Uncovered

Tits. Titties. Tiddys. I fucking hate these words.

I was 15. School was nearly out - for both the day and the school year; just a few days left really. Maybe an hour, hour and a half left in the school day.

I was in the cafeteria; I had this last "class" off as a sophomore. I was approached by an older boy I kind of knew. We had ridden the bus together in the past anyway, so it was someone I recognized.

Friendships did not come easy for me. I had a brilliant - kidding, it was a fucking stupid - idea. Some of the guys and gals I hung around (loosely) did this stupid, stupid thing; they called it "boob tag". Despite the name, most would actually just hit the chest area above the breasts. It was usually a one-and-done exchange - person one "tagged" the other, exclaiming, “boob tag!”, and the other "tagged" back. It was stupid.

I don't really know why I thought it was a thing to do - I'd never done it before. I did have a lot of turmoil going on in virtually all aspects of my life then. The guy I fell so hard for and had my first kiss with abruptly changed his mind about "us", and I was too obsessed with what he offered and how he made me feel to just let it lie. I had wanted to kill myself many times a year since I was 7, and regularly struggled with wanting to kill myself from 15-18. I was basically a third parent to my brother with special needs. And I didn't feel safe/heard enough to talk to my parents, and my few kinda-friends were quickly annoyed with me after my endless obsession with aforementioned guy.

So, I tapped this guy on the upper part of his chest like I'd seen others do. He returned the touch, then offered that we go just outside. I saw a group of peers I knew - about 10 of them - so I agreed. I thought everything was done and we were just going to go outside and join the others in chatting.

Oh fuck no.

No sooner than we had exited the building, he shoved both of his hands down my shirt, under my bra, and began groping me.

I wish I could say I punched him or cursed him out - I always thought I would in such a situation. But it was like someone hit a panic button; my mind was racing but my body was kind of on autopilot. All I could do to let my peers know this wasn't planned was stand around looking uncomfortable, because I sure as shit was.

Someone asked, "Dude, what are you doing?"

To which, this fucking pig stated, proudly, "Just grabbing some titties."

Eventually, one peer would get his attention on one side while another would lean in close to me and ask in a whisper, "Do you want me to beat the shit out of him?"

Honestly, yes, yes I did. But fighting would get this peer suspended or expelled, and I couldn't ask them to do that. I hoped and hoped and fucking hoped that one would take it upon themselves to do so anyway, but all they did was stand around, equally uncomfortable. I can't really blame them; they didn't ask to witness this shit. And they did ask me in this fashion - twice. I just couldn't bring myself to say... well, anything.

This went on so long - honestly, I wish someone would have even thought to go get an adult. I don't know when we went outside, but the classes were done in blocks that day - instead of going to all 7 classes, we went to all the ones with odd numbers that day, and classes were about an hour and a half long. Was it half an hour this went on? An hour? No fucking idea, but it was torture. I'd had no idea that I would be in this situation.

All the while, I was more or less frozen in body - anytime the guy guided us, my body obeyed like a rag doll. Internally... I was asking why no one was doing anything, myself included. I was getting mad at myself. I had so many thoughts and emotions but couldn't do anything. It was fucking awful.

At one point, another female classmate walked up to him and was trying to - I dunno - assess the situation? It's gotten a little fuzzy after 15 years as to why she came over. She had pen and marker written on her - it was the end of the school year, so for the day she was like a human yearbook. One message was written that did go a little under her shirt collar, but not much. Certainly not so much that this jackass needed to remove one hand from one of my breasts and yank her shirt down to practically her belly button to read it.

And still, no one said anything. No one ran to get someone. No one got pissed off so much that he was doing this to us. I know they were equally mortified, but...

I thought surely someone would do something. Fucking anything!

Another peer walked out finally. It being close to graduation time, and that he had many friends graduating that he might not see again, he had a video camera and had been getting footage of friends that day. Earlier at lunch, he got me, and I had flipped off the camera. Little did I know...

Any case, he walked out, saw what was going on, and managed to get some of this on film. No one left; good fuck, I wish someone had thought to go get an adult. Eventually, the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, and the jackass simply released me and left. Not a word, not a care.

Mentally, I was fucked. I didn't cry or get upset; I was kinda numb. And I did something I hate that I do in other situations that are too much - I put it in a mental box and shoved it away.

Someone asked if I would like to go file a report with the school, and I dumbly nodded. It was something, I thought. Beyond that, I didn't really have any thoughts. Turns out, I shouldn't have even bothered for all the good it didn't do.

As far as I recall, everyone there went to file a report. One of the things that's gotten fuzzy after all this time was who was even there, so I can't even recall who I could ask about this. I know some of my friends on Facebook, but... I can't recall it well. I was not looking at my friends during the whole thing; I was freaking out in my head.

