In September of my first year at an all women’s college, I was assaulted by another member of my college. I remember feeling so confused and empty, almost in a state of shock. I had been experimenting with my sexuality, and even though I wanted to speak out, saying, “I was assaulted by another woman,” just didn’t sit well with me.
I was well aware of the stigma around sexual assault on college campuses. I had taken a class on consent coming in, and I had heard all of the statistics: one in five, one in five was repeated to us. Yet I’d never thought that I would be part of the “one.” I knew how difficult colleges were because they wanted to uphold their public image. However, at a college that prides themselves on being there for women, I thought, “There’s no way they won’t take this seriously, they have to believe me,” and for that reason, I chose to come forward.
Trying to keep my myself together in both my school work and my personal life was no easy feat. On a typical week, I had multiple meetings with the school administration, and I also had exams to worry about. With a science heavy course load with multiple labs a week and also being a varsity athlete, I found it was hard enough to keep myself in high academic standard without worrying about case hearings.
I’ve never been a crier, and yet this year I cried more times than I can count. Some days I cried over failed assignments or tests to study for; some days I cried over spilt water or dropped cake. Some nights all I could do was silently cry myself to sleep and pray that tomorrow would be better. Nightmares, flashbacks and constant anxiety were things I now had to deal with, along with being a typical college student. I didn’t know the word hyper-vigilance at the time, but the word now has a profound meaning in my life. Everywhere I went on campus, I was watching my back. Whether that be crowded places, dining halls, or the student center, I would always have my back to a wall. Despite good friends constantly by my side with the comforting words like, “As long as I am here I will never let her hurt you,” I couldn’t even walk at night alone anymore.
Time continued to pass with the not so reassuring words, “Just a few more weeks.” As February turned into March and March turned April, everything was starting to be held together by threads. My grades were unraveling, my athletic career was falling apart and I was struggling just to keep my room clean and shower. I quit the team I was on high standing in, I had a reduced course-load and I had to pick up a tutor to stay on top of my work. My first year of college was crumbling around me and there was nobody to pick up the pieces.
In the middle of April, I finally received my letter of decision. After months of hearings and meetings, going over detail after detail of my story, and finally a whole lot of waiting, it was here, sitting in my inbox of my email. I have never been more scared in my life. I waited until the end of the academic day to open it. Sitting in a dorm room surrounded by four of my closest friends, I opened it.
I knew that there were multiple possible outcomes I could receive. I was prepared, or so I thought. I kept telling myself that there was a chance they would say there wasn’t enough evidence, and yet I never expected them to say they believe me and yet they weren’t going to do anything about it. When I met with the administration after the weekend, they told me she had received a few disciplinary sanctions, one of them being, “social probation.” Basically, if something similar happened again, she could be expelled.
In the midst of studying for final exams, I wrote an appeal letter to the president of the college. I sat down with a friend who had gone through a similar experience, and together we searched through law books and anything related to Title IX. After a few days, I had written a fourteen-page appeal letter with citations and footnotes. On the night of my final exam, I unexpectedly got an email back. My appeal was rejected.
I’m home for the summer now, and while that’s amazing and relaxing, I will eventually have to come to terms with the fact that when I come back to campus in the fall, she will also be there. There is nothing that terrifies me more, but I’m learning to accept it.
National Denim Day is a day dedicated to raising awareness for survivors of sexual assault. I had all my friends wear denim that day, and it was the first day that I truly felt empowered. I’m a survivor, not a victim, and that makes a world of difference. On that day, I wore my favorite shirt, and the slogan on the back has now become my personal motto for getting through this. No matter what happens, I know that “Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.”