what were you wearing? // The Outfits
- The Friendship Center
- 3 hours ago
- 24 min read
Check out a digital version of our exhibit featuring 15 outfits recreated from stories shared by real sexual assault survivors. In recognition of April as Sexual Assault Awareness Month, what were you wearing? is on view in the Jailhouse Gallery at The Myrna Loy through April 22!
In recognition of April as Sexual Assault Awareness Month, The Friendship Center is presenting what were you wearing?, an exhibit highlighting the diverse experiences of survivors of sexual violence and the need to end victim-blaming.
On view now in the Jailhouse Gallery at The Myrna Loy through April 22, the exhibit features 15 outfits recreated from stories shared by real sexual assault survivors. Each outfit in this exhibit represents about 3,000 survivors in our tri-county area, where we can expect 31,700-45,000 of our 95,000+ residents to have experienced sexual violence in their lifetime.
A Marine Corps uniform, a hospital gown, and Spiderman pajamas are just a few examples of what survivors from our own community were wearing when they were sexually assaulted. Some were children assaulted by adults they trusted, some were repeatedly raped by their spouses, others were attacked by acquaintances. None of them invited violence with the clothes they were wearing. And make no mistake: Sexual assault and rape are violent crimes. Clothing doesn’t cause an attack; only perpetrators do. Sexual assault is always the result of an offender’s choice to take a violent action.
While we hope everyone has a chance to get over to the Myrna to see the exhibit for themselves, we understand that for some, doing so might be easier said than done. We also know that we might have friends beyond Helena who won't have a chance to pay the exhibit a visit before it closes, or others eager to share the exhibit with others after they’ve had a chance to check it out. If you’re in any of those camps, we got you!
Find the story for each outfit in the dropdowns below each image. And, if you’re in a position to see the exhibit in real life, be sure to check The Myrna Loy’s box office hours listed on their website to plan your visit. There’s no admission charge to visit the Jailhouse Gallery.
Quick note: Thanks to the wonderful local photographer Ginny Emery, owner of Wandering Albatross Photography, we'll soon have some higher quality images to share of the outfits displayed in this exhibit! Check back later in April for updated photos!
Outfit 1
I was a freshman in college at an upperclassman sport house party. I went with one other female friend. I had been drinking a lot and did not have my wits about me. I started talking to a man in the kitchen of this house and he eventually asked me if we should go upstairs. I wasn’t sure but I said okay.
I was stumbling, I barely had my feet under me. I made it up the stairs and we went into a bedroom and what I remember from there is being on a bed. He was ripping my leggings off of me and I don’t remember my top coming off. I was then on the floor, and I just remember it hurting so bad. It was very aggressive penetration. And to make it worse, all of a sudden, about 6-8 other guys burst into the room.
I was lying naked on the floor. I remember trying to curl up. And trying to find my clothes around me. I asked them to turn off the lights if they weren’t going to leave, so I could at least have some sense of privacy. They turned the lights off for a couple seconds and then turned them right back on, and they didn’t leave.
They were making comments while they were there, like asking if I “needed some help with that,” but their tone was not one of truly seeking to help me. And they took my underwear and threw them out the second story window onto their roof. I was able to get the rest of my clothes, and I remember going downstairs and crying, looking for my friend. I didn’t want to leave the party because I didn’t want to be alone after that.
One of those men came up to me and apologized for what happened a couple of different times. I woke up the next day with scratches on the inside and outside of my thighs and so much embarrassment. It was absolutely humiliating and it has taken me a few years to realize that this situation could be considered assault. I blamed myself and there’s still part of me that questions how to define or label my experience, but I don’t question how traumatic it was. I’m still working through it today and that was over four years ago.
Outfit 2
I was 14. At some point in spring of 1963, my younger brother and I joined a drum and bugle corps, the Blue Knights, sponsored by the American Legion. My brother went to the horn line, and I joined the drumline.
The father of one of the drummers was volunteering to manage our drum line equipment. He took me up to the equipment room to get outfitted. The belt that held the drum at my hip was wide and white, and slung over my shoulder and across my chest.
As he was fitting me, to make sure that it was adjusted to the correct height at my hip, he held the belt between his fingers and moved them up and down so that the back of his fingers grazed my breasts. He did this a couple times. I didn’t move or say anything.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized what he had done to me.
