Innocent victim blamed herself

I grew up in a large Catholic family where anything remotely related to sex was strictly taboo. Because of this, I felt I was to blame on the many occasions when I was subject to sexual harassment or abuse.

The first time, I was 13 and a male relative made me sit on his lap in our family living room. I wouldn’t dare tell anyone he had an erection while he hugged me close in full view of my parents.

I remember a classmate telling me that our geography teacher would stand right behind me in order to stare down my shirt. On two other occasions, divorced male neighbours whose children I babysat made moves on me upon returning home.

At 15, a boss chased me around the counter several times while cleaning up after closing in a bakery. He’d make lewd comments about what he’d want to do to me. I told my boyfriend, who showed up one afternoon, jumped over the counter and told my boss he’d have to answer to him if he tried it again.

My best friend’s dad gave me a Christmas hug and despite my effort to show a cheek, he slipped his tongue into my mouth. I never told my friend for fear that it would hurt her and her mom, who I loved dearly.

Another boss who was also a family friend, married with three children, tried to pin me down in his office after an office Christmas party. I slapped him so hard he never tried it again — but he continued to brag about the number of women he had “done” under his employ. I recall learning to walk so fast so as not to be considered fair game — in broad daylight, because of incessant catcalls from construction sites and random men on the street. It’s so ingrained in me, I still walk fast no matter where I’m going.

I’ve never shared any of this with anyone but my husband for fear of being judged.