<snip>
I was stalked long ago, before there were reports on stalking, before we even had a name for it. I first met my stalker, a fellow journalism student, when he asked to interview me as part of a class assignment. We sat outside, he asked me a few questions, and that was it -- until his professor pulled me aside about a week later. She was worried, she said, about the tone of his story. She wouldn't show it to me, not because of privacy concerns but because she didn't want to upset me.
That was the beginning of two years of what I would describe as near-unrelenting hell. My stalker also wanted to be a sportswriter, so I saw him nearly every day, at every football and basketball practice, at every game, and of course every day in the halls of the J-school. I was always there, in the newsroom of the student paper, which had a glass front facing the hallway that led into the building. My stalker became a fixture at those windows, standing and staring in at me.
<snip>
The letters -- it's hard to talk about them, even after nearly 30 years.
<snip>
The fear didn't stop. Not for a long time. For years, reaching into a mailbox was an ordeal. Even now, when I see an envelope addressed in unfamiliar handwriting, I get that old familiar frisson of fear. I have resisted all suggestions to create a Facebook page because of my stalker. I hesitated a long time before writing this, and more time before giving it to my editor, because I don't want this column to be seen as encouragement to my stalker.
<snip>
As hard as it is to remove a video from the Internet, that's how hard it is to remove that kind of fear from your mind. And that's why I'm tired of the endless debate about whether Andrews somehow "asked for it." Just stop. Believe me, no one asks for this.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/10/13/AR2009101301768.html?hpid%3Dnews-col-blog&sub=ARTop 3.