This episode wasn’t the last time. I can think of two more episodes of assault, neither physically violent. One, I defended myself and stopped it, the other I did not.
The assaults are only part of the story; the other part is how I responded, how I mentally blocked it, how I internalized it, and how dispassionate I am about it now, at 76.
Outfit 3
He had come home late again, after the kids were put to bed.
I could hear some rumbling at the front door. I quickly threw on some sweats and a hoodie as I jumped out of bed to attempt to let him know the kids were sleeping. I knew better. He was intoxicated and thrust himself towards me. Telling me how much he loved me and that he knew I was waiting up for him so that he could put me to bed properly. That couldn't be further from the truth.
I tried to tell him I was on my cycle and really not interested in his drunk belligerent self and that the kids were upstairs sleeping and we shouldn't do this in the living room. He continued removing my pants and held me to the ground. Ugh, I laid there hoping that he would pass out. Minutes felt like hours. He wasn't giving up and was flaccid.
He rolled me over to be on top. I couldn't move. He got real stern with me and told me to finish him. Moments later he passed out. I pulled up his drawers and I left him there, passed out on the living room floor.
I went back upstairs to clean myself. I will never forget the gruesome mess.
A note about this story…
The majority of sexual assaults (over 55%) occur at or near a victim’s home, and 1 in every 3 rapes are committed by a victim’s current or former intimate partner.
Sexual assault within the context of long-term relationships, and particularly marriages, is unfortunately common. Sometimes referred to as intimate partner sexual violence, or IPSV, this type of assault can be easy to overlook. Many factors help sustain this, including the overall pattern of coercive control that takes root in abusive relationships and the broader misbelief that consent is implied in the context of an intimate relationship.
The truth is that consent is never implied, and IPSV survivors have the same rights as any other victim of sexual assault or rape. The essay below, contributed along with Outfit #3 and the accompanying story, expands on the 19-year relationship that was the backdrop for this incident.
After 19 Years of Hell, and Making It Out Alive
I was young. In love. Looking back, I was blindsided.
It was 1998, I thought I had won the lottery. A small-town girl, who was lucky enough to land the big city guy.
He lived with his mother, he was five years my elder.
He missed my graduation, had something else going on. I was still in love.
We moved to Missoula. I started college. He didn't think that was a good idea to do while he was out of town for work.
I stopped going to class, found a job.
He lost his.
This cycle would continue. I was still smitten.
We got pregnant. He lost another job.
I saw a now hiring sign on the corner of Reserve. I applied.
I worked there for years, taking promotion after promotion.
Continuing to provide for our family, while coming home to do my "motherly" duties.
Cooking, cleaning, Girl Scouts.
He had a few jobs along the way. Never keeping his hands or comments to himself, he lost those jobs.
We lost our house.
Moved in with his mother. Still smitten.
We had a son.
Thought he would be proud, and want to be a better man.
Cycle continued.
I took a promotion that landed us in a new town.
He had friends there. Ones that he could "hang" with.
I never made friends at work. I never shared my life with anyone.
But there was a lady that was relentless on being friends.
Over and over she would ask to hang out, just play board games. I gave in.
She saved my life.
The first person in a long time, who asked how I was doing.
She saw the pain in my eyes. The struggle to keep it together.
He got jealous. He followed me to work. He followed me after work.
He followed me to her house for coffee.
Nothing to hide.
He hit me.
We separated.
Parenting plan, scheduled visitations never kept.
My mother got sick, he saw an opportunity to be a hero.
Offered to watch the kids while I took care of her. I let him.
When she passed, he wouldn't leave.
Cycle starts again.
He offered to take away my stress. He wanted to be the breadwinner and allow me to be the mom I had always wanted to be.
We moved states.
This time would be different.
It wasn't.
We drained my savings, IRAs, and stocks.
My daughter started self-harming.
I knew he couldn't find out. It would be my fault. His words burned.
I worried that she would harm herself worse.
I called my dad. He had 72 hours to get there.
I wasn't taking much. I took what we needed and I left the rest.
Loaded a 26-foot U-Haul with a car hauler in a little under three hours.
He pulled in the driveway right as we were pulling away.
