When I was 20 years old, I suffered an attack.   It was not the typical scenario one normally thinks of when they envision rape.  It was not the kind of sexual attack that happens in dark allies at the hands of a hooded, knife-wielding assailant.  No, my attack occurred over lunch time, in a brightly lit stair well, at the hands of my well-dressed Supervisor whose only weapon was his size – and his authority over my employment.

Until now, less than 10 people are aware such an incident occurred in my life: those people being the attacker, those who filed the paperwork regarding the incident, and later, my husband.

So the story goes: I’m working as a temp for a prominent employment agency who assigns me for some admin assistant duties in the catering department at a large hotel chain.  The position has potential to become permanent, so I work hard and take on various special projects in an effort to prove to the managers that I’m worth keeping around.  I’m friendly with all the catering managers, and eager to make coffee, or send faxes; whatever they need me to do.  I have no education at the time, but I make up for my lack of credentials by picking things up quickly and going the extra mile.  They think I'm whip-smart.  This makes me feel special.

When one of the catering managers begins assigning me more tasks, and praising my work, I think I'm starting to see some success.  When he asks to take me to lunch a week later to discuss my future with the company, I assume this is the lunch where they offer me a permanent position with the hotel.  It does not occur to me that this lunch is anything other than strictly professional:  firstly because he has a fiancé and talks incessantly about his wedding planning, and secondly, I suppose, because I am 20 and incredibly gullible.  I have no reason not to trust him.

At lunch, he talks about several projects he wants to put me on to see what I can handle.  Then he tells me he wants to take me on a tour of the catering facilities so I can get a sense for where I’ll be working.  Once we are back at the hotel, he takes me to the floor with all the special banquet rooms.  When he discovers maintenance men working in the hallway, he says we should take the stair well to get to the next floor and avoid getting in their way.

What comes next makes me feel stupid.  I don’t see it coming, and for that I feel responsible.

 He opens the door to the stairwell, yanks me inside, shoves me down onto the stairs, and climbs on top of me.  There is a tongue in my throat, and hands ripping at my clothes.

For a moment, I am stunned.  I probably don’t even fight back right away because I can’t get my head around what’s happening.  I am 5’6”, 120 lbs.  He is 6’ 4”, 220.  It takes me roughly 30-35 seconds to push him off me.  Maybe less.  I don’t know really.  Time stands still.

I run back to the catering department, and head straight into the vice-president's office where I say I’m not feeling well and ask to go home.  He tells me there’s no more work left for me, so I don’t need to come back anymore unless the agency calls me again. Fine. Great.  I never have to see Him again.

I call my roommate from the lobby for a ride home, take a shower, and crawl into bed for a day or two.  I don’t tell anyone, or plan to tell anyone, for 7 days – that’s when the temp agency calls.

The temp agency tells me they have more work for me at the hotel.  I tell them I don’t want to go back to the hotel, but I’ll take anything else they have.  I can hear in the recruiter’s voice that they don’t appreciate me turning down the job, and this isn’t reflecting on me very well.  The recruiter ends the call, and I am afraid they won’t give me on any more assignments.

Fearing my job, I call the recruiter back and tell them I need to come in the office to explain why I cannot go back to the hotel.  I am sick the whole train ride down to the agency.  When I arrive, I first explain the situation to one head recruiter, who puts me in a conference room with two other recruiters and has me retell the story while they tape record the conversation.  All three of us cry, then sit in silence.

The agency feels terrible for putting me in the situation.  I just want to forget about it as quickly as possible.  Over the next few days, they notify the hotel, lots and lots of paperwork is filled out, and ultimately He is escorted off the hotel property by security guards (so I am told later by a Temp friend who is still working at the hotel.)

Within 14 days, the agency has a permanent position for me with a salary higher than any I have seen up until that time.  They are being especially nice. I want to move on with my life, so I take the position and put the incident out of my mind.  In retrospect, I am sure they are desperate to avoid a lawsuit.

Before this incident occurred, I could never understand why a woman wouldn’t report a rape or an attack.  I would see characters on TV shows or in movies refusing treatment and refusing to file police reports after an assault, and I’d yell at the TV “What is wrong with you??? Tell the police!!!”

But, when it happened to me, I initially told no one.  And now I understand WHY a woman would do that.  Being violated is a humiliating feeling.  And telling the tale is just as humiliating.  Women blame themselves.  And society blames women.  Even when we know we didn’t invite it, and we know this was not our fault, we think no one will believe us, or they won’t do anything about it anyway.  We don’t want to keep reliving it through a never-ending legal battle.  We don’t want our lives put under a microscope by jaded detectives, or by lawyers trying to make a case for their client.  We've all seen "The Accused" and we don't want to be Jodie Foster.  It seems so much easier to try to put it out of our mind and pretend it never happened.

But it did happen.  And it keeps happening in my head.  Not all the time, but enough.  And maybe I would feel better if I had filed the police report against him 11 years ago.  An attacker is an attacker, and you are not their last victim.  If I were ever to find out that He did this to another subordinate, I would feel responsible for that too.

That is why I filed a police report against my stalker.  That is why I’m putting on my brave face and handing over the emails and IP addresses and screenshots to the detectives.  That is why I am in contact with Integra and Comcast about this person’s account.  That is why I’ve told my HR department about this person posing as a co-worker of mine – and why the authorities have traced their IP address to Oregon even though my office is in Chicago.  That is why I will not plug my ears and pretend this will all go away.

This is not easy, and it is not convenient, and it will drag this ordeal out. But I refuse to be a victim. Again.