Today marks the anniversary of an event that changed my life forever. It’s been eight years since that day, a day that was supposed to be ordinary but turned into a nightmare.
I was in Brisbane, looking for a new role as my temporary government position was nearing its end. After nearly two decades of contracting, I knew the drill. You start early, you network, and you leverage every connection. That’s how I’ve always done it—reaching out to groups, recruiters, and my LinkedIn network. It was a method I trusted, a process I believed in.
That’s when he reached out to me. A man from a large mining firm. His message on LinkedIn sounded professional: he wanted to discuss a project management role that he said would be a perfect fit for me. He seemed legitimate, worked in project finance, and came from a well-known company, so I had no reason to doubt his intentions. He suggested we meet for coffee to discuss it further. I was a trusting person back then. I said yes.
What I didn’t know—what I couldn’t have known—was that this man was hiding a predator behind his professional façade.
We arranged to meet on a Friday, which happened to be a public holiday. He suggested 5 PM, and while it seemed unusual, I didn’t think much of it. He followed up several times, reassuring me about the role and even tried to add me on Facebook. That felt strange, but I brushed it off, thinking it was just networking.
The day came, and I met him at the Fortitude Valley train station. We struggled to find an open café due to the holiday, eventually stumbling upon a small bar. We ordered—hot chocolate for me, latte for him—and we sat down to chat. But something wasn’t right. He kept steering the conversation in a direction that made me uncomfortable, trying to get personal, pushing me to accept food when I didn’t want any. My instincts started to scream that something was off.
When I tried to leave, he wouldn’t let me. My pulse quickened as fear began to seep in. He followed me back to the train station, refusing to leave. I walked faster, trying to shake him off, but he kept pace, his presence a growing weight on my chest. By the time I reached my apartment, I was on the edge of panic.
I told him to go. Again. And again. But he wouldn’t. Instead, he followed me into my building, insisting on coming inside to “watch a movie.” I tried to rush in and close the door, but he was too strong. He forced it open, forcing his way into my space—my home, my sanctuary.
He sat down like he belonged there, turning on my TV and demanding a drink. I gave him water, praying he would leave. I told him I was tired, that he needed to go. He wouldn’t. Instead, he came closer, sat next to me, and then it happened. He started touching me. I said no. I told him to stop, to leave. But he didn’t.
I tried to scream. But I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t let me. I was frozen, trapped in a nightmare, my mind screaming while my body went limp, locked in survival mode. He overpowered me, ripped my clothes, and violated every part of my being. When he was done, he casually cleaned himself with a tea towel from my kitchen. And then he left.
I can still feel the weight of that relief—the moment he was finally gone. I was mortified, shattered into pieces, unsure of who I was anymore. I showered, trying to wash away the horror, but nothing could cleanse what had just happened. I lay in bed, crying, unable to sleep. The world felt darker than it ever had.
Eventually, I messaged a friend. She called the police. They came, they took my statement, and they took me to the station for further details. But despite everything, I blamed myself. I had agreed to meet him. I trusted him. Maybe it was my fault?
But the police told me it wasn’t. They reassured me that none of this was my fault.
Through LinkedIn, through DNA on that tea towel, they found him. He was arrested, but the nightmare didn’t end there. He began sending me threatening messages, reminding me he knew where I lived, where I worked. I blocked him, deleted the messages, but the fear lingered.
Two months later, I left Brisbane. I moved away, trying to start fresh. But two years after that, I was dragged through a trial that forced me to relive every excruciating detail. His lawyer tried to twist the narrative, to make it seem like it was somehow my fault. But it wasn’t. It never was. The jury saw through his lies, and he was sentenced to 18 months in prison—far too short a sentence for the magnitude of what he had done. He was deported back to Papua New Guinea after a year.
That experience taught me so much—about myself, about the world, about survival.
I learned that:
- It’s never your fault if someone else can’t control their actions.
- When you say no, it should always mean no.
- In shock, your body might shut down, and that’s okay. It’s a survival mechanism, not a weakness.
- I had been too trusting, too naïve. LinkedIn profiles, professional titles—they don’t define a person’s character.
- I need to be more cautious, more discerning with whom I network. Trust is something that should be earned, not given freely.
- If something feels wrong, it probably is. Trust your instincts, always.
- I am stronger than I ever knew. I had no family or friends nearby to support me through the trial, but I made it through anyway.
- I need to be physically stronger, to defend myself if something like this ever happens again.
- And above all, no matter what—no always means no.
Today, as I reflect on that dark chapter of my life, I see not just the pain, but the strength that came from it. I survived. I rebuilt. I learned that I am resilient, and I hope that by sharing this, others can find the strength to rebuild too. No one should go through this alone. And no one should ever feel like it’s their fault.
Copyright © 2024 Lynette Diehm.
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