Offering to change, be different, begging not to take his kids away.
I stayed strong.
I drove away.
Drove to Helena.
Stayed with the lady that was relentless on being friends. The friend that saved my life.
The kids and I shared a room until we found a place.
I checked in to The Friendship Center.
I talked to a nice lady. She gave me a book and offered some classes. I wasn't ready to share my story.
I didn't know I had a story.
He followed us.
He waited until I was back on my feet, purchased a home and wanted to be a better man.
I fell for his game.
This time I was stronger. I had support. My kids were older.
He got a job.
Lost a job for sexual harassment.
Nothing new.
I tracked his moves.
He spent my money.
I went to work.
He went out with other ladies.
He came home inebriated.
Time and time again.
It was July of 2017.
You have until the end of the month to be OUT.
I was serious this time.
I was going to do whatever it took.
I changed the locks.
I called the police.
I told my friends.
This time I was done.
The man that my family could not stand, the man that isolated me from all of my desires, dreams, and friends.
The man that I was so loyal and faithful to, that I spoke no ill words of.
The man that I did everything for.
I always thought it was my fault.
Something that I could have done differently.
Something I said.
Too many pounds that I had gained. All my fault. Every bit of it.
It wasn't my fault.
I had nothing to do with any of it.
And neither did you.
Outfit 4
When I reported the assault to the church, I was asked by my parents and the bishop of the church, “What were you wearing?"
I was sitting in the sanctuary, and he asked me to come back to the library because I was upset. Then he assaulted me. I was made to look “crazy” by the church. He got ordained after this.
I was 19 at a young adult retreat and had on purple butterfly pajamas.
I now advocate every day for people who went through what I went through. I did it alone and I don’t want anyone to have to go through that process alone ever.
Outfit 5A (1 of 2 outfits)
Jellyfish and Other Predators
By Amber Johnson
He was the private pilot flying a private plane for a Texas oil tycoon, a wealthy man doing “God’s work” on the poor Caribbean island where I worked as a schoolteacher and volunteered as a church worship leader. The boss man was worth millions or billions, I don’t know. I cared not.
The pilot had his own private suite in the boss’s beachside resort. Thought he was a real-life Maverick, telling everyone he was a Navy Pilot who graduated from Top Gun. Big shot. Hot dog. Charismatic. Life of the party. A married man I looked up to as a father figure, I sat behind him in church when they flew into town. He was a regular motivational speaker at a spiritual self-development program in Texas when he wasn’t flying his sugar daddy around the country and world.
I couldn’t call 911 or visit the police station. There were no authorities to call on the island.
Instead, I called my former boss, a sexual assault advocate and trainer. It was late and she almost didn’t pick up. Why would she be getting a late-night phone call from a foreign country? Curious, she answered. She let me cry and she told me that it wasn’t my fault.
When I reported him for sexual assault, to his employer and colleague, I was met with initial support and contrition. But from what I was told later, there were two sides to the story. He said, she said.
He kept his job. He was, however, fired from the motivational speaking gig. On the grounds of infidelity. Not sexual assault; infidelity. I had been labeled an accomplice. My crime? Being a young, innocent, and vulnerable young woman injured and in need of medical assistance after a night snorkeling adventure gone terribly wrong. I was attacked by two predators that night—one in the sea and one on land. I still carry the scars of both.
Maybe you think I was wearing some scandalous bikini or some provocative one-piece. No. I was wearing a modest pair of shorts and an athletic shirt.
But I took my stand. And I was met with anything but support.
I had broken the “Billy Graham Rule” my friend told me.
“Sexual assault is when an 11-year-old girl is raped and impregnated by her stepfather. What happened to you was of little consequence,” she informed me.
Besides, I only had myself to blame. Never mind that I was afflicted with an open wound that needed first aid. I was alone with a man, a married man. Escandalo!
“What did you think was going to happen?” she asked.
My behavior (aka being a woman and in need of medical attention) had ruined a good man’s life, I was told by another lady friend.
“He was drunk, please forgive him,” yet another male friend said. (He wasn’t drunk.)
They were all church friends.
And I was such a good girl. So much for saving myself for marriage to a godly man.
