This article has been published anonymously to protect the privacy of the author.
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If you met me 16 months ago, you wouldn’t recognize me now. Bright-eyed, with a laugh that bounced off of all the walls—I was bold, daring, and absolutely fearless.
But then I became a victim.
I never know how to begin the story. I never know how to bring it up or tell a friend about what has happened, what I am going through, and will continue to go through. I do not know how to tell this story. Is there a right place to start, a wrong one? This story may be uncomfortable to read, as it was uncomfortable to both write and experience. This is the story of something very terrible that happened to me. This is the story of something I hope never happens to you.
This is the story of a victim that will one day become a survivor.
Talking about my assault is the last thing I ever want to discuss, and yet, at the same time, it is all I want to talk about. Day and night, my mind has become a broken record, always replaying some part of the story. I don’t like talking about my assault because I have to remember what happened, what he did to me, and what he continued to do after I tried to stop him. I say I “have” to remember, as if I will ever forget what has happened to me and scarred my body. As if the pain were not a reminder enough.
I met him in my FIG class. I never thought anything of him—he was loud, obnoxious, but very funny. I hadn’t even known his name until I had to look it up for the Title IX report. Looking back, I have very few memories of him. I remember he once held a door open for me, and recognized me while I was walking through the quad. I remember he registered for a class I told him about. But now, all I remember is that he chose to hurt me in a very intense and scarring way.
It happened to me on a Friday. I remember because they told me I wouldn’t be able to report until the weekend was over. The first person I told was my friend Sara*. I remember my fingers shaking as I typed a text out to her. It didn’t feel real. This didn’t really happen to me. This type of thing does not happen to people like me. I come from a family with a loving mother and father, and two wonderful sisters. I graduated as valedictorian of my high school, I was on my building’s hall council and involved in multiple clubs on campus. I was religious. I was careful. I listened to and became everything my parents told me to be, and did all they said that would keep me safe. On the night of the assault, I wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t wearing something provocative. I defy what is traditionally expected of a victim, and the circumstances differ from what is thought to be where an assault would occur, and yet, it still happened.
I was still sexually assaulted.
I tried to stop it, but I was still sexually assaulted.
I tried to fight back, but I was still sexually assaulted.
I even tried to enjoy it, but I was still sexually assaulted.
This type of “thing” doesn’t happen to people like me, until it does.
I don’t want to write about what happened because it is too difficult for me, although I realize that this may discredit my story and without knowing the facts of what happened, it can be difficult to understand the depth of the issue. But mostly, I don’t want to write about the details of the assault because it is not what I think is important. What I think is important is that this boy decided his erection was a higher priority than my worth. What I think is important is that I was violated—I had boundaries and trusted this boy to respect them, but he still chose to ignore my every attempt at saying “no, this is not okay.” It was not consensual, and it was not right. It was traumatic, terrifying, and life-changing. What I think is important is this boy chose to assault me, and that I did not choose for this to happen to me.
I don’t want to write about what happened because the details are useless. What matters is that it happened.
Nothing has been the same since. Every part of my body, my soul, my life has been profoundly affected by what happened to me. I hate wearing leggings now. I hate being in a room with any man, friend or not, alone. I cannot shower without music playing, and I cannot bring myself to walk a day on campus without searching for his face in every single passing crowd. I cannot forget what has happened, no matter how hard I try, and I cannot remember how to be the person I was before, no matter how long I search the deepest parts of me. I will never be the same person I was before this happened.
In the aftermath of the assault, I began to see a therapist. Once a week, twice a week, then three times a week including a group therapy session. I had to find a way to survive—I had to make it through not even the next week or day, but the next hour. I didn’t know how to survive. At times, I am still unsure on how to move forward. I suffered through a depression so isolating, even my body didn’t feel like a home. Anxiety attacks fell into sync with my everyday routine. PTSD loomed over my head with months of endless reoccurring nightmares, vivid flashbacks, and a consuming sense of shame. I lost all my patience, I couldn’t trust myself with any mundane decisions, or forgive other people for the smallest slip-ups anymore. I later learned that this stage of healing is called the “suffering stage”, which happens to be a very fitting name. Every moment of my life felt as if I was drowning but somehow, it was happening on solid ground, and the suffering felt completely unbearable. I didn’t want to kill myself though because then people would know what had happened to me and I didn’t want anybody to know. I didn’t want to be labeled as a victim, my identity lost within the swarm of other countless names lost to assault. I didn’t want to be defined by what had happened to me either, the incident brought up alongside my name in conversation. I wanted to be known as intelligent, kind, loving, and funny; I wanted to be known as informed, deep, and bright. I want to be known for so much more than what has happened to me, because I am so much more than what that boy decided to do to me on that Friday night.
