Although it was only a little before 6 p.m., it was already a dark and bitterly cold December evening in 2007. Finals were right around the corner, and this was one of the last Sundays I would be able to enjoy doing absolutely nothing.

I reasoned that I could put off studying for some other time, and instead I planned to “putz around,” as my mom would say. I sat on my gray leather couch and watched the sci-fi version of The Wizard of Oz.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my front door beginning to open. A sliver of light from the stairway grew to a slab of light about two inches wide, and then the door began to close. My boyfriend was supposed to be coming over, and sometimes the door jostled a bit when someone opens or shuts the door at the bottom of the stairwell.

I got up, casually walked over to my door, and swung it open.

Standing in my cold hallway was a scrawny white man with shaggy blonde hair. He was wearing nothing more than black-rimmed glasses and underwear. For a brief second, our eyes met, and we reflected each other’s shock and fear.

My stomach shot up to my throat and I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. The man yelled, “Sorry!” and hastily turned around and stumbled down my stairs. I slammed the door, locked it and slid to the floor with my knees drawn into my chest. I didn’t leave this position as I spoke to the 911 operator, who assured me the police were on their way. Even when the police knocked on my door, I was reluctant to answer.

That week I was asked a lot of questions that I just couldn’t answer. My friends would ask things like who was he, where did he come from and, perhaps most pressing of all of them, what was he about to do?

I suspected that the guy, whom my roommates and I started calling Underwear Man, didn’t want to hurt us. But I did have the feeling he was up to something creepy.

That Friday, the police confirmed my suspicions. Underwear Man had admitted to entering our apartment on five previous occasions, rifling through our underwear and then masturbating in our bathroom.

I wanted to vomit, but I choked on air.

When I got the news, I was staying at my dad’s house. Even as I told my dad what I had just learned, it hadn’t fully hit me. We gave each other an awkward smile—not because it was a funny situation, but because we didn’t know what else to do.

Soon after this bombshell, my roommates and I disposed of all our underwear. One roommate washed every towel and floor rug in our bathroom. She even considered bathing her cat out of fear that he petted her while in our apartment.

While putting my underwear in a trash bag, an overwhelming mix of emotions hit me. I felt dirty and used. I had never seen this man before December 2, and yet he had pawed through my most intimate pieces of clothing. The black-lace boy shorts that once made me feel confident and sexy now made me feel like a slut—like I had in some way invited him to use them for his twisted pleasures.

For the first time in my life, I found myself desperately wanting revenge on another human being. I wanted to learn how to handle a gun. I wanted to learn how to fight. I wanted this guy to be punished, but it turned out that little could be done to him. The officer explained to me that, in most states, criminal trespassing—a misdemeanor—will automatically bring a charge of aggravated burglary, which is a felony in most states, but not in Kansas.

Underwear Man was charged with criminal trespassing. A slap on the wrist. He didn’t have to endure any bit of public humiliation via the media—not even a small story tucked away in Section A of the Lawrence Journal-World. The judge ruled that he pay a fine and undergo treatment, but I still don’t see this as justice being served. He is able to continue on with his life as usual, while my life has been permanently changed.

Sometimes, I still see him on my stairwell when I open the door. Like a small dog, I flinch at commonplace noises that I never would have noticed before. Taking a shower can be a particularly agonizing experience. I’m at my most vulnerable with nothing to protect myself. I can’t keep my eyes closed unless I know with utmost confidence that someone isn’t in my home. If I come home to an empty apartment, I make someone stay on the phone with me until I have scoped out every room.

Reliving the experience in order to write this story has awakened old fears that I thought I had conquered. I hate to say that I am “traumatized,” but I definitely still feel the effects all these months later. I am able to sleep at my apartment, but it can be difficult. I don’t feel responsible or dirty, but I still feel nauseous when I think about it. I am more cautious now, and I’m also less trusting.