By the age of 18, one in four women will have been sexually abused, and eight out of ten victims are assaulted by someone they know.

By the time I was 16, I was sexually assaulted three times in my life, all by people I trusted.

Before you offer me condolences and words of wisdom, you should know that I am okay. It has been two years since the last time I was sexually assaulted, and I am learning how to cope with my experiences. However I can tell you, with great sadness that I am never taken quite seriously about my sexual assaults, and I want that to change for every rape victim in America.

Three months back, I was going through a rough change in my own life. Something had completely blindsided me, and I was desperate for some sort of emotional release. Luckily, I had people who were willing to listen and I talked for what felt like hours. It was like something broke inside of me. The darkness of the living room kept me safe from my friends’ sad eyes, and the fan’s gentle whir made their silence less uncomfortable. Eventually, after I talked so much my tongue dried out and I ran out of things to say, I let the silence, strange as it was, envelope us all. Eventually a friend whispered into the nothingness of the pitch black room, “Well, was it real rape?” If a you could hear a heart shatter, you’d have heard mine.

I had spilled my heart out, taken control of my story, and told her things that I was afraid to let see the light of day. Yet, at the end of the day, I was still doubted. Did she want me to say that it wasn’t real rape, that it didn’t change my life forever?

I gave silence in return, hoping she would understand, but instead she spoke up again, “Well, was it your fault?” I had stared blankly into the darkness for a bit, questioning everything I had said. How was I supposed to say that I was five and my parents trusted those girls to take care of me? I didn’t know what rape meant when I was that young, but somehow it was my fault. It was something I was dreading to play- the blame game. Did she want me to say that it was my fault, even though I couldn’t have stopped what happened? I don’t know. I’ll never know.

I didn’t know what to say, other than I was five years old the first time I was sexually assaulted. I looked like Boo from Monsters, Inc., with my thick bangs and my wide doe-like eyes. I was 15 the next time I was sexually assaulted, and I couldn’t get my mouth open to tell him to stop. I couldn’t yell, or cry, or kick, or scream. I could only sit there, silently crying out to the other people for help. And the last time I was sexually assaulted I was 16 years old and I thought we had been getting along fine until I woke up the next morning, my makeup smeared all over my face from crying, bruises formed on my hips from the way they gripped me too tight, and guilt practically seeping from my pores. I trusted them. I trusted everyone that has sexually assaulted me in my life, yet people have the audacity to ask me if it was my fault, even people I trust.

Why do we do this to rape victims? Why do we want to believe the victim invoked this act of violence? Why do we normalize and glamorize sexual violence? For as long as rape culture has existed, we, as Americans, push the discomfort of the rape culture we perpetuate away. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard or been told that “boys will be boys” and I “asked for it.” We normalize sexual violence by excusing the actions of rapists. We normalize sexual violence by telling victims how to avoid being raped instead of telling the rapist not to rape. We normalize, and excuse, and beautify, and point our fingers, and move on.

I’m tired of moving on and accepting what happened to me as normal. I would rather tell you all the uncomfortable, scary, awful parts of the truth I’m living with than let the awkwardness continue. So let’s address the elephant in the room. Why don’t rape victims want your condolences? To put it simply, we’re tired of being blamed and shamed. What happened to me was not my fault and I couldn’t have stopped it. Take your condolences and change them into protests. You can tell survivors it wasn’t their fault and no longer accept people who trivialize rape. You can help stop the jokes, stop using language that objectifies women, and take rape victims seriously. Rapists need to be held accountable for their actions, and rape survivors need to be taken seriously.

So, no, we don’t want your tears, we want your fists. We want your anger and your voices. The only way America’s rape culture is ever going to change is if we, victims and bystanders alike, make it change. We need to acknowledge our perpetuation of rape culture, be it anything from rape memes to male administrators casually objectifying young girls in schools to slut shaming women for their appearances, and shut it down.