TW - SA, and Harassment

I keep telling myself it’s fine. That I’m overreacting. But it’s not fine. It’s not fine at all.
I can still feel his hands. The way he touched me like he had a right to. The way he said my name — soft, teasing, like it was some kind of game. Babe.Sweetheart. Like I was a thing to flirt with, not a person trying to work.

I was shaking. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I didn’t even know what to do — every time he got close, my body just shut down. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I kept thinking, please don’t let this turn into something worse.Every cell in my body was screaming, but no sound came out of my mouth.

And then the jokes started. The “experienced” comment. The look in his eyes that told me exactly what he meant. I tried to laugh it off, pretend it didn’t bother me, because that’s what I’ve always done when I’m scared — I shrink, I smile, I try to make it stop without making it a scene. But inside, I was terrified.

And now, all I can think is — maybe this is my fault. Maybe I was too nice. Maybe I gave him the wrong idea. Maybe my friendliness, the way I try to make people comfortable, made him think I wanted this. I hate myself for even thinking that, but it won’t go away. It’s the same voice that’s haunted me since the assault — the one that says, you let this happen.

It feels like I’m right back there again. The same frozen fear. The same helplessness. The same shame that doesn’t belong to me but sticks to my skin anyway. My brain knows this wasn’t my fault, but my heart doesn’t believe it. My body doesn’t believe it. Every time I close my eyes, I see that smirk, I hear his voice, I feel the same disgust, the same panic.

I hate how small I felt. How dirty I feel now. I keep wondering what I could have done differently — should I have said something? Walked away? Yelled? But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I just kept thinking, not again, please not again.

And what makes it worse is how familiar it is.
The way people have crossed boundaries before and made me question myself, my worth, my safety. The way I’ve had to pick up the pieces quietly, convincing myself it wasn’t a big deal so I could function again.

I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m tired.
And somewhere underneath all of that, I’m heartbroken that I still blame myself. That a part of me still believes I “asked” for it just by existing, just by being there.

I want to believe it’s not my fault. I really do. But right now, it feels like it is — and that hurts more than anything. Because I know the truth logically, but emotionally, it feels like I’m drowning in guilt that was never mine to carry.

I wish I could scream. I wish I could make him understand what he took from me in that moment — not something physical, but my peace. My sense of safety. My right to feel okay in my own body.

And now I’m left trying to rebuild that again.
Again.