I called my cousin, and she bought me a plane ticket to her home in Virginia. I quit my job as a schoolteacher, fled the country, and landed in the basement of my cousin’s house without a job or two pennies to rub together.
To be honest, I almost didn't make it. Suicide seemed like the easy way out.
At age 31, the identity I had spent a lifetime building came crashing down around me. Everything I knew about myself, about God, and about the world as I knew it was gone.
For the next two and a half years, I cried. For the first year and a half, I wept every day. Wept, not cried. Every day. The next year was every other day.
Waking up with complex PTSD is like waking up in a house that has been burned to the ground. Home, career, religion, friendships, family connections, hopes and dreams, laughter, health—much was burned up in the great fire. Sitting in the ashes of my former life and self—terrible, vast, and all-consuming—is the grief. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t just get over it. My season of mourning ended up lasting far longer than I wanted—years of my life I can never get back.
In high-control religion, it is not just the leaders who abuse their followers. In the end, we are all perpetrators, we are all complicit. Sons and Daughters of the Most High, Brothers and Sisters in Christ; we are all groomed and trained to report on each other, to "hold each other accountable,” to shame each other, to protect and make excuses for poorly behaved men and boys. The abuse becomes widespread and normalized. We are conditioned from childhood. And while high-control religion and cults are damaging to men, it is usually the women and children who suffer the greatest harm.
Is it any wonder that 80% of Evangelicals voted for and continue to support a rapist and a pedophile?
Being raised in a cult-like and isolated religious community in the Mountain West had normalized religious and spiritual abuse for me, paving the way for normalized sexual and domestic violence and misogyny. No more. Nothing would be the same. Burn it to the ground.
To quote the original EXvangelical, Friedrich Nietzsche:
“I am not a [wo]man, I am dynamite!”
And I am still here. A phoenix.
Twelve years later, I have liberated myself from high-control religion and its abusers. I am still a bit fragile, but paradoxically, I am stronger and more resilient than before. Though I will have to manage complex PTSD for the rest of my life, I live a healed and peaceful life in Helena, Montana, and work a part-time job as an on-call advocate at The Friendship Center.
To read more of Amber's writing, visit her Substack and subscribe to make sure you don't miss a new post.
Outfit 5B (1 of 2 outfits)
The Church Potluck Pedophile
By Amber Johnson
For Leah, In Remembrance
His attendance at Calvary Community Church from week to week was spotty at best, but he never missed a potluck Sunday.
If you grew up in church, you are 100% familiar with the church potluck. Standing in the single-file food line after service with a Bible in one hand and a piece of fried chicken in the other is quintessential American Christendom.
Seventeen years old and deeply committed to both the Lord and to homemade mac and cheese, I was waiting my turn to dish up one Sunday after church when I felt a pair of hands land softly on my hips. Confused, I looked over my shoulder and met the gaze and tight-lipped smile of someone I considered a family friend, the husband of our house cleaner. I snapped my head back around.
His hands slowly explored my backside. After a long pause, the line moved forward and his hands moved off of my body and onto the serving spoons.
I said nothing, told no one.
I don’t remember if this incident was before or after the time he sat next me and slowly rubbed his hand up and down my bare leg at the Fourth of July BBQ. Again, this fat fuck never missed a good potluck.
It was a hot July afternoon, and I was wearing a cute white t-shirt bedazzled with an American flag, paired with a modest pair of jean shorts. Other, even stricter, denominations knew better than to let their females wear shorts of any kind. Maybe it was my fault then? I must have caused him to stumble.
Besides, on that most holy and patriotic of American holidays, we honored our service members. A Marine Corps veteran, he was the belle of the ball.
Maybe he thought to himself, “When you're a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything."
And the people said, “Hurrah, Soldier! Thank you for your service.”
Again, I said nothing. Terrorized by purity culture, I didn’t have any words to tell anyone what was happening to me.
At the behest of Dr. James Dobson (you might remember his name referenced in the Epstein files), my parents did not allow me to take sex education classes. While my classmates were learning about basic human anatomy together, I was sent alone to the school library to write book reports on teen pregnancy and STDs.
I had words for the evils of premarital sex and chlamydia, but I had no words for sexual assault and harassment.
