When I was 15 years old, I passed out at a party after being fed all sorts of alcoholic concoctions by older boys I knew and idolized, but who in hindsight were eager to get me drunk.

I awoke with a popular senior basketball player on top of me, and my shirt off. Dizzy and confused, I could barely remember anything about the night before. I asked what had happened and the boy told me we had just snuggled, but he couldn’t explain why my shirt was off.

A few days later, a male classmate I was close to exited the boys locker room visibly shaken. He told me this boy had bragged in the locker room that he had molested me when I was passed out. (“Molested” is my word. For his part, this boy chose to gleefully describe in salacious detail what he did to me while I was unconscious.)

My face burned with shame. I begged my friend not to tell anyone else, and as far as I know he didn’t. I feared that if more people in my small Jesuit high school found out about it, I would be viewed as a “slut” or “damaged goods.”