I am no longer ashamed of what happened to me. No longer ashamed of what I was wearing.

No longer ashamed for staying silent instead of yelling out. No longer ashamed for the choices that weren't mine.

My memories are etched in my mind, and at the same time, they are so cloudy that, momentarily, I wonder if it's real.

It is real. The nightmares. The smells that trigger a momentary panic. The strength in my soul to be counted.

I got lost looking for a bathroom at my first boy/girl party. It was a neighborhood house. It was my best friends birthday. 14 or 15 (cloudy). I was in bluejeans and a tshirt. It was November.

Memories of the flower decor and pattern on the comforter (with matching curtains) but not recalling the colors. All are shades of grey in my mind.

I turn to back out and he's right there.

He puts me in a bear hug and lifts me up. I giggle and tell him to stop...I have to pee. I've known him my whole life. We've road the same bus since I was in kindergarten and he was in 1st grade. He sets me down. I start to go around him, he blocks the door and grins. He grabs my waist. I try to untangle myself and squeeze past him. Surely, my 4'5" 79lbs can squeeze through somewhere to safety.

Memories of music playing. I can't tell the lyrics just the broken, sad sound of a slow country song.

He pushes me down on the bed...his whole weight on me. Someone knocks on the door...I can't speak. I'm embarrassed, ashamed, and my "boyfriend" is in the other room. He'd be so pissed at me if he knew I wasn't alone. (He was really just a boy that I sat with on the bus who helped me with homework and made me laugh) The "knocker" leaves.

The weight is still on me, only there's an "added bonus" now. I can feel certain parts that I don't want to feel.

He tries to kiss me and I turn my head away. He blocks it. He forces his tongue in my mouth and all I can think about is the bowl of cheap, greasy potato chips on the counter.

I pretend this is going to stop...because it is supposed to stop. In my mind- this has to be a dare and I'm kicking everyone's ass when they all yell "jokes on you".

I feel hands, rough with stubby fingernails feeling around, like someone searching for an earring back lost in shag carpet. Up my shirt."stop" I whisper. He grins...."just a sec". Still up my shirt and he grins as he grabs both breasts. "okay I'm done" I whisper. "I'm not. You'll like it if you relax".

I don't relax. I start counting the petals on the flowers on the comforter. Looking for patterns. Playing a matching game in my head with the curtains and comforter. "2 leaves and a flower, loopy vine, 3 flowers, no leaves."

He's started to move his hands down. He tickles my stomach like it's a game. He wants me to laugh. I tell him to stop again. I want to get back out to the party before anyone thinks something is up.

"Just a minute, they aren't paying attention, they're all playing games and dancing and eating cake". Hands move farther down towards my hips. He squeezes. I cringe. He unbuttons my jeans... grabs them at the bottom and pulls them down. He does what he wants and it's over.

Memories of looking out the window across the yard and seeing lights on in a house through the trees. My house. My safe place. My parents 100 yards away.

Memories of laughter. Not at me, but with me. He carries me to the living room and everyone laughs and jokes about how I'm the "tiniest ever" and "light as a feather". The boys start passing me around to see how many times they can lift me. I cry inside and count down the minutes left before I can go home.

It's time for cake...we sing happy birthday. I eat chocolate icing and think about what just happened. My "boyfriend" wants to dance and leads me to the middle of the living room where other couples are already dancing.

He squeezes my waist and I flinch. Tell him I hurt it at softball practice. Birthday boy's mom kicks on the lights. The party is over.

My dad is the first parent to show up. I get my stuff and say my goodbyes. I avoid eye contact with "him". He grabs my hand and says, "where's my bye" He winks and says, "See you Monday".

I went home, took a shower, put on my pajamas and crawled into bed. I saw him every day for the next 3 years. He always winked at me.

He graduated and moved. I finally started to breathe but still told no one.

16 years later I am taking my son trick or treating at our local nursing home. Hustle and bustle. Small towns. Mom friends. A zillion kids and parents and so much talking.

"How are you? Long time" says a balding man. My blood runs cold. I squeeze my little one next to me, trying to get him so close he would be invisible. I turn around and it's the same blue eyes and sideways grin.

"Not long enough", I say and guide my sweet little boy to the other side of the building. He gets some more candy and I get him to the van and home. We're safe again. I'm safe again.

My story isn't a secret anymore. Chanel gave me the strength to be honest and open, even with fear.

What happened to me wasn't about me. It was about him. It was about the character flaws he had. It wasn't my fault. I wasn't asking for it. I didn't deserve it. He still lives locally. He doesn't scare me anymore. All 4'11" and 122 lbs of me are stronger and more badass than he will ever be.

Chanel shared her story and in doing so, she gave women everywhere the strength to share theirs.

These stories and experiences are individual and also identical. Power. Fear.Shame.Pain.

The hardest part is that I'm not in the minority. The secrets are everywhere. It happens every.single.day.

We should not have to stand up and be counted for people to realize there's an epidemic.

For every Chanel. For every "Emily Doe". For every woman who has had a piece of herself stolen. For every woman who has worn the shame in the lines on her tear streaked face. For every woman who had to explain how she isn't responsible for another person's actions.

There are more people that feel your stories in their soul.

Chanel's book "Know My Name" will be available September 24th. You need to read it. You need to make your sons read it.