On my fourteenth New Year's Eve, the only desire I knew was the desperate longing that the boy I liked might touch my hand as he walked by. I was petite and pretty then, or at least I thought I was, with long, straight black hair and dark brown eyes set against my tanned Indian skin. On that New Year's Eve, on one of those chilly Houston evenings, I secretly wished for smoldering looks. I could never have imagined that my dreams would soon be shattered, my mind poisoned, and my body violated.
That night I was sexually assaulted by two boys I trusted. Looking back, I remember shuddering, but most of all I remember the paralysis, the terror, the intrusion, and the pain. I have a vivid memory of myself in that cold room saying, "I need to go. I really need to go," and how those words carried no value. My body felt so heavy, my muscles so weak. I used every bit of strength I had to pull myself away, but it wasn't enough. Their hands overpowered me and I couldn't break free. I closed my lips and bit them as hard as I could. Staring into the boys' eyes I thought were so beautiful just a few moments before, I wanted to be somewhere far, far away. My blood was boiling, my skin sweating; all of this seemed like a fever-induced hallucination. Two salty tears began to stream down my face.
And then two hundred tears.
When I used to think about what my life might someday be like, I never once pictured myself as a victim. I desperately wanted to push this night away and pretend like it never happened. Days later, I had to face it when my parents decided to press charges. Luckily, my mom and dad never blamed me, but instead wanted to send the two boys to jail. I felt disgusting, ashamed, and dirty. After the assault, I constantly trembled and shook. I no longer felt young. My childhood was further from me than I ever imagined it would be at 14.
As this legal case became part of my daily life, I was constantly reminded of the events of that New Year's. I began to shut down. That night took away my innocence, and I unraveled with the constant flashbacks. I needed control. The only way I found it was through food. Restricting my eating became my coping mechanism throughout the yearlong legal battle that never went to trial. Due to a lack of evidence, it turned into a classic case of he-said-she-said. I didn't think I could muster the strength to face everyone in court. I just wanted to be like every other teenage girl again and go back to having crushes on boys and playing volleyball with my friends.
I became consumed by an obsession with calories, an obsession with making myself disappear. My friends never knew I had been to a rape clinic or that I had spoken with detectives. I was too ashamed to tell anyone, so I began to isolate myself. I spent the year in solitude with these disturbing memories. I lost my trust in everyone and lived in fear. For the rest of high school, I chose to push away the trauma, but I woke up years later still broken.
Avoiding reality almost destroyed me. I am now 22, and it took me years of therapy to finally accept that this assault was not my fault. Every choice is a step, but it's up to each of us whether we make it a step forward or a step back. I had to face the darkness so it could set me free.
Neesha Arter recently completed her memoir Controlled and contributes to the New York Observer and New York Magazine.
