I was never raped, but when I was 11, the son of a family friend copped a feel whenever we were playing video games or watching tv.

I was never raped, but when I was 12, the same kid spent his birthday party making me sit on his lap while he touched me in front of his friends.

I was never raped, but when I was 14 the aforementioned kid threw me on a bed while our parents were downstairs having coffee. I remember the look in his eyes, and was grateful that his mom called us down for dessert before anything happened.

I was never raped, but when I was 15 a random car of guys yelled “Nice tits!” at me while I was going for a walk dressed in a baggy Nine Inch Nails t-shirt and ripped jeans.

I was never raped, but at my first job, a man old enough to be my father grabbed my ass while I was hostessing. Every. Week.

I was never raped, but when I was 17 I found a bathing suit that I loved, and swore I’d never wear one again when I saw one of my uncle’s friends staring at me as I got out of the pool at my family’s July 4th picnic.

I was never raped, but I still check under my car and in the back seat at night before I go anywhere.

I was never raped, but I still carry my keys like spiked brass knuckles when I’m walking alone.

I was never raped, but I’ve sat with friends and partners and clients while they explained how certain words or sounds or touches, however innocent or loving or therapeutic, were hurtful or terrifying.