When I was a little girl, age 5-7, and the older boy often took me into his bedroom to pull down our pants and touch genitals, saying, “This is how people show they love each other.”
When my grandfather encouraged my female cousins and me to look at the underage porn magazines he kept in his bedroom.
When he got caught molesting one of my cousins, only because the other one told on him, and was never legally punished.
When he showed up to family gatherings with the little neighbor girl as his “date,” and my family made remarks behind his back about how tacky it was—but nobody helped his new victim.
When I was 6 and a stranger tried to get me into his car while walking home from school, and my lizard brain told me to run back to the school for help, where they called my mom to pick me up.
When walking home from school another time, a man flashed his penis at me, and laughed as I ran.
When the 20-something guy started hanging out with my group of friends, tickling and touching us, until we asked an adult to make him leave, and he tried to make us feel guilty.
When my mom divorced the pathetic bully who held me down to push his stinky, crunchy-with-sweat, black work socks in my face, and then hit me as hard as he could because while struggling to escape the smell, I instinctively kicked.
When the same man would make me go get the belt to add psychological torture to physical abuse.
When, before I turned 6, “bare-bottomed spankings” were a thing, as if a the grown son of a pedophile making a little girl pull down her underwear so the spanking will sting more is not perverted and inappropriate as fuck.
When my mom married my stepfather who had a 6-years-older-than-me son who would often grab girls in the crotch, until one day his sister yelled at him to stop doing that to us.
When the same stepbrother, who was 9 years older than my younger sister, secretly raped her in his bedroom from age 5-8, telling her, “This is how people show they love each other,” while calling his semen on her stomach “baby food” when she asked what it was.
When nobody wanted to believe her because it was icky, and she had to live alone with her abuse, for years, until the weight became too much to bear.
When we were moved away from all friends and family to the middle of nowhere, and my new stepfather decided I hadn’t watered and fed the chickens right, so he dragged me by my 8-year-old arm to show me what I’d done incorrectly.
When he then kicked me in the tailbone so hard my legs wouldn’t move for a while, so I stayed on the ground waiting for the numbness to subside, reaching into my pants to check for blood and crying because I was alone, in pain, and nobody cared.
When my biological father beat me so violently my face was unrecognizably distorted, one of two black eyes completely shut, chipped front tooth, clothes blood-soaked and ruined from the teeth-ripped flesh inside my swollen lips gushing blood.
When I was curled up fetal on the cold, gray tile of the foyer, where I hadn’t made it to the door because he grabbed my skirt, so I instead faced down into the pool of blood forming beneath me, wondering who was screaming because I’d dissociated from my body.
When he then kicked me, and scornfully told me to “stop being so dramatic.”
When I hitchhiked because I had no ride home and the guys drove me outside of Phoenix, pulled over in a scary, deserted area, and the driver pulled out his penis, imploring me to “Touch it, come on, touch it,” while the others in the car laughed.
When I refused to “touch it” and had to walk the psychological tightrope between indignant and annoyed, but not too angry, lest I trigger violence, then play nice and talk about “going rafting together sometime” after the driver gave up, praying I would make it home alive.
When my high school boyfriend broke up with me for someone else, got jealous that I, too, had moved on, and beat me up in an empty parking lot after confronting me, bruising my face, and breaking my ring finger, later making it harder to play guitar in bands.
When I went to the police and filed an assault and battery charge afterward, and later heard the ex-boyfriend only got a $50 fine for the permanently damaged and crooked finger I still stare at every day.
When the football quarterback I was kissing in the back of a car ripped my jeans zipper open and pulled them off to fuck me, when all I wanted to do was kiss, so I went somewhere else in my head until he was done, and lied to my parents about how the zipper broke.
When I got drunk at a high school party and puked on my shirt and pants, so the girls put my clothes in the washer and dryer while I was passed out in a pile of dirty laundry in the garage, and a group of boys started talking about raping me.
When a boy named Scott I didn’t know very well told the group of my would-be gang rapists, “If anyone touches Tawni, you’re going through me,” so they left me alone—and one guy doing the right thing was enough of an anomaly that a surprised person who overheard later relayed the story to me.
When I went to college, poor and without a car, and run-walked home from my fast food job late at night, scared when men would often pull over, offer me a ride, and yell “Bitch!” at me before spinning dirt and rocks on me for politely refusing.
When the guy stalked me in the dark morning hours every day walking to my early doughnut shop job, talk-driving next to me, offering me a ride “for my safety,” and got mad when I wouldn’t get in his car, forcing me to find different and further-to-walk routes to avoid him.
