Eve Fusselman in Geraldo Show – 1996
Sometimes, I sit with the question and let it echo for a while. Would I do it all over again? It’s not one I can answer quickly. It stretches itself out—through mornings with stale coffee, into long silences while I fold laundry, through nights when sleep doesn’t come easily. These male soldiers treated a female soldier, maybe not all females, like some sex toy. Even a woman should never be treated this way.
I joined the Army because I believed in something—country, duty, possibility. I wanted to build something stable for my son. I wanted to be someone he could look up to. And in the beginning, that belief felt solid like boots on dry ground. But the ground got muddy quickly.
Basic training was harsh but expected. I could push through the pain. I’d done it before. What I hadn’t braced for was what came after. My story is considered unique; however, other cases may have other types of incidences. When I say I was assaulted, I was sexually assaulted and beaten. My reserve unit wasn’t a team. It was a place where I shrank, where I was watched too closely and dismissed too easily. The disrespect was for all to see. The language so foul, it was disgusting. These male soldiers treated a female soldier, maybe not all females, like some sex toy. Even a woman should never be treated this way. And then, one day, it turned violent. An officer…someone who wore the same uniform I did decided he could take something from me. And he did.
I spoke up. Of course, I did. I thought there would be a process, protection, and justice. But the system swallowed my report whole. Left me standing in the same uniform but somehow more naked than ever. That was the beginning of the unraveling. Not just of my military career but of the safety I thought I’d earned.
The threats started quietly, then louder. They weren’t subtle. They talked about my son. About parking lots. About death. And suddenly, the question wasn’t about whether I could endure. It was about whether I’d survive.
Some years came after, and I moved through the world in pieces. I didn’t fall into depression but became angrier as well as not trusting and fearful. When I experienced this, there were no support groups other than seeing a VA doctor and close friends. I stayed numb for years but had to regain myself back mostly by myself. I carried panic like a second skin. Woke up breathless from dreams I couldn’t explain. Looked over my shoulder in grocery stores. Waited for someone to come knocking.
But I kept going. Not because I was brave in some Hollywood way but because there was nothing else to do. I worked at the VA and sat with veterans who had their ghosts. I became a nurse. Then, a therapist. I poured myself into helping others climb out of their darkness, even when mine still clung to me. And it changed something. Not all at once, but enough. Enough to see that maybe I wasn’t just what had happened to me. Maybe I was also what I did with it. The people I helped. The hands I held. The words I whispered back into someone else’s ears when they were ready to give up.
So when the question comes: Would I do it again? I hold it softly. The honest answer is: I don’t know. No, because no one should have to go through that. No woman should be left unprotected. No mother should sit in the dark wondering if her child is safe because she dared to speak the truth.
But maybe… yes. Because it brought me here. Because it made me into someone who refuses to be silenced. Someone who listens without judgment. Someone who still believes in healing, even if it comes slowly, even if it comes with scars.
I wouldn’t erase what happened. I can’t. It’s there in every corner of who I am. But I would walk forward again, knowing now what I didn’t know then. That survival can be its kind of power. That even pain, when held with care, can bloom into something useful. Something holy. And maybe that’s what I hold onto the most. Not the question, but the quiet truth underneath it: I’m still here. Still standing. Still speaking. And sometimes, that’s the only answer I need.