It might not surprise you to learn that this church potluck pedophile and his wife later divorced, for many reasons, though in large part because he was caught jacking off to porn at the public library with his young daughter sitting on his lap. What he did to his daughter in the privacy of their home, well, we will never know. Because she is not here to tell her story.
I sang at his daughter’s funeral just a few years later. She died in a tragic four-wheeler accident when she was only seven years old.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.”
With her long blonde curls spread out on the pillow beneath her pale corpse, I smiled remembering the time I caught her in my bathroom, literally red handed, painting her face like a clown with my makeup, an impish grin on her ridiculously cute face.
As much as I mourned her young life, taken from her mother and brothers and grandmother and friends too soon, I took small comfort in knowing she would never have to live, and survive, with the knowledge of what her father did to her. I will hold it for her; for us.
But I can’t help but wonder, thinking of my 17-year-old self, what if I had said something? Could I have stopped her abuse from happening?
Then I remember that my 17-year-old self was taught to protect the “sanctity of marriage” at all costs, even if that meant protecting poorly behaved men and boys, the leaders of our homes, the leaders of our churches, the leaders of our country.
Lay ministers and parachurch leaders with Marriage Ministries International, my parents were city, then state, then regional directors. We traveled far and wide across the Mountain West so my parents (whose own marriage was a dumpster fire) could teach marriage seminars to others. Like many devout religious people, they were nothing if not professional hypocrites.
In many ways, marriage was the beginning and the end of our religion, and had to be preserved and protected at all costs. Because God hates divorce. And homosexuality. But apparently, he doesn’t hate pedophilia, rape, assault, harassment, and adultery so much. Nothing is unforgivable with right prayer and repentance. Game on boys.
At 17, I had no words; I had no voice. I was but a mere handmaid, a helpmeet waiting to be given away in marriage. I was like a prize pig, waiting to be purchased, slaughtered, and served up at a future church potluck to hungry men.
Nom, nom, nom.
To read more of Amber's writing, visit her Substack and subscribe to make sure you don't miss a new post.
Outfit 6
I was at a bar with friends and listening to live music. We were laughing and having a good time, drinking a few cocktails. It got late in a hurry. Before I knew it, the bar was closing. I had had a few drinks and knew I shouldn’t drive. It was winter and I was housesitting for a friend about 15 miles out of town.
My friends went home and just left me there. I started to panic. Suddenly this person appeared. I recognized him. He was the husband of a friend in my dart league. I knew she was out of town. He said he could give me a ride, no problem. I trusted him because he was my friend’s husband.
Once we got to the house, it was a blur. All I remember was him throwing me face-down on the bed and ripping my pants off. I turned around to look at him and he shouted, “Don’t you fucking look at me!” I must’ve passed out.
I didn’t wake up until almost noon the next day with the biggest hangover. I felt so sore and so humiliated I just cried and cried. I never told anyone and never saw him or my friend ever again.
I wish I knew then what I do now. I wish I would’ve had the strength and courage to go to the police. It wasn’t until much later that I came to the realization that I had been raped.
For the longest time I buried it and somehow was able to remove it from my conscious mind.
I did nothing wrong. That should’ve never happened to me.
I have since found my voice and I’m anything but quiet.
Outfit 7
When I was 17, I was applying for my first job out of high school—an AmeriCorps position that required all applicants to complete a physical. My mom took me to the walk-in clinic in town, and when I was alone with the physician, he took several liberties, both physical and verbal.
There was no nurse in the room, which would later become the norm (this was 2002). He asked invasive questions, told me that boys thought smoking was sexy, and I shouldn't worry about having a cigarette here and there. He used the mask of a physical to touch me in ways and say things to me he shouldn't have, and I spent that half hour chasing my brain around in circles trying to excuse what he was doing as medically necessary. By the time I realized he was way off-script, I had completely frozen and was just waiting for it to be over.
It existed in that grey world for me. A world of doctor/patient, routine physical, assumed trust, a box to check for a job, and freedom from my adolescence. Just get through it. I didn't fully understand and decided not to dwell. I had other things to worry about and focus on.
I knew he had done something wrong and was incredibly angry about it. But I didn't tell anyone and buried it. I refused to be alone with male doctors and avoided checkups and dental appointments any time I could. I later had three children and a full panic attack in the delivery room with each one.
