Please Take Care of This For Me
The moment I said something to someone, I had nothing to worry about
“You should have screamed, Charlie. You should have woken everybody up. You shouldn’t have felt scared to tell people. Your safety is more important than that,” my boss tells me, in his serious German accent, on the stoop of the hotel we work in, with rain pouring down around us.
For about the past year, I have been voluntarily celibate in order to heal from my sexual trauma. I was raped for years. The police got involved when I was 13, and I never saw my rapist again. It took me ten years, and several therapies, to recover from this abuse. This past year, I stopped having sex as a declaration to myself and God that I would finally heal the bulk of this pain.
This isn’t to say I expected myself to be fully healed. My sexual trauma will follow me for life. My goal with celibacy was to find peace about the fact I had been raped. And I did. Miraculously. In that year of celibacy, I accomplished what 8 years of therapy never could. I found peace. I accepted my story for what it was. I had been raped. A lot. My relationship with sex will forever be abnormal. I stopped denying the reality of the story and I faced it. I learned to love and forgive the version of myself that was abused and traumatized. And this past month, I decided I was ready to have sex again.
I stopped having sex as a declaration to myself and God that I would finally heal the bulk of this pain.
The bulk of my healing occurred after I discovered meditation in March. This sort of happened by accident. Just to see what might happen, I listened to a healing frequency on YouTube. I slipped into a state between consciousness and unconsciousness where no thought occurred. Just peace. I spent all day every day for a week in this liminal place. Then, it became part of my routine.
I’ve always had big emotions. I’ve always struggled with handling them. Daily meditation helped me witness, feel, and dismiss many painful feelings I had carried for the bulk of my life. And it brought me closer to God. I can’t exactly describe my connection to God in words. I know the presence of God, Universe, or Spirit when I feel it, but I cannot tell you what it feels like. I connect with God daily, and I usually enjoy near-constant communication with him. When I get completely overwhelmed, I ask him,
“Please take care of this for me.”
I surrender completely to whichever way he might resolve my stressors. I give him complete creative control. A sort of, ‘do whatever you feel is best, but help me out here.’ He almost always does.
About a month ago, I arrived in a new city. I participate in a global volunteer program. I trade about 20 hours of work a week for room and board. This time, I accepted a position in a hostel in a calm neighborhood of the chaotic city of Rio de Janeiro. I was thrilled. I have good friends in Rio. The city has lots of live music, interesting culture, and amazing food.
On my second day in the hostel, I met one of my coworkers. He was also participating in this same volunteer program with me. For his “money job,” he was a tour guide for spots around Rio. We clicked very well. I am a curious person. Any question I had about Rio, he could answer. He offered to take me on tours free of charge. I accepted. We spent a week exploring the city together. I liked being around him because he made all the decisions about what to do and handled all the navigation. I used to struggle with accepting this type of help. I let my guard down; I wanted to trust him. On top of that, he had all the answers to my never-ending list of questions.
“How did they get Cristo on top of Corcovado?”
“They built the statue in parts. Then, they built a train. They put the parts on the train and connected the pieces on top of the mountain. You can still ride this train today — it’s the oldest commercial train in South America.”
There was always this underlying current of flirty energy between us. The type where it’s maybe a joke, maybe not.
One night, we’re alone on Ipanema beach. He kisses me. One thing leads to another, and we have sex that night. The sex was okay. Just okay. I remember, after he finished, he asked me how I liked it. I was honest with him. I told him it was fine, but it was missing something.
He asks what.
I tell him, “Maybe love?”
“Do you want to be in love?”
“Yeah. I think I want to find a partner. I think I’d be a good partner.”
“I think you would, too,” he says.
“But not to you,” I reply. Not to be mean, but to be honest. I didn’t view him as relationship material. And Brazilian men are especially finicky about any implication of commitment early on. He doesn’t say anything to this. Instead, he asks me if I want to get some food.
Another week passes. We were touchy with each other, but I had no interest in having sex with him again. I enjoyed the physical affection because hell, it’d been two years since I had a partner. We lived and worked together, and when we weren't working, we were still visiting tourist spots together. It was nice to have all those extra hugs and quick kisses. But I didn’t want to have sex with him again. I was clear in this. I could not have been more clear about this.
As time passed, he started becoming more demanding of me. He asked me to shave my entire body — even my arms. He asked me to maybe consider losing some weight. He asked me to spend more and more time with him. A couple of times, when I would say something that annoyed him, he would grab me by my throat to shut me up. On a few occasions, he choked me so hard I was unable to breathe. I would always remove his hand and say, “I don’t like that.”
And without any accusation, he would defend himself, “It’s not violent. It’s sexual. I thought girls liked that.”
His propositions for sex became hourly. It didn't really matter what I said — it was like it was in one ear and out the other. I lied and told him I had gotten my period. He told me we could lay down a towel.