I realized that I had screwed up when the final bell rang and the school buses left. I called home to let dad know that I would be late getting home and wouldn't be there to get my disabled younger brother off the bus. No answer.

'Shit, just what I need,' I thought. I then called one of my dad's friends who lived nearby.

"Hey, I uh..." 'Oh fuck, what do I say?' "...didn't catch the bus home and I can't get hold of my dad - can you go over to make sure my brother gets off the bus okay?" Thankfully, he asked no questions, and said he would be there.

Next, after filling out my report, the school security had to take photos of me; what I was wearing. So, jeans and a black tank top with heart designs. So provocative. I didn't want to talk about shit; I just wanted to go home. I also had rare plans to catch a movie with friends - the other girl involved among them - and I just wanted to be somewhere where maybe I wouldn't think about what had happened. I was trying not to, but couldn't think of much in any regard.

The security guard drove me home, and I was relieved to see that my brother was safely off the bus. I didn't want to talk to my dad though, so I went inside and rounded up the items I needed for the movie and staying the night at my friend's. Not long after, I was ready, and dad drove me over to my friend's.

En route, he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" I just shook my head. I just wanted to hang around friends and listen to them talk and not be stuck answering my parents' questions and thinking about it.

It just wasn't my day.

The friend that had told me what time to be over at the house had actually given me what time the movie itself started; all the friends that were coming and staying over were already at the movie theater. I could go home with dad and he'd drive me back over later, or I could stay with the mother and her friend, neither of which I knew. I decided to stay with the mother and her friend, and was thoroughly miserable waiting for hours for everyone else.

Eventually, the movie ended and the classmates returned. The girl who had her shirt pulled down asked me how I was.

I was numb, but raw and miserable inside. Still, I tried not to ruin everyone else's good time. Sadly, the sleepover was not effective in keeping me preoccupied from my own thoughts and feelings. This incident...

...I wondered why I did some of the things I did following this incident for years. I made out with my friend's brother the next day, despite having just met him pretty much. A month later, I began a friends-with-benefits thing with one of the guys who had been present at the incident. And I wondered why for over a decade before I finally started to think about the incident.

The guy only got in trouble for pulling the other girl's shirt down. Apparently, my flipping off the camera and all earlier that day helped convince whoever was deciding if action would be taken that all of us filling reports were just trying to get him in trouble - a bad prank. A lie. Maybe it's because I was frozen and not reacting to anything in the footage. I was either not allowed to go to this with my parents or had opted not to go because I...

...I fucking didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to think about it.

I didn't know what should happen after something like that, so I had no expectations. Maybe that's why it took so long for it to bite. To get angry.

I went to the sentencing hearing (I think that's what it was?) for what he did to the other girl. The judge even stated things were worse than that and that he should get more, but...

Nothing was done for what he did to me.

Maybe someone reading this is scoffing, saying I deserved it for that stupid "boob tag" thing. I'll say it right now: if that's what you're thinking, you can go fuck yourself. It was a stupid thing I did, but none of that was permission for what he did and I sure as fuck didn't expect him to grab my breasts underneath my bra and shirt. After that brief touch and he asked if I wanted to go outside with my peers, there was nothing in my mind that things would go that way. I literally thought we were just going to go join the rest of my peers to chat and hang out. So fuck you if you think that brief touch was permission for him to do that.

Moreover, the girl who had her shirt pulled down and I were not the only ones he did something like that to.

It was my junior year - about a year after the incident. My anatomy teacher that year offered up extra credit to those that came to a pet store on a Saturday to help out with some event. Must have been around the holidays - I recall there being a Santa taking pictures with pets. I wasn't terrible at the class, though I wasn't rocking the class either, so I opted to go. Besides, it was something to do and there would be critters!

The teacher's daughter and her friends also helped out, and I was offered a ride with them back to the school afterwards, where one of my parents would be picking me up. It was a decent drive, and we were all chatting. Things turned to shitty things guys we knew had done or were doing, and I brought the incident up for the first time since it had happened. Well, I had mentioned it to a classmate the following Monday after the incident happened, briefly. She had previously informed me of her desire to become a therapist, so I suppose I wanted to see what she might say. She didn't really say anything. Any case, this was the first time since then.

As I finished telling them what had been done, and they asked me his name, it was revealed that they knew this guy; they were a year older than me - seniors - and also knew girls who had had similar run-ins and inappropriate things done to them by him. Doing homework together, or seeing a movie, he had crossed the line with at least two other girls prior. I felt at once both relieved that it wasn't just me and my classmate, and also extremely saddened that he had a pattern of doing such things and others had suffered like me.

