Author: Sara Rutherford

My long history with trauma began on July 3, 2007 on a darkened airplane somewhere over the Atlantic.

Trigger Warning!

In July of 2007, my high school planned a two week trip to Europe that students could choose to pay for and go on if they wanted. Because there was a budget, seats were scattered throughout the plane. The plane layout was two seats, five seats, two seats across. I was originally on the aisle of a five seat portion but a woman in a wheelchair needed an aisle seat for mobility purposes and the airline switched me to a window seat about an hour before boarding. I was excited since it would mean I had a view and that it would only be me and one other person.

When I got on the plane, there was a group of a dozen or more army men leaving the States to head to their posts in Frankfurt. I ended up next to a serviceman. He ordered a few nips of bourbon from the stewardess and offered me one. I was sixteen and had never drank before and the offer made me feel “cool”, so I agreed and he made me a bourbon and Coke. I didn’t realize he was trying to loosen me up and weaken my defenses.

We talked a little and he said he was surprised to learn I was sixteen and would have guessed I was at least nineteen. That didn’t deter him.

A couple of hours into the overnight flight, he “fell asleep” with his blanket over us both. I didn’t want to bother him so I just left it there and continued watching Premonition on the seat-back. Soon after that I felt his hand on my thigh. I thought it was an accident and I didn’t want to wake him or embarrass him so I just let it stay there figuring he’d wake up and notice and apologize and we’d laugh about it.

That wasn’t what happened. I didn’t know he was testing me… testing his limits… seeing how far he could push me. He began to move his hand further and further up my thigh while pretending to be asleep. I was super confused, only half-awake, and in too much shock to react. I completely froze. Then he grabbed my shorts and underwear, pushed them to one side, and assaulted me (the proper term, which I later learned, is “digital rape”). This went on for the rest of the movie. It was painful and uncomfortable and I had no idea what was going on. I kept trying to nudge his arm, but he was stronger than me and every nudge only made him more aggressive. Worse than that, he had me completely trapped. The only way to leave my row would have involved him moving into the aisle to let me out. That wasn’t an option. I just faced the window and cried.

After a little while, he undid his pants, grabbed my hand, and made me touch him. He then stood up, grabbed a dirty magazine from his duffel bag in the overhead, and went to the bathroom.

While he was in the bathroom, a flight attendant came over to where I was, crouched down, and asked me if I was okay and if I knew the man I was sitting with. I said I was fine and she double checked and then walked away. This was my chance to report it and I didn’t. She knew. I can’t help but think that she saw and she knew. She tried to help and I said I didn’t need it. I’ve spent countless hours, days, months, even years, being mad at myself for not telling her what had happened. It would have been so simple to do. Maybe I would have gotten justice.

By the time we deplaned in Germany, we were late for our connecting flight and had to sprint through the airport to try and catch it. I didn’t have time to go to the bathroom and change or clean myself up or compose myself. I felt dirty and confused. I still didn’t understand the gravity of what had just happened.

When we got to our final destination and checked into the hotel, I told a friend who was on the trip with me. She immediately said “that sounds like sexual assault”, but I insisted she was wrong and brushed it off. That phrase wasn’t even in my vocabulary. I went to private schools my whole life. In high school, they taught us about abstinence in religion class and STDs and pregnancy in health class, but there was no class regarding safety or assault.

In August of 2008, at an appointment with my therapist, he asked me, “Is there any time in your life where you were abused or assaulted?” I started getting defensive and talking about how great my childhood was and how amazing my parents are. He stopped me and said “I want you to think for a minute before you answer. I’m not trying to imply anything, but based on your symptoms and our conversations, I strongly believe there is an incident or an issue you aren’t addressing.” I stared at him blankly, wracking my brain for what kind of memory could be causing him to think that way. I thought, “I’d obviously know if i was assaulted…”.

Then I remembered what my friend had said to me thirteen months earlier. I told him what her comment was and he asked if I felt comfortable telling the story. After I told it, the look on his face told me everything I needed to know. Before he could even say a word, I started crying. This was the first time I’d told the story to an “adult” – to someone I knew would have answers and insights. I finally saw the situation for what it really was. I don’t even know if I realized how much it was affecting me. It was never at the forefront of my mind, but it was constantly lurking in the background of every decision I made and every emotion I felt.

Looking back, it is heartbreaking that it took me so long to understand what had happened to me. I spent those thirteen months trying to convince myself that somehow I had “asked” for it to happen, that maybe I should just feel flattered that I was “chosen”. It seems so obvious now, but I wasn’t a very experienced, street-smart sixteen – I was an innocent, sheltered sixteen. I wasn’t even old enough to consent in most states.

Despite the fact that it has been thirteen years since that incident, I still feel the effects of it. People like to tell me that “things will get easier in time” or “time heals all wounds”. I would argue that that is not the case for everyone. Time certainly can heal physical wounds, but the mental effects of trauma live on long after the scars and bruises have faded.