Anonymous

When I was 14 I was groped by a man on a bus. I am in my mid-twenties now and when I think about that day I still have that lump-in-my-throat-stomach-swirling-anxiety that I am sure most women have experienced at some point, probably several points, in their lives.

I was in year 9 at the time and used to catch several buses to get to school. It was late spring time and the weather was warm, which meant our school allowed us to wear polo shirts, rather than the normal shirt and blazer combo. Like most teenage girls at my school, this normally meant the trusty school skirt came out of the wardrobe too.

On this particular day the bus was unusually busy, so I went straight to the back row of seats and sat by the window. A few stops later a man sat next to me. He felt uncomfortably close to me, but I ignored it and looked out of the window to avoid any awkward interaction. Soon after I noticed that his elbow was sort of leaning against my boob, but again thought nothing of it because of how crowded the bus was. He then proceed to rub his elbow against my breast in circular motions. He was looking directly at my face as I looked out of the window. He was grinning. I was frozen and scared. I was questioning whether it was intentional, but my gut told me I should be frightened. When I think back, it feels as though this encounter lasted hours, but in reality it was probably minutes, if not seconds.

He then slipped his hand behind me on to my lower back and began rubbing, before attempting to put his hand down the back of my skirt. At this point my reactions kicked in and I stood up quickly to move away. I didn’t say anything, I just sat in the nearest free seat which was on the other side of the bus, but opposite the man in question. I was holding myself together, knowing that I would be getting off the bus soon at the main bus station. The man stared at me for the entirety of the journey. He didn’t take his eyes off me once. The bus was pulling in to the station so I grabbed the handle to stand up and, in synchronicity, so did the man. I rushed to the front of the bus to be the first off and he followed quickly behind me. I ran off the bus and he followed me. I had to catch another bus to get home and when he realised this, the man turned around and left.

I stood at the bus stop waiting for my bus and sobbed. I remember rolling down the top of my skirt because, like most girls in my year, we’d roll the pleated school skirts up to make them more fashionable. At the time I lived with my Dad and so the whole journey back I was putting together how I would tell him what had happened and what we could do about it. I got home, my Dad was still at work, and I sobbed on my bedroom floor. By the time he got home I had convinced myself that I was to blame, and that he would be angry at me for putting myself in that situation. So when he asked me how my day was I smiled and told him it was fine. I still haven’t ever spoken to either of my parents about what happened.

When I think about what happened, I feel angry. Angry at myself for thinking it was my fault. Angry at myself for not speaking up and always wondering if I could have stopped this, or something worse, happening to another girl. Angry at myself for rolling my skirt down as if that was the reason for that man’s actions. Angry at myself for still not having the courage to talk about this with my family, or anyone really.

What I have realised with time, however, is that he is the one I should be angry with. He is the one who decided to assault a 14 year old girl on her way home from school. He was the one who followed me and made me feel as though I was in danger. None of that is my fault, I know that now.

I also feel great sadness that on a bus full of people, not one adult asked me if I was okay or stepped in to help me. Now, as an adult, I can see that this is all part of the systematic sexism that is ingrained in to us from a young age. We shouldn’t talk about these things that happen to us because it’s uncomfortable. That message was given to me loud and clear when every person around me, a sobbing 14 year old, looked at their feet rather than face the uncomfortable truth. As an adult, I realise that this uncomfortable truth is something women and girls have to live with on a day to day basis. I’m not alone, and we should be talking about it. I hope one day I have the courage to talk to my parents about what happened, but until then I am glad I have had the courage to finally share my experience.