For years, I never spoke of it again. I tried not to think about it. And it was easy not to then; I had a lot that I had to deal with and was fairly used to "boxing" similar shit up and not looking at it. Except for the shirt...

I didn't know what to do with the shirt I was wearing that day of the incident. It had been new - it was the first time I'd worn it when I was groped; it felt like a waste to chuck it. Giving it away for donation seemed wrong too - the shirt felt tainted, and I couldn't give it to someone else to wear in good conscience. So it hung in my closet; occasionally stared at, but never touched.

Then, in 2014, I met my current partner. A few dates in, there was a lot of petting and touching, and though I hadn't been uncomfortable then, it reminded me of the incident, and I felt, given that he didn't go to high school with me and wouldn't know, I should tell him about it.

When we had dated longer and began having sex, I started noticing that it was stressful when my boyfriend started trying to touch my breasts. But he was enjoying himself, and I didn't realize that what I was having was likely flashbacks and a trauma response; I didn't think my discomfort was indicative of something worse. I had never thought much of the incident, and previous boyfriends had never been around long and didn't really try to touch my chest. I had never put a term to what had been done to me; it had never occurred to me that it was a traumatic thing. That I had undergone something that could be considered traumatic. It was just... a thing that happened, and I didn't want to think about it. I wasn't having nightmares about it, or issues...

Except I've pretty much always had weird, stressful, and dark dreams - possibly nightmares. I've been journaling my dreams the last few months to see what they are like now, as I've been using recreational cannabis to block dreams out for years since I realized I didn't have dreams when I smoked it. Those dreams from the last few months will be in a total of three pieces on Vocal.media, and the first two are complete at the time I'm writing this, each under, "The 3-Month Sleep Experiment (2021)". Sadly, unexpected family drama has complicated the results, as many dreams during this time have been about confronting my mother, so I can't tell if I still have as many about rape and murder as I used to, though I still have had some lately.

Eventually, one day, I again stumbled upon the shirt. Once again I didn't know what to do with it. But this time, I decided to write about the incident. I first wrote about it on Facebook, though it was a less detailed version than I wanted to write, since family and family friends would be able to see it. A few months later, after I made a Reddit account to respond to a post mentioning my main character in World of Warcraft, I wrote about it again in response to a question about, "how did you go about getting revenge". Of course, my tale saw no revenge; it saw no justice, which I pointed out.

It wasn't until this year, 2021 - 15 years after the incident - that I really realized the damage that had been done. Oddly enough, it was a fictional character and his character arc that made me realize that I had undergone what a therapist would probably consider a traumatic event. And that the "freezing", discomfort, mental scrambling, and what I'm now suspecting are flashbacks - that still arise when my boyfriend's hands start making their way around my breasts when we're intimate - are responses to that trauma. I knew they were connected, sure, but now I have a term. Now I recognize these things and know what they stem from.

I hadn't realized how often hearing the words that jackass said when my peers asked him what he was doing had started to cause reactions either. I have long noticed that hearing or reading the words caused discomfort. However, it was brief, and easy to dismiss. I didn't realize how often I was hearing or reading it; how often I have been dismissing them.

That changed in the last few months.

In October, I started the dream journal. I also started one to start keeping track of my moods and upsets; things of that nature. I'm planning on seeing a therapist finally in 2022, and I thought starting such journals now would help a lot.

The first day alone, October 25, 2021, I marked three times that I saw tits, titties, or tiddys and my reactions to them. It was a night I was on my other laptop - the one I use for gaming and social media. I often check Facebook while waiting for loading screens to finish in games, and all three that night had been on there throughout the evening. The first two - at least - resulted in what I call a mental flinch, and that is exactly what it sounds like. While I didn't mark a flinch down for the third that night, I did write in the journal that maybe it was time for a break for the night; I'd had enough.

I've probably written 25 entries where these words - or content about breasts or my partner's hands getting too close - have caused me discomfort since October 25th. And those are just the ones I've been mindful to write down. I didn't think I heard them that often. I didn't think that I was uncomfortable that often, varying from physical to mental flinching, to tensing, freezing up, and having flashbacks and dreading when my partner touches me too close to my breasts. I know I didn't write them all down, especially the ones with my partner since we were, uh, involved.

I'm afraid how many more I'll write down before I even see a therapist. I'm going to have a whole mess of things that need addressed. And that incident is a big part of that.

So, too, is that shirt. I still don't like touching it. Don't really like looking at it. But I don't want to trash it. Still feels too tainted to donate. I'd like to turn it into something useful, like a bag...

...but it's so unsettling to think how I might react the first time someone compliments it. Or any time, really.

"Hey, cool bag!"

"Ah, yeah... I was wearing it in high school when a guy groped me."