YOU ARE NOT ALONE - A companion online community discussion board for The Mental Illness Happy Hour podcast with Paul Gilmartin

12 years old, walking down the street past a car garage with 3 men in it. They stop, stare and smile as they follow me walking past. To this day, I can still picture the wolf-like teeth of the tallest man.

13 or 14 years old, junior high. To get to the art supplies I have to walk past a boy who grabs my genital area from behind. I know that if I tell the teacher, she will either tell me it's my tight pants or that I should be flattered because he's a football player. I spend the whole term figuring out ways to get past him without being grabbed.

14 years old, I sign up for a school ski trip. I don't come from a sporty family, so I have to buy some ski pants from a sale rack. They split open the 12th or 20th time I fall on my butt. In front of the group, the male instructor says they tore because "you girls always have to get such tight pants".

Recently, I took a historical tour of an art college in another city. The female tour guide gleefully explains that back in the 50's (?), the female students had to walk on a clear glass ramp to get to their classes. The boys would congregate below to look up their skirts.

To recap: In a time when girls had to wear skirts to school (or be sent home), the young women of this art college could only get to their classes by taking a clear ramp, which the young men were not discouraged from hanging out underneath, so they could look up the young womens' skirts. This was presented as a humorous and fun fact in present times.

Trade school, first day of class to learn woodworking, the instructor holds up a file and says "you ladies may only be familiar with a nail file".

Oh my goodness! Thank you for sharing.

To the extent you feel comfortable, feel free to post as much as you like. It is good to get it all out. Not easy, but good.

16, driver's ed. The instructor tells us not to drive when we are upset, "like if you break a nail"

25 years old, need to see a gynecologist. He's comfortable looking into my vaginal canal, but cannot look me in the eye when I am sitting across from him in his office. Tells me he will not help me because "he's seen worse". The next day I have my first ever UTI.
I'm still not sure what happened in that office.

High school, coming back across the border after a day trip with 2 or 3 of my friends. The border guard asks if we had a good time. Yes, I say. I bet you did he says, as he leans forward and leers into the car.

11 years old, my friend's dad comments to his wife that I am "the sexy one"

To recap: I am 11, he is a grown man.