Just a kid, but Ari Rios faced abuse that no one should experience.

“Without question, I would immediately choose the bear,” I said.

   A viral debate about choosing to be alone in the woods with a man or a bear gave me a realization of how deeply I distrust men. A bear can see me as human at least.

   Every conversation I face with a man, I plan an escape. I look for the nearest exits and count how many people are in the room. If he’s blocking the doorway or too close to me, my anxiety heightens. The feeling of being inferior overwhelms me whenever I get swarmed, circled, or followed by men. I feel a sense of danger rather than a sense of ease. 

   When I was seven years old, I did not realize that the effects of sexual abuse would stick with me for the rest of my life. Getting lured to play a simple game of house turned into being blackmailed and told to “never tell anyone what we did.” My abuser made sure I was silent and constantly reinforced that was our special way to play house. Being so young, I never fully processed that I was raped until I started waking up from reoccurring nightmares. The vivid flashbacks made me curl up in a ball and from the amount of restless nights I had, I knew something was wrong.

   My distrust in men was created that night and would only grow. Yet once I realized the truth I doubted anyone would believe me, so I did not share my story until four years later.

   Being raped before I had my first kiss, my first period, my first sleepover stripped away the joy of intimacy from me. I could no longer create healthy relationships with men. Keeping a big secret inside gave me no room to heal. 

   Before I could even start my healing process a new cycle of trauma started. My abuser is no longer the only male who thinks of me in that way and is replaced by my middle school classmates. My middle school experience of getting verbally harassed led me to dread going to school; I could not stand to get whistled at again. Comments by random guys about how they viewed my body only lowered my mental health. “Nice body.”  “Sit on my lap.”

   I didn’t know what was worse,  getting harassed by random strangers or someone I knew personally.  

   During those four years of keeping my darkest secret, physical touch was my enemy, especially from men. I would refuse my friends’ hugs even though they meant no harm. People would awkwardly try to comfort me with words because I used to jump if they tried to touch me. I could no longer feel like I lived a normal life like my friends. Finally, I could no longer take anymore and I told my closest friend, crying for three hours straight, and was taken straight away into questioning by the police. I was cut off from all of the legal proceedings after two hours of being in an investigation room. I have never felt more in the dark, but I experienced a sense of relief by reporting my story. I was then guided through one year of therapy to begin my healing journey. 

   I believed my therapy was successful, and I always looked forward to going once per week. I started questioning how successful therapy truly was when I started dating. I have never been able to relax alone with a guy because of my paranoia. Even if I happened to be alone with a man, I would discreetly overanalyze his tone, stance, and ego because my innocence of trusting him was gone. 

   One time an old boyfriend and I sat in a parking lot ready to continue our date when he wanted to change our original plans of going to BAM! We had just had a great dinner date with great conversation and lots of laughter. However, that all went away when he wanted to go to Hudsonville for bowling at the last second. I got a bad feeling in my stomach, the sky was pitch black already around eight at night. I subtly looked at the door handle questioning if I should escape.

   The entire drive there were few cars on the road, and a voice in my head said I should run away, my heart started to race. The radio was playing, and outwardly I was singing along with him, but inside my heart was racing. My head went through every possible scenario of how I could get hurt. I knew I was stuck with him, in his car, so I felt obliged to say yes to these last-minute plans. His intentions were harmless, but I couldn’t help but feel scared of a person I should trust.

   Now I was back to square one with my healing process. Seeing my close inner circle of family and friends tear up when I told them my story only made my heart shatter for a situation that I could not control. Each person was unsure of how to help or comfort me in a situation so serious. 

   No matter the therapy I go through, my boundaries are broken down, along with my trust and innocence.  Letting my story be known is helpful, but my anxiety around men still stands. Every day I remind myself that biologically I stand little chance of fighting off a male who could have his way with me. I’ve taken “stop” and “no” out of my vocabulary because they had no meaning to my abuser. The trauma never leaves. The hope of the cycle to stop repeating has faded.

   I’m no longer connected to the confident little girl I used to be. Instead, I am the statistic of 34% of people being raped under the age of 12. I have to somehow be at peace with knowing I am part of the 3 out of 4 victims who know their abuser personally. 

   I have grown to a point where I can build a relationship with a guy. Where I can trust not only his words but also his actions and intentions. I have tried to heal so I can experience these special moments without second-guessing his character. I can finally be in a relationship where I don’t have to be in constant fear of his strength but know he’d use it to protect me instead. 

   Although sometimes I doubt if I’ll ever be truly healed. I am uncertain if I will ever choose to be alone in the woods with a random man instead of a bear.

   What I have learned through my experience is to not cause a scene. I might be passive instead of deciding to fight back because I can’t be confrontational with men because I am too scared that I will be abused again. That the abuse will be my fault again. That I will never get an “I’m sorry” again.