I didn't think of it as an assault for many years. It wasn't until I read about his arrest in the newspaper, and the testimony of two of his other victims, that I realized the extent of what he'd done—their stories mirrored mine exactly. And they were willing to turn their lives inside out to expose him. I was 38 by then. It broke my heart and really confused me.
I had spent 20 years telling myself it wasn't that big of a deal. That I was overreacting. But those women floored me with their courage and anger. They humbled and validated me. I'm grateful to them, and sorry.
He received 10 years’ probation.
His medical license had been revoked twice prior. Once in Montana and once elsewhere for sexual misconduct.
Outfit 8
Sweatpants
By LC
I start with what I was wearing because sometimes the smallest details anchor the hardest truths. Sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. Comfortable clothes meant for safety, for rest, for home. The kind of outfit that says you're supposed to be protected here.
But I wasn't.
This is what marital sexual assault looks like: it happens in your own bed, in the home you share, with the person who promised to love and cherish you. It happens repeatedly. It happens after you say no. It happens after you plead. It happens after you ask—beg—for it to stop.
And then you're told it isn't rape because you're married.
The Invisible Crime
Outside of marriage, we understand sexual assault through certain frameworks: DNA evidence, witnesses, and corroboration. Even then, it's often "one person's word against another's," and justice feels impossibly far away. But at least there's social recognition that a crime can occur.
Inside marriage, the lines are perceived as blurry—though they shouldn't be. Marital sexual assault is harder to prove, harder to name, harder for others to fathom. The intimacy that should create safety instead becomes the thing that obscures abuse. The shared bed becomes a crime scene no one wants to acknowledge.
The Choice That Wasn't Really a Choice
After enough times of saying no—of pleading, of being dismissed, of being told this wasn't assault because we were married—I faced an ultimatum that I imposed on myself: stay and preserve the constructed life (my beliefs, my family structure, my hopes for my children) or leave and "destroy everything."
I finally said no one last time. And then I left.
That was eight years ago.
What I Want You to Know
The memories still haunt me. This experience influences how I see the world, how I move through relationships, how I understand power and vulnerability. But it doesn't define me. I am not what was done to me.
I've healed in ways I couldn't have imagined—not by forgetting, but by acknowledging what happened and refusing to let it determine my entire identity. There's power in that. There's growth in naming the truth.
Here's what matters most:
"No" is non-negotiable. In marriage, in dating relationships, in any context—consent boundaries apply everywhere. Marriage is not a blanket permission slip. It does not erase your right to bodily autonomy.
Marital sexual assault is real. It happens in homes, in beds shared for years, between people who once loved each other or still do. The setting doesn't change the crime.
Survivors can heal. You can move beyond this. You can reclaim your life, your voice, your sense of self—while also acknowledging that what happened is part of your story.
For Those Who Don't Understand
If you're reading this and you've never experienced sexual assault within marriage, I'm writing this for you too. This is prevention. This is education.
Understand that abuse doesn't always look like what you imagine. It can happen in contexts where you'd least expect it—in marriages, in homes that look normal from the outside.
Believe survivors when they tell you their spouse assaulted them. Don't let the word "marriage" make you question whether rape can occur. It can. It does.
Eight Years Later
I tell this story not to relive it, but to prevent it from happening to someone else. To help survivors know they're not alone, not crazy, not wrong for leaving.
To make clear that consent doesn't stop mattering when you say, "I do."
To insist that "no" means no—in every room, in every relationship, every single time.
You are not defined by what was done to you. But you don't have to pretend it didn't happen, either. There's a path forward that honors both truths: this happened and you can heal. This shaped you and it doesn't own you.
Eight years out, I'm still here. Still growing. Still insisting that others deserve better than I got—and that starts with all of us understanding what marital sexual assault actually is, how it happens, and why "no" can never be negotiable.
Outfit 9
The survivor who submitted this outfit wants the uniform to speak for itself.
Outfit 10
I was talking to this one guy, and two of the times we hung out, I specifically said I didn’t want to have sex. I made that very clear, and I stated my reasons. He agreed, but it still happened despite me telling him no.
A note about this story...
Of the 15 outfits on display as part of this exhibit, 13 were sourced from survivors in our own community.
