It’s likely that your social media has recently been flooded with statuses reading “me, too”. The use of this statement is intended to shed light on sexual harassment and assault, revealing the magnitude of the problem by showing how many people have been directly affected. I was hesitant to participate, embarrassed to be so honest with the general public, but I realize my silence isn’t helping anybody, not even me. So after some internal wrestling I must admit, yes. Me, too.

This dialogue has only recently been opened for general discussion. Growing up, terms like “assault” or “rape” weren’t often heard aside from the nightly news. To me, rape was limited to a hooded stranger attacking passerby in a dark alley. The idea was of course terrifying, but in my mind it was also random and rare. I was very wrong.

I learned some dark realities of the situation on the night of my twenty-first birthday. An older friend from high school was taking me on my very first bar crawl. She lived in the hub of nightlife and was familiar with all the best places to go. We planned for me to stay at her house that night so I wouldn’t have to drive home, a responsible decision not at all out of character for a rule follower like me.

She and I eagerly exchanged texts the whole week leading up to my birthday, excitedly planning every detail of our girl’s night out. She even went so far as to set timers on her phone so we didn’t stay at one venue too long and miss out on all the other cool places she wanted to take me to.

I showed up at her place overfed and incredibly hydrated, taking every precaution I could think of to avoid what I assumed to be an inevitable hangover. I was not at all familiar with the party scene and truthfully I was a little nervous. I grew up experiencing anxiety over a simple birthday party invitation, but I was older now and wanted to make an effort to be more social. I began the evening with a cocktail of thrill and apprehension as we finally hit the town.

The night got started quickly and never slowed. My friend was the ultimate party guide, bringing me to all the best places then promptly ushering us to the next destination when her phone alarm sounded. She shared our location on social media throughout the night and what started as a twosome slowly grew with each stop we made.

I knew most of the friends we picked up along the way from high school, but others were new to me. Still, they were all familiar with my birthday guide and they were all fabulously kind to me.

Before we knew it, it was closing time. Our sizable group made its way to my friend’s house where we crowded into the living room recounting the highlights of the evening, one that had been a tremendous success. It was after 2 a.m. and, elated as I was, I was not used to staying up late and felt painfully tired.

I remember the bright fluorescent overhead lights. I remember sitting on a futon with a few other people, squeezed as far on the edge as I could to make room. I remember many friendly faces, laughing loudly and carrying on multiple conversations. I don’t remember falling asleep.

I woke up a few hours later in the same room, though nothing was the same. The lights had been turned out and the room was pitch black. The conversations had stopped leaving unsettling silence. The crowd of friends had emptied leaving only me and one other whose breath I felt on my face. The night was no longer fun.

I rushed to my car in the early dawn without waking my friend who was asleep in her room upstairs. Instead I texted her, “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I was sick and had to leave.” It wasn’t a total lie; I had vomited in the alley on my way out.

I drove home in a strange state of shock. I couldn’t believe that had happened to me. I was so careful. I had trusted friends with me, I was cautious not to drink too much, I even wore jeans. I thought I did everything right. I didn’t realize how irrelevant those precautions had been. It may take two to tango, but it only takes one to assault.

The person who I woke up to had been a stranger until that night. He was friend to several of my friends and joined our group early on. I could tell he took an immediate interest in me, but I didn’t feel alarmed. He was nice to me. At one point he even asked for my phone number and suggested we go on a date sometime, a gesture from what seemed to be a gentleman.

I do remember he got a little handsy as the night went on. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. We were in loud crowded places where close proximity was virtually impossible to avoid. I’d brush his hand away or lightly push him a step back, smiling all the while as not to seem rude, and he’d oblige. I couldn’t imagine him hurting me.

There were two stigmas I had previously believed that I learned to be wrong. I believed there was a certain kind of person who fell victim to assault, and I felt there was a certain kind of easily identifiable person who committed assault. These stigmas still exist, and I want you to know that they are false.

After the incident, I simply pretended it never happened. My friend even straight out asked me if that guy did anything to me, giving me perfect opportunity to disclose everything. Instead, I lied. I told her whatever happened was consensual. I felt more in control that way. I did not want to be a victim. I did not want to be known as somebody who could be taken advantage of.

It’s been over four years and I’ve only discussed this matter with two souls. I can’t explain how difficult it is for me to write about it now. I can’t shake this sense of shame like I was partially responsible, like I could have avoided this had I been smarter or stronger or more prepared.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I have massive respect for those who are able to openly share their stories. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never before been capable of. Even now, the words I’m sharing in this piece are as detailed as I’m willing to get. I do not want to discuss my personal experience any further. I will not answer questions about it. It’s how I choose to handle it and I hope others can respect that.

I’m writing this now because I don’t want this topic to remain taboo. This problem thrives on silence. These attackers are not limited to masked men or dubious strangers like I once believed. All too often they appear as friends.

I bet many of these offenders are completely unaware of the damage they've caused. Some may mistakenly believe there was consent. Some don’t understand what consent is. This is in no way an excuse for deplorable actions; it’s instead a call for widespread education on the matter. People can no longer plea ignorance when consent becomes common knowledge and common practice.

There seems to be a misconception that consent is an abrupt halt of a moment of passion where contracts are drawn and detailed limits are set. This lengthy affair is quite the mood killer and is therefore often overlooked.

This ultra formal idea of consent is inaccurate. Consent is not complicated or difficult to achieve. Let me give you an example of what practical consent looks like.

I was on a date with a new crush. We had gone out a few times before and while there was palpable chemistry, he hadn’t yet tried to kiss me, a fact that relieved me since I was admittedly still uneasy from my prior experience. Nevertheless, I had a good feeling about this one. I liked him.

The night began and we kept an obvious distance between us, sneaking peaks at each other then quickly looking away. We got to know each other, talking endlessly and becoming more comfortable. Our glances became longer. That distance between us gradually became shorter.

Afterwards, he walked me to his car and we couldn’t stop smiling. We were on our way to another destination to meet up with a few of his friends. As we got buckled in, he turned to me and said, “I know the night isn’t over, but I really want to kiss you now. Is that ok?”

I was thrown by the blunt and sudden nature of his question, but I can’t tell you how attractive it was. He was genuinely giving me the option to say no, and I could tell by his consistent sweetness that I could decline without fear of rebuttal. I felt comfortable.

I also knew from this gesture that he respected my boundaries. I knew a kiss would be a kiss; he never pushed me past my limits. Consent was always as simple as asking "Is this ok?". It turns out, basic human decency is wildly sexy.

I quickly said, “Yes” before embarking in what I strongly believe was the greatest first kiss of all time. That man is now my husband.