Was it my fault?

16 hours ago

6 min read

I want to say this from the get-go in case you missed the blog description. I'll be discussing Jane Doe, the Cornell Rapists, and what has come up for me as a person who's experienced rape, sexual assault, sexual harassment, and grooming. If any of these topics are upsetting/triggering for you, I have some resources at the very end of this blog, but I suggest you don't read the rest of this. Take care of yourself and lean on your support systems.

I started going online unsupervised when I was in middle school, and was quickly exposed to porn, fan fiction/smut, online chatrooms, and all of the people connected to that in some shape or form. This was when I started to talk to strangers online. I was a heavy Tumblr user, and it was one of my favorite places to post things that felt relatable to me or to look at photos/videos of people living a life that I thought I wanted. I spent a lot of my free time online, and though I had friends, it wasn't normal for me to see them or talk often outside of school yet. I wasn't very close with my family either, and this perpetuated the feeling that I should seek human interaction elsewhere. So whenever someone sent me a message, I was more than likely to reply and start a conversation.

You hear a lot of warnings surrounding online safety as a kid, and I got the gist of it. That I shouldn't tell people any sensitive info like my full name, address, SSN, or my school. I was told that not everyone online is who they say they are and that sometimes adults seek out kids online. With all that knowledge, it doesn't stop a kid from thinking they're more mature than they are. It doesn't stop lonely kids with insecurities from talking to people anyway. It didn't stop me from saying to adults that it was fine with me that they were in their 20s or older. Me being in middle school, sadly, wasn't a deterrent for these people either. Usually, the conversations were brief, something quick on Omegle or a reply to an anonymous message. Though there were a few who lasted longer, and these were the ones that I think back on with sadness for my younger self.

The oldest man I spoke with was 37 when I was 13. We talked consistently for about 6 months, and it was during these conversations that he would tell me his fantasies about me and ask me to send him pictures of myself. I sent my first nude at this age, and his requests for what I should do in these photos got progressively more specific. I thought at the time that my relationship to him was okay, that he loved me, and he was right about my maturity. He would tell me that I was an old soul, and that he was so impressed by me. He would tell me I was beautiful, that I was special, and that he longed for us to be together. He eventually grew bored of me and stopped replying.

I was 14 when I was sexually assaulted for the first time. I went to the pride parade with my girlfriend, and we got caught in this huge crowd. Everyone was smushed together, and we could barely move. I was wearing a skirt, and I suddenly felt a hand near my butt. I couldn't tell if it was an accident, so I didn't react, but then the hand started to move. What I had thought was an accident became a man who was trying to rub outside my underwear and move it over so he could put his fingers in me. It happened so quickly, I couldn't believe it was happening at all. I turned to him and said that if he didn't stop, I would break his hand. He looked at me with such shock, as if he didn't expect me to say anything. In the sea of people, he started to shove them out of the way so he could run.

It was later that year that I had sex for the first time with an 18-year-old senior at my high school. They lived near me, and they snuck me inside late at night. I didn't go to their house intending to have sex, but when it was prompted, I said yes and let them take the lead. It was a complicated feeling; I enjoyed myself, but I felt so unprepared, so unsure of whether I should have done that. I didn't know what love felt like; I had only known this person for about a month. So why did my body feel so tense? Why did I feel sick when I got home? Why did I keep going to see them? It took me many years to realize I wasn't ready to have sex yet.

Even after we broke up, they continued to pursue me until I was almost a senior in high school myself. Periodically, they reached out to see me, to check in, to tell me they were thinking of me, and to say I was beautiful. I was 17 the last time we ever hung out; they were so desperate to have sex with me. I kept saying no, and they kept asking anyway. I ended up just leaving to go home, and so much came to me at once. It took me what felt like so long to realize that the times when I said no, that I didn't feel like it, that I just wanted a night where we kissed and cuddled, I was being raped. They wouldn't stop touching me in attempts to get my body to react, to prove that I "wanted it." They would whine and beg; they would say, "Don't you love me? Don't you want to show me you do?" They would turn away and ignore me until I said yes. I remembered being 14 and wanting to impress them. I wanted to be mature. I wanted to be sexy. I wanted to be wanted. I didn't know I was being raped; I didn't know coercion was rape. I didn't want to think of them as a rapist. I didn't want to think of myself as a victim. I decided to keep it to myself.

I'm 26 now, and when I read about Jane Doe's experience with Cornell, I was not surprised by any of it, nor was I surprised by some reactions that I've seen online. So many people are saying the rapists are innocent, that she consented, or that it was her own fault for being drunk/high. Some have even said things like "What do you expect? It was a frat house". When it comes to rape, abuse, grooming, predatory behavior, assault, and harassment, it's up for debate. If you're not the 'perfect victim', then you deserved it. God forbid you have any response other than to fight back, to say no, to run away, to get the rape kit, to acquire evidence (in perfect condition, with no suggestion that you might have put yourself in the position where you might get raped cause apparently that's a thing), be completely sober, know exactly what rape is in all forms, not have a relationship with the rapist in any way, and so much more that I can't even think of.

* Some of the articles I read https://www.nytimes.com/2026/10/01/nyregion/cornell-rape-accusation-reporting.html

https://abcnews.com/US/district-attorney-reopens-case-alleged-cornell-university-gang/story?id=136806149

When I was younger, I toyed with the question, "Was it my fault?" and I know now that it wasn't. In every case of rape, it's never the victim's fault. Personally, I don't care for the arguments; I don't care about perfect victimhood; I don't care about false reporting (because statistically it's so small and many people get pressured/threatened into recanting their statements); I don't care. What I do care about is how the survivor of this trauma is being supported by friends, family, and mental/physical health professionals. I care if they're receiving justice for what happened to them, whether it was right after it happened or 10 years down the line. I care about whether or not the survivor gets to keep moving forward in life in the ways that they choose to. I care about them.

From a public health standpoint, consent, abuse, grooming, domestic violence, rape, and toxic relationships are an active part of sexual education. Excluding these topics and the overall lack of general sexual education in this country are a dangerous disservice to our young people. I don't know quite how to end this blog; it was a tough one to write and sit with. I think that sometimes we have to sit with the disturbing and the uncomfortable to know that we want better, that it's deserved and achievable. Sometimes it's what inspires us to change or to speak out. If you relate to this post in any way, know that you're loved, know that it wasn't your fault.