So, I started distancing myself from him.
What once was just fun had become a constant testing of my boundaries. Being around him was plain uncomfortable. The pattern of disrespect was escalating. The more time that passed, the worse he became. It seemed like he wanted to change me. To fit me into some perfect model of what a woman should be. A quiet, hairless, skinny, walking pussy pocket. I wasn’t willing to make these changes to myself.
At one point, he asked if he could call me his girlfriend. I declined. I was quickly becoming more and more uncomfortable spending time with him at all. I didn’t want to attach any labels to this already-strained and brand-new connection.
Late one night, past midnight, he was working the night shift at the front desk. I hadn’t really talked with him in three days, and I missed the friendship between us. So, I sat with him. I asked him about his day. We talked for a little while. He started pressuring me to have sex with him again. I politely declined and told him I was going to go to bed. He persuaded me to stay. He asked me to watch some TV. with him instead. Okay, sure. Whatever. Ten minutes pass. He began touching me in a sexual way. I moved his hands away. In retaliation, he grabbed me. Hard. It hurt. I told him, in English, “Let me go.” He did not listen. I told him, in Portuguese, his language, “Let me go.” He did not listen. I started fighting against him.
As soon as I freed myself, he grabbed me again. He’s much, much stronger than me. He held me in a chokehold. He told me, “Don’t scream. They’ll hear us.”
Some ancient programming in me activated. I was immediately silenced by these words. There were five dorms of sleeping guests within earshot of us. If I screamed, at least twenty people would’ve heard. But I didn’t scream. Miraculously, my fight or flight does not leave me. I quietly elbowed him in the ribs. I hit him in any way I possibly could. I freed myself, and in my anger, I hit him some more.
In the past, my body always chose to freeze when approached by my childhood rapist. I’ll forever be grateful I did not freeze again. I don’t believe violence is ever the best choice, but I will always be proud of those punches and slaps I landed on him.
After I came back to my senses, I told him “I’m going to bed,” and I left the room. He follows me into my bedroom. Luckily, my two roommates were already asleep in their beds. Any scuffle would have woken them up. Whispering, he demanded I come back into the main room. I refused. I told him to leave. He did. I didn’t sleep that night. In a daze, I stared up at my ceiling for hours on end, praying; “God, if you can hear me right now, please take care of this for me.”
As I said before, he almost always does.
In the past, my body always chose to freeze when approached by my childhood rapist. I’ll forever be grateful I did not freeze again.
I did not talk to anyone about these events for over a week because I was ashamed. I had been raped before. In some way, I felt the peace I had found about that trauma had forever absolved me from facing these pains again. Looking back, I can say that there was a clear escalation of violent behavior starting from the day I met him. I felt I should have recognized this pattern. I also felt it was my fault for not stopping this pattern before it escalated into a near stranger holding me in a chokehold with the intention of subduing me into sex.
In addition, it felt inappropriate to have had a sexual relationship with a coworker at all. Why would I bring more attention to that? In any case, he was scheduled to leave two weeks after the events of that night. I decided to wait out the clock.
He did not feel any guilt for what he did. He did not even realize how scared I had been. He kept making his nonstop sexual advances toward me. In this, I accepted this situation as a test from God. As sort of, “you’ve declared yourself mostly healed from this trauma. Here is something to trigger that trauma again. What are you going to do?”
So, I confronted him.
He told me I was crazy. Overly-sensitive. That him holding me in a chokehold while I struggled to get free was just a joke — “get over it.”
He still felt I owed him more sex.
Confronting him was something I never did to my previous rapist. I never had that conversation with him. I was always a passive victim to him. In my book, I already had two wins in this situation that I did not have before. I already had two things I could point to to demonstrate how my standard of treatment had advanced. One, I hit back. Two, I told him I felt he had violated me. But still, I was ashamed. To me, waiting out the clock seemed like the best option.
Three days passed before I cracked. I couldn’t stop blaming myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t want to readopt the label I had very recently healed my way out of — victim. To make matters worse, he was always there. Always around me. He eventually got the hint — no more sex. He moved on.
I saw him flirting with another girl. A solo-traveling guest in the hostel. I saw him offer to take her on a free tour. Here is when I told someone. When I realized my responsibility to tell extended beyond me. That my silence only benefited and enabled him. In not saying anything, I allowed him access to people I was somewhat responsible for.
I thought my silence was protecting me from embarrassment. It was only protecting him from repercussions.
I believe every situation we encounter, especially painful situations, has something to teach us about ourselves. Furthermore, I believe this situation was specifically crafted to trigger me. It was sent to test my peace. I had declared I had a higher standard for how I would be treated, and I was given a test to prove this dedication.
It is because of this belief system that this situation has not overtaken my life. I was deeply triggered. I was deeply uncomfortable. But I did what had to be done. And I maintained my peace throughout.