I am writing about what has happened to me for two reasons.
The first is that I do not want to be chained to this story anymore. I don’t want to feel scared to tell this story, in the same way it was scary to experience. What happened to me wasn’t my fault; my heart wasn’t ripped apart seam by seam because I invited trouble or because I deserved to be sexually assaulted. This happened because of him. I am writing this because something very terrible has happened to me, but I will not remain silent, the same way that he made me feel during the assault. I had the expectation that this would never happen to me, and that is not a wrong assumption on mine, or any other person’s part. I was not wrong in assuming that I would never be sexually assaulted. That is a valid and real assumption: that we should all have our boundaries respected and that there truly is no gray area in consent. No means no. Silence means no. A nervous laugh means no. There is no area for contestation. There’s no gray area. There are no excuses. I am writing this because what happened to me was not okay.
I’m also writing this because the way the Title IX office handled my case was also not okay. Although my perpetrator was found guilty, the lawyer dealing with my case decided not to do a report that would have punished him, but instead put him on probation through a legal settlement. This settlement took away all of my rights, particularly my right to appeal and my voice in my own case. I was no longer allowed to say that I felt he should be expelled or suspended at the very least. I wasn’t able to have any say in what happened with MY case anymore, as if it hadn’t even happened to me! To have endured something so traumatizing and terrifying, and then to share that vulnerability with authorities just to have it thrown back in my face was worse than the assault itself. All of the validation I had previously felt was swiped from under me, and was instead replaced with harsh situational realities that paralleled what I experienced emotionally during the assault. I lost control of the value of my voice, just as I experienced during my assault. I was in a suddenly powerless position, just as I experienced during my assault. My worth, my struggle, my value as a human being was diminished yet again and he was seen as the superior, just as was present during the assault. My experience as a victim was completely invalidated, devalued, and dismissed. To this day, and likely forever, I will be upset about the Title IX’s office decision to keep my attacker on campus, forcing me to share a space—in which I am meant to feel safe and comfortable—with him. I am writing this because if I cannot have a voice in telling them that this was not right, then at least I will tell the rest of the world.
Now, there are two types of days.
There are days when I am a direct by-product of what happened to me. I am angry, broken beyond repair, and absolutely awful to deal with. I am resentful to everyone I love most, and practically self-destructive. I am stuck in a cycle of blaming myself: I tell myself that if my boundaries were not worth respecting, then I must not be worth loving. I am not worth hanging out with, not worth feeding, not worth taking care of. I begin to spiral. Is it possible to heal from trauma? Do I want to continue living a life where this has happened to me? Is life after sexual assault a life worth living? On these days, I am worse to myself than the demons that live inside of the damn boy that hurt me.
But there are other days too. There are days where I feel complete again. There are days when I can see a glimpse of the fire that use to reside in my eyes. It’s just a spark, but it’s more than enough. These days, I can separate what happened to me from me. I tell myself, “you were someone before this happened, and parts of that person still exist within you.” I tell myself that I can build myself back up, and that even though the pieces don’t fit like they use to, that they can become a mosaic and that in time, everything will fit as it should—in a new and compelling way. I am still broken, but not in the way that I used to be. I can take Ubers on my own again. I’m back to doing art. I once even stayed sitting in a café, even though he sat only a few tables away. 8 months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. I have grown “stronger than I am broken.” I have learned that it wasn’t my fault, and that my story does not stop with this event. I am so much more than this.
Those are my favorite days.
“Some days I go to bed a ‘survivor’ and wake up a ‘victim’; some days I go to bed a ‘victim’, and wake up a ‘survivor’.” —Kamilah Willingham
*Names have been changed.