When I only wanted a ride home from a college party, and the guy who gave me a ride made a point of dropping off the other guy he gave a ride first, then wouldn’t let me out of his car at my house until I let him fuck me while I went somewhere else in my head.
When my all-girl rock band was visiting our record label in New York and a strange man behind me in a crowd pushed his penis into my rear end, smirked, and walked away when I turned around to confront him.
When the creepy ex-boyfriend with a secret stash of rape porn and an SKS rifle under his bed once used my chain necklace to choke me without my consent during sex, bruising my neck, until the chain snapped, allowing me to breathe before I passed out.
When the same boyfriend got mad at me in a bar and left me there, so I walked home crying, and a group of guys pulled up next to me in a car to offer me a ride, yelling “Bitch!” at me when with tears running down my face, I told them, “No thank you, I’m not having a good night. I need to walk,” foolishly hoping that maybe because I was crying this time, I wouldn’t have obscenities yelled at me for refusing to get into a car full of strangers.
When my 15+ years-older step-uncle moved to the same city as me, began flirting with and harassing me, coming to my band’s shows, entering my apartment to leave items when I wasn’t there, or to knock on the door while I hid, making me feel violated and unsafe.
When he came to the convenience store job where I was trapped behind the counter, forcing me to deal with daily visits, afraid of disturbing the family balance if I told him to fuck off, stop acting like a pervert, and leave me alone.
When, after turning him down for drinks and movies and nights out together, trying to “be nice,” at least 20 times, he finally got angry, yelled at me, stormed out— and I felt nothing but relief.
When he recently turned up at a family gathering, and after not seeing him for over 10 years, he told me, “I used to have such a crush on you. You still look good. If I were a younger man, I’d wear you out,” in a lascivious tone of voice, making me feel repulsed.
When I didn’t call him out for being completely inappropriate to his married step-niece in front of her 10-year-old son out of unspoken pressure to “be nice” because he’s family.
When this same man gave my 21-year-old niece the creeps by looking her up and down, telling her in a sexual tone of voice that made her uncomfortable, “she’d grown up into a very attractive young woman,” as if this epitomizes all she might aspire to be.
When a 60-year-old man who knows damned well he’s being inappropriate is allowed to do so because none of the women in the family who discuss his behavior want to cause trouble, so we just endure it, and he gets away with it, and he knows this, so he will always do it.
When I lived in Los Angeles, and the large man I tried to not make eye contact with as we passed on the sidewalk punched me in the chest so hard my heart skipped a beat and I couldn’t breathe, and I didn’t bother finding a business and calling the police because I knew nobody would take me seriously.
When the guy at my gym has been monopolizing a machine for 30 minutes, walks away, and I try to use it quickly for 5 minutes, refusing to “be nice” and obediently move when he comes back to stand over me aggressively—so he sits 10 feet away, glaring threateningly at me.
When I share this story on social media, and guys oblivious to their own male privilege call me rude names and comment that I should have had better gym etiquette and “been nice,” completely missing the point, because they don’t have to feel physically threatened for existing while female.
When I used to go for runs and felt I needed to wear baggy clothing, or else the male attention that made me feel frightened for my safety was somehow my fault.
When I used to go for runs in baggy clothing, and still had to listen to men yell demeaning things from their cars at me.
When women are judged purely for how we look, as if we exist only for decoration or visual pleasure.
When women are threatened, harassed, or stalked on the internet by anonymous, cowardly assholes with something to prove and nothing to lose.
These are all examples of when you did not have consent.
This is not how people show they love each other.
Girls and women aren’t supposed to fear violence or violation from boys and men, ever.
“No” is a complete sentence.
When we place a boundary, or are too emotionally immature to know how to do so, you don’t get to cross lines you shouldn’t without consequences.
If we are physically unable to place a boundary—for any reason—you should assume that also means no.
Your vile actions haunt us, and change who we become, who we might have been.
Because we remember. Forever. So you should, too.
You should feel guilty for these things.
You should feel sorry that you did these things.
You should, at the very least, take responsibility for, acknowledge, and apologize for these things.
You should never blame the victims for these things.
Women are allowed to be angry.
We are tired of being unwilling participants forced to march in your endless parade of insecurity.
We are tired, and we are angry.
This writing seems long, yet is an abbreviated list, because I’m not special. Many women have longer, more haunting lists.
But the one thing we have in common is that we all have a list.
A list of when you did not have consent.