I told my boss.
My boss believed me immediately — apparently, this specific coworker had a long history of general asshole-ishness, including kicking the elderly hostel cat. My boss never cast any doubt onto my story. In the same way I had completely surrendered to God and whatever course of action he felt was best, I surrendered completely to whatever my boss decided to do.
He decided my coworker would be immediately removed and banned from the hostel. He decided I could stay in his guest bedroom that night, just in case. He decided it was his responsibility to ensure my safety and well-being and took no shortcuts. He handled everything for me. All I had to do was pack a night bag and block my coworker on every digital platform.
Weirdly enough, this part of the story was the most uncomfortable for me. I am not someone who is good at asking for or accepting help. If I ask for help, it is because I desperately need it. In putting this situation in my boss’s hands, I had to accept much more help than I thought was available to me. He handled every detail. Even down to the gossip between my coworkers. When I returned to work the next day, everyone was completely sympathetic and respectful of my privacy. No one asked me any uncomfortable questions.
When my almost rapist snuck back into the hostel to confront me, my coworkers immediately rushed to provide me with a physical barrier between him and me. When he sent messages and letters to the hostel, my boss printed them off and forwarded them to our volunteer agency and the police in Rio. From the moment I said something to somebody, I had nothing to worry about. And this made me cry the most.
I can’t exactly say which lesson this situation was meant to teach me. I’m sure there are several. But I asked God for help and he made sure every detail was handled.
All I had to do was be brave enough to tell someone. From there on, I was protected by those around me every step of the way.
I am sharing this story with you now because I feel it is my responsibility. I tried to keep this situation just between me and God and I suffered for it. I only started to feel better about this after I told someone. Ultimately, the reason I told my boss was to protect another female solo traveler.
Sexual assault statistics are unreasonably high, both in Brazil and the United States of America. Odds are, if you are reading this article, you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted. There are some of you reading this article who are currently undergoing a situation involving assault.
Sexual abuse is not black and white. I had sex with my coworker before he attempted to rape me. Having my consent one time did not entitle him to ongoing consent to my body. Even further, the world is changing. #MeToo altered the way many people look at sexual abuse. It’s no longer something that happens because there was a strange man in a dark alley you were stupid enough to walk into while wearing a mini-skirt. It’s an abuse of power.
When sexual assault occurs, you and your assailant do not exist in a bubble. This is a crime that affects your community, too. I was very lucky the community I was assaulted in was supportive of my story and safety. If I hadn’t said anything, who knows what could’ve happened to that other solo traveler? Who knows what could’ve happened to me?
I did not speak up earlier because I was ashamed. My boss told me this shame is what my almost-rapist was counting on. He directly benefits from my ability to make this situation “my fault.” But it was never my fault. Even if I flirted with him. Even if I kissed him. Even if I slept with him. There is no situation in which it would have been okay to hold me in a chokehold until I consented.
Would that even count as consent?
Having my consent one time did not entitle him to ongoing consent to my body.
If you are currently making your sexual abuse “your fault,” tell someone. Tell whoever seems safe enough to tell. Be honest with them. The shame you feel only exists in your head. My boss thanked me for my honesty and bravery. He did not feel my acts were shameful at all.
If someone decides you are the safe person to tell, listen without judgment. These things escalate quickly. It’s easy to miss the red flags while you’re in the heat of the moment. Be like my boss, who was so thorough in helping me, that he even handled the gossip between my coworkers.
Finally, while I am a spiritual person who finds peace in interpreting my life situations through a spiritual lens, you do not have to do the same. If the feeling does not come naturally to you, you do not have to be thankful to God for sending hardship your way. Your experience with God and spirituality is personal. For me, a spiritual perspective helps me heal. As Viktor Frankl says, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
Spiritual growth is my why. For this past month, sexual assault has been my how.
Oftentimes, when I say I am spiritual, I am met with this sort of skepticism that is basically, “Oh, but why does God let bad things happen to good people?”
I don’t know. I’m not God. But I think I am a good person. And God let this bad thing happen to me. I am glad it happened, honestly. I have proven to myself that I am no longer willing to tolerate the abuse I was taught to accept. I have created boundaries for myself that rise above my conditioning. I have also proven that I am able to ask for and receive help. Even when I am deeply embarrassed. Even further, I have shown myself that other people care about me. If I tell the truth, I will be believed. If I need safety, I will be protected. I am not an isolated variable looking in on the environment around me. I am a valued contributor to the social atmosphere I exist within. People want me to feel safe. My safety is valuable to them. Even if I barely know them.
All in all, I think the lessons I pulled from this situation far outweigh the actual evil of this situation. God never abandoned me. Even if he was testing me, he was still there for me. He still had a plan in place for me.
For this, I am grateful.