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Isat there frozen. I couldn't breathe. Was this really happening to me?

It has been nine months since I was sexually assaulted and had to ask myself that question.

This traumatic experience has changed me and my perception of others.

At 21, I used to trust people as soon as I met them. Not any more.

I was out with my former co-workers for a couple of social drinks on a Saturday evening in early August. The night was full of fun, excitement and laughs. I never thought it would take the turn it did.

After a late-night snack at a burger joint in downtown Halifax, it was 3 a.m. - time to go our separate ways for the evening. I flagged a cab for myself and two friends.

I hopped into the front seat and they climbed into the back seat.

As we headed home, I became frantic for a moment when I thought I had lost the money I had set aside for the cab.

"No need for money," the cab driver said. "I do this job to get people home safe. You never know what kind of creeps are out there."

"We need more cab drivers like you," my friend said.

We pulled up to my friends' apartment complex and dropped them off. It was just me and the cab driver.

Before we were even out of the parking lot, he looked over at me.

"So ... you think I am a nice guy?" he said in a flirty, creepy tone.

"Umm ... yes?" I replied nervously, refusing to make eye contact. "You have a very important job, you get people home safe."

For some reason, he believed that was an invitation to rub my neck. I felt sick, and froze. I couldn't breathe. I was scared to look at him and see him undressing me with his eyes.

I wondered what plans he had for me going through his head. I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I was sure he could hear it.

What was I going to do? He was in complete control of me and the situation. If I retaliated would he strike me? Would he molest me? So many emotions ran like a flooding river through my head.

He moved his hand down my neck and stroked it ever so slightly - enough to send goosebumps straight down my spine. He then slid his hand down my arm and in between my thighs.

I sat there quietly, motionless, as tears rolled down my cheeks.

He pulled up to my building and asked if we could do this again some time. I told him I was too busy. I threw $20 at him and jumped out of the cab.

I fumbled with my keys at the door. When I finally got into my apartment, I leaned against the wall, slid down and began crying hysterically.

I did not sleep that night. How could I? All I could think about was his hand between my legs. What was my next step? Do I forget all about it? Pretend it did not happen? Do I report him to the police?

All these questions played on repeat in my mind.

On Monday, when I returned to my summer classes at university, I felt irritable, tired and confused. My older brother noticed and knew something was wrong.

I told him I had been sexually assaulted by a cab driver and hadn't slept or eaten since the weekend. He was angry and told me to report the scumbag so he wouldn't get away with it.

I just wanted it to go away. But he said that if I didn't call the police, he would, that too many of these attacks go unreported every day.

I was unsure if reporting him was a good idea, but I knew it was the smart idea. I did not want to be a meaningless statistic, one of the many who never file a report after a sexual assault.

So I dialled the number to the police and sobbed as I told my story over the phone.

"This was not your fault," the police officer said.

"I know, but I am worried because I had a few drinks ..."

"But alcohol makes you vulnerable," he said.

Two days later, a detective contacted me. The police had a suspect in mind. I had to review a photo lineup to confirm his identity.

I sat there trembling as the detective laid out photo after photo of various men.

After nine failed attempts, the 10th photo was him. I immediately felt sick and started crying.

"You have done a brave thing, Allison," the detective said.

I have pressed charges and am working with the Crown attorney so the case can be handled without my having to testify. I want to make sure this man will never sexually assault anyone again.

Dialling 911 was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I did it for those women who were too scared that it was their fault. I wanted to make a difference. And I am.

I did not sit back and let this man control how I am going to live my life. I took a stand and fought back against him and others like him.

Yes, I will be another statistic, but one that will count.

Allison Haley lives in Sydney, N.S.