Content warning: sexual assault 

I was 8 years old the first time I heard about sexual assault. My friend was 7. I didn’t know what she was talking about when she told me her dad would get in her bed, but she was crying really hard, so I knew it was bad. I helped her tell our teacher. Our teacher called the police. I don’t know much about what happened in court because I wasn’t there, but I think the women she had asked for help––her teacher, her babysitter, her neighbor––testified. And I know that after the trial she had to keep living with her dad. My friend was pulled out of our school. I never saw her again. I heard that in high school she was able to get legally emancipated from her parents and moved out on her own.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot this week.

I’ve been thinking about all the people I know who have been assaulted: the ones who reported and the ones who didn’t.

I’ve been thinking about how it hasn’t really seemed to matter: none of the men who hurt them are in jail; none of them received a significant punishment; none of them (as far as I know) have come forward to acknowledge that what they did was wrong or to try to make retribution.

I’ve been thinking about how the U.S. criminal justice system fails survivors.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to have men who are accused of sexual assault in charge of that system.

This morning I called my Republican senator’s office to ask him not to confirm Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court. A young male staffer answered the phone, and I tried to speak calmly, but I was crying so hard I could hardly talk at all.

I don’t know why I’m writing this down. I think it is because today it is all I can think about. And I’m tired of thinking about it alone.