Revelation. 

During my teenage years in one of these idyllic towns, I stumbled upon my first secretarial job by striking up a conversation with an attendant at a gas station. Filled with excitement about gaining work experience and earning my own money, I wasted no time in driving to the potential employer’s office to fill out an application.

To my surprise, the owner of the company, a charismatic and confident man in his fifties, was present when I walked in. He interviewed me on the spot, radiating pride in his business and his deep connection to the local community. Something about me impressed him, and he hired me right then and there. It was an exhilarating experience, securing my first job in this new town within a few short hours.

Within a mere 12 hours of that interview, the owner asked me to accompany him to a significant conference at an upscale hotel in the state capital. This event would bring together professionals from various industries, offering them a platform to network and showcase their company’s services.

On the day of the event, I arrived at the office dressed in my simple professional attire—a light purple short-sleeved top, black flowy pants, and flats. The owner warmly greeted me and invited me to join him in his truck. As we embarked on our journey to the state capital, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursed through me, as it often does in moments like these.

During the ride, the owner made an inappropriate comment about my appearance and reached over to touch my breasts. It was an uncomfortable moment, and I found myself unsure of how to react. I may have even thanked him for the compliment, although my memory is hazy.

Despite the awkwardness, I did my best to focus on the event itself. There was so much happening around me, so much to absorb and take in. The owner introduced me to various people, including a woman who would be tending the bar in our private suite, entertaining the guests he invited up from the conference.

As the night progressed, the owner decided that we should stay overnight at the hotel since he was in no condition to drive. I noticed a change in the bartender’s demeanor, but at the time, I couldn’t understand why. Before the evening came to an end, she confided in me that she wasn’t feeling well and insisted that I drive her home. As they conversed, the owner’s energy also shifted, and he bid us goodbye.

During the drive back to our hometown, we didn’t discuss the hotel or the owner. Instead, we engaged in a heartfelt conversation, and the bartender shared stories of her own journey and mistakes. Even though I never saw her again and don’t recall her name, that drive home and her protection during that time will forever be etched in my memory. If given the chance, I would express my gratitude to her for doing her best to shield me, as I have employed similar tactics to protect other women since then.

The following Monday, I walked into the office, ready for my first day in the office. Although I sensed that the owner was not the best person from whom to learn, I felt compelled to see the work through. I mean, how could I explain not wanting to work there, right? That seems silly now. I care a little less every day, hold less secrets or weight, and a feel a little more freedom too.

This obviously wasn’t a healthy relationship. To this day, I struggle to explain why I went along with it. I had no attraction towards him. It was never pleasurable for me. Yet, I allowed him to coach me on how to perform a blow job. We engaged in a sexual relationship that lasted for several months, maybe a year. I stayed until I found another job through my high school cooperative education program. I gave my two weeks’ notice to the owner and never spoke to him again. However, the experience remains ever present in my memory, and I still haven’t fully made sense of it.

As I reflect upon these events and put them into words, I find myself transported back to a moment frozen in time. Some details, like the clothes I wore, remain vivid, while others slip through my fingers like fleeting whispers. My recollections shape an image of the owner—a button-up shirt and jeans kind of guy—but I question whether my mind has embellished this image over the years.

Amidst these fragmented memories, my own shirt stands out as a symbol. It represents the doubts that infiltrated my thoughts, questioning whether it accentuated my femininity too boldly. While I understood that clothing couldn’t determine my worth, I couldn’t help but wonder if it influenced how others perceived me. Self-doubt weighed heavily on me, sometimes sparking rebellion and at other times inducing surrender.

Through deep introspection and self-discovery, I have come to recognize the burden of harboring secrets, of concealing vast parts of my life. It’s an unhealthy weight that distorts our self-perception and stunts our personal growth. The experiences we choose to keep hidden often carry profound significance, offering lessons to be learned and truths to be unearthed.

As I type these words, I offer a fragment of my story to the world—a testament to the power of introspection and resilience. My hope is that within the narratives we share, others may find solace and strength in their own voices. The journey toward healing and living authentically is arduous, but it is through confronting our past and embracing our truth that we find the path to a happier and more fulfilling life.