Editor’s note: This essay contains mentions of sexual assault and rape.

The first time I was raped I was 11 years old. I was sent by rowboat with the 16-year-old son of my father’s boss. His longer and stronger legs directed us to a small island at the far edge of the lake out of sight. After that he told me to wash off the blood and that if I told anyone, my father would lose his job. I never said.

Later that year, I was spending the night at my cousin Marc’s house. We spent the afternoon playing in the yard. At bedtime, we placed a styrofoam cooler under the window between the twin beds in preparation for the lemonade stand we were planning the next day and went to bed.

Sometime that night I woke up to a conversation. Confused, I opened my eyes and looked up to see a man’s face. He was holding me, sitting me down, talking about his cat. His hands were under the covers and on me. Once we could talk I told her my big cousin the boy was in the next bed and she better go before she wakes him up and also the big dog Cleo was in the kitchen and aunty could come in too my Jean. he was in the next room. I suppose I pissed him off, but I didn’t fully wake up until he tripped as he was leaving. His back hit the cafe’s curtain rod, which collapsed as he exited the window he had entered.

This woke Marc, who ran to get his mother. My aunt called the police, who told me I must have been dreaming. I must have drawn the curtain in my sleep, they said. After all, the old Cleo hadn’t woken up, had she? It wasn’t until after they left that we all noticed the large print of a fingerprint on the styrofoam cooler.

In the past two weeks, my past—like the pasts of so many women—came roaring out of the darkness.

I was 15 when I woke up from a deep sleep and realized the man wasn’t talking about his cat. He had said “little bird”. A little girl’s mind did not understand the meaning. A few cops might have if they tried.

I could fill pages with “and then another time” but most women reading this would probably say “I’ve been there” and most men would begin to wonder what I did to cause so many of these stories. I understand. I blamed myself enough.

In the past two weeks, my past—like the pasts of so many women—came roaring out of the darkness. The results of the November election, the imminent return of convicted sex offender Donald Trump, and his cabinet nominations riddled with allegations of sexual assault, elevated our attackers and set them free.

Most men don’t know what it’s like to live under force, to be controlled by it. They know what it’s like to live with it, to weigh it as an option; choose when and if to use it on everything from a stubborn nut to a stubborn woman.

I was 19, this time sleeping with my boyfriend at his father’s house in the bucolic woods outside of Boston. I broke up with my previous boyfriend many months ago and so I wasn’t expecting a 2:00 a.m. knock on the door. Before I could ask what he was doing there, he pulled me out the door and threw me over the hood of the car. As we were fighting for the keys, he broke my arm, pushed me into the passenger side and drove us away. He flew down the highway screaming at me. From time to time he elbowed me. He fractured my ribs on the left side.

We were pulled over for speeding and the cop asked me if I was okay. I said I am, because I want to stay alive. Gave my ex-boyfriend a warning, hit the roof of the car twice and drove off. This seemed to restart my ex-boyfriend, who said nothing as he drove to the end of the long driveway where we started, reached over, opened the door, and told me he felt river. I walked back home in the dark, alone, barefoot on gravel and dirt.

My stories didn’t end at 19. They weren’t always as dramatic as an ex-husband ripping the kitchen cabinets off the wall. They were usually more in the category of silent threats; that little problem in a conversation or situation that is deafening to women and invisible to men. If I refuse now, there could be danger. And he doesn’t even know it.

I was walking the beagle the night before when I passed a couple of 20-something guys loading their car with construction equipment. They had a little argument over whether they could do it in a trip or two. I guess I laughed a little. The situation reminded me of my sons, who go to ridiculous lengths to make a single trip with anything from groceries to furniture. I didn’t even know I did it.

“Is that funny?” one guy said, then yelled, “TRUMMMMMMP lady! TRUMPMMMP.”

I kept walking. A minute later, the car drove by. The guy in the passenger seat rolled down his window and sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” in a loud, drunken voice.

They felt so free to mock me, so newly liberated. It was scary.

“Your body, my choice,” is the new rallying cry of white nationalist men in America. A post on social media from journalist Jon Miller said “women who threaten sex strikes like LMAO like you have a say” and received an estimated 86.7 million views.

It took me two weeks to identify the feeling of coldness and tightness in my chest. It is the memory of nowhere safe, not even home; of hot breath of liquor on face and neck; pretending to have fun and wanting to cry; of seeing my body move when I did not; of not being in control when one is stronger and willing to be violent.

It’s fear.

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