This outfit is one of two recreated from anonymous submissions in other communities that have assembled their own version of this exhibit.
One of our intentions with what were you wearing? is to represent the diversity of experiences of survivors of sexual violence, which is why we feel it is critical to include the story of a male survivor.
Reporting rates for sexual violence are low across the board: More than 2 in every 3 rapes overall will never be reported to law enforcement. It's important to keep in mind that male survivors and LGBTQ+ survivors of all genders are especially unlikely to report their victimization to law enforcement or seek services.
Stigma, fear of not being believed, fear of retaliation, and lack of awareness about services available are a few of many reasons survivors may not report abuse or seek help.
Outfit 11
I had just gotten off work and went to go hang out with someone who I thought was a friend. I was still wearing my work clothes when they assaulted me.
A note about this story...
Of the 15 outfits on display as part of this exhibit, 13 were sourced from survivors in our own community.
This outfit is one of two recreated from anonymous submissions in other communities that have assembled their own version of this exhibit.
Along with representing the diversity of experiences of survivors of sexual violence, another intention of what were you wearing? is to make the point that what somebody was wearing at the time of an assault is ultimately not relevant.
Rape is a violent crime. It occurs when a perpetrator violates another person's autonomy. By definition, there is no such thing as an "invitation" to be raped, and consent is never implied in somebody's clothing choice, if what they were wearing was even their choice.
We felt it was important to represent that, frequently, victims had no choice at all in what they were wearing—as is often the case with child survivors and with survivors who were in work-issued uniforms when they were assaulted.
Outfit 12 (2 outfits)
My dad sexually abused me between the ages of 5 and 13.
It happened the same way every time; he would come into my room when he thought I was asleep and get into my bed.
The first time it happened I was wearing my favorite Spiderman footie pajamas and the last time it happened I had on grey sweatpants and a Denver Broncos t-shirt.
The Friendship Center thanks our partners at the Lewis and Clark County Children's Advocacy Center for providing this description and story from a real child survivor in our community.
A note about this story...
We don't know the true prevalence of child sexual abuse because so many victims do not disclose or report their abuse. Most who do (73%), do not tell anyone about the abuse for at least a year. Many (45%) do not tell anyone for at least five years.
Overall, more than 2 out of 3 sexual assaults go unreported. But of those assaults that are reported, nearly 70% occur to children ages 17 and under. Like assaults involving adult victims, most children are sexually abused at or near their homes by somebody known to them.
84% of sexual victimization of children under age 12 occurs in a residence, typically the victim's or the perpetrator's. Even older children are most likely to be assaulted in a residence. 71% of sexual assaults on children ages 12-17 occur in a residence.
Being abused by a caregiver or another adult that a victim knows and trusts can be confusing for a child. Moreover, many perpetrators start the pattern of abuse with insidious comments, touching, or behaviors. The abuse is often well underway before a child can recognize it as sexual or inappropriate.
Outfit 13
I was eight years old and he told me it was because I looked good in my swimsuit.
The Friendship Center thanks our partners at the Lewis and Clark County Children's Advocacy Center for providing this description and story from a real child survivor in our community.
A note about this story...
We don't know the true prevalence of child sexual abuse because so many victims do not disclose or report their abuse. Most who do (73%), do not tell anyone about the abuse for at least a year. Many (45%) do not tell anyone for at least five years.
Overall, more than 2 out of 3 sexual assaults go unreported. But of those assaults that are reported, nearly 70% occur to children ages 17 and under. Like assaults involving adult victims, most children are sexually abused at or near their homes by somebody known to them.
84% of sexual victimization of children under age 12 occurs in a residence, typically the victim's or the perpetrator's. Even older children are most likely to be assaulted in a residence. 71% of sexual assaults on children ages 12-17 occur in a residence.
Being abused by a caregiver or another adult that a victim knows and trusts can be confusing for a child. Moreover, many perpetrators start the pattern of abuse with insidious comments, touching, or behaviors. The abuse is often well underway before a child can recognize it as sexual or inappropriate.
Facts & Statistics
If you or someone you know has been affected by sexual violence, our advocates are here to help. Check out our services page to learn about our free, confidential, 24/7 services. You can also visit our sexual assault resource page to learn more about options for survivors and find answers to some frequently asked questions.
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