The Words That Still Haunt Me: Conversations I’ll Never Forget
Some words cut deeper than knives, embedding themselves in your soul. They dont fade with time; they linger, sharp and heavy, shaping your life long after theyre spoken. For me, those words came from moments of betrayal, dismissal, and cruelty during my time in the U.S. Army Reserve, moments that shattered my trust in the system I believed in. In my unit, many male soldiers treated women like objects for their amusement, reducing female soldiers, though not everyone, to mere playthings. No woman, under any circumstances, deserves such dehumanizing treatment.
I joined the Army at 34, driven by a dream to serve my country and provide stability for my family. My husbands heart disease and our mounting financial struggles pushed me to trade my FBI aspirations for a soldiers uniform. Basic training was brutal but transformative. I graduated in 1995, proud and ready to embody the values of duty, discipline, honor, and service. But the reality of my reserve unit in Indiana was a betrayal of everything I hoped for. The professionalism I expected was gone, replaced by a toxic culture of misogyny, drunkenness, sexism, and a disregard for the principles I held dear. My skills, bilingualism and criminal justice degree were ignored, relegating me to a role as a cargo specialist. I felt like an outsider, my potential squandered.
The first words that scarred me came early from a sergeant in my unit. Youre going to be Eve, and Ill be Adam, he sneered, his voice thick with entitlement. And you know what well do, right? I shut him down, my fists clenched. Im married, I said, hoping that would end it. His reply was a gut punch: So am I. Doesnt matter. Your job is to serve my needs. Those words churned my stomach, stripping away the pride I felt in my uniform. I reported him, but the chain of command brushed it off. Boys will be boys, they said, excusing it, dismissing me.
Worse was yet to come. Deployment orders for war loomed, and my life was unraveling. My husbands emergency heart surgery, my mothers health issues, and I was torn between duty and family. Amid this chaos, the harassment escalated, growing bolder, with predatory eyes and hands too close. Then, one afternoon, in the storage room, I was sexually assaulted and beaten by Sergeant Jackson. Take off your clothes, he ordered his voice like ice. I refused, heart pounding, but he grabbed me, yanking my hair and tearing my uniform. Blood stained my shoulder. I fought, clawing for freedom. His final threat lingered: Youll regret this. The military protects its own. Those words burrowed into me.
Reporting the assault was futile, like shouting into a void. The JAG officers response was a slap: If youd just gone along, you wouldnt be here. His cruelty, a wound, reduced my pain to a joke. I left shaken, rage and nausea warring within. I felt betrayed, not just by men, but by the institution I served.
A flicker of hope came through Sergeant D, a barracks NCO who saw my pain. Well figure this out together, he said, his kindness a lifeline. He set a trap, a card game to catch Jacksons confession. It worked. Jackson boasted, his arrogance recorded by Sergeant Ds testimony. But the system failed again. It offered me a return, only as a nurse, ignoring my skills. No, I said, walking away, head high, heart heavy.
Desperate for help, I wrote to politicians, to anyone. Most ignored me, but Senator Gore responded, launching an Inspector General investigation. The investigation confirmed Jacksons guilt, but justice was vague and elusive. Meanwhile, harassment persisted. Threatening calls taunted: You think turning us in means were done? My dog was killed, and my home was tampered with. Fear shadowed me. I refused to break, moved, changed my number, and hoped my voice would matter, day by day.
My experience, though unique in its details, is not singular. Other soldiers faced different abuses, their stories distinct but no less real. After the assault, I didnt sink into despair but burned with anger, my trust shattered, fear a constant companion. Back then, no support groups existed for me, just a VA doctor and a few close friends. I stayed numb for years, rebuilding myself mostly alone, clawing back my strength through sheer will.
The final words that haunt me came in 2000, after years of fighting for justice, a congressional hearing, my chance to expose the militarys failures, affidavits, witness statements, and blood-stained uniform. But a call: Your hearing is postponed indefinitely, mechanical tone, a blade. Scheduling issues, political climate, obsessed with scandal, Lewinsky, my pain buried by headlines. Those crushed my story that mattered.
Those words, sergeant, Jackson, JAG officer, colonel, call, echo in nightmares. They taught authority failure, heroes shield, and system silences. I learned resilience. I became a therapist, helping veterans heal. My dog Summer, anchor, panic attacks triggered, uniform, memory. Trauma, scar, and fire drive me. Healing is not linear. Some days, weight crushing, but I move, anchored, purpose. My story, call, demand change, justice, no one silenced. Words haunt, remind: I survived, I spoke.
