This Her Story was written with the help of an incredibly strong, close friend of mine based on her real experience right here at UMass. Keep that in mind while reading this, and remember that this is not just the type of thing that you read about. This can happen to any of us. Know your surroundings, use your best judgement, and speak your mind. My friend has chosen not to press charges on her assailant. After much careful thought, and after putting up with my livid rants of the grotesquely painful things I would love to put him through, she decided that she would not ruin the rest of this young man’s life over one mistake, one night of high libido and blurred lines. She has used this as a learning experience and in an odd way is thankful for it. I can’t thank her enough for letting me share this deeply personal story, and I hope my readers find the strength and wisdom in this young woman the way I have.
HCXO,
Katie
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Turning twenty is a huge deal. A whole new decade to look forward to, and a whole new decade to fear.
Think about today. What day is it? In a week, remember this moment and think about how much has changed.
Sometimes I do that. I’ll sit on my bed and think about all everything that I’ve endured along with all the positive things I’ve experienced. Sometimes reflecting on my week makes me happy. Sometimes it makes me sad. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to explode.
Three weeks ago, things were very different. I dressed up in my sparkles and doo-dads and went to my favorite party spot at UMass: a house where I knew a lot of people, a place where I’d been a million times before. I strutted in with high expectations and a cheery attitude, which may have been enhanced by the wine in my hand.
Things were wonderful, but just like that, they soured. It was too good, too wild, too fun to last-I was drunk off my life and feeling cocky. Then alcohol smeared its fingers across his vision like a child finger painting, leaving muddled judgement in its wake. I was swept away by the moment, pushed past the breakers and thrown into the riptide. Scared and confused, I cried and I accepted – I did not fight. Lost in liquor and flopping about, he loved every second if it.
Did my bare skin scream yes when my tightly grimaced lips did not? Did my sheer cockiness come across as consent? Did you feel that because I made it clear that I loved my body, that you could, too?
Was it easy to get off while avoiding the terror behind my tear-swollen eyes?
The anger has since subsided. It’s too easy to blame the alcohol, the person. It’s too easy to label. One deed – one unintentional mistake – should not define you.
It will never be a pleasant memory. I can assure you that.
The fear,
Hopelessness,
Confusion,
Submission.
But time is money, and money is time. And people are people – they’re not perfect, they make mistakes.
He and I both made mistakes that night.
Since then, I’ve been keeping a mental journal. I’ve become desensitized.
“Yo, can I f*ck your girl?”
“You wanna bang my boy?”
“He’s got a cock like a horse.”
“Gimme a kiss.”
NO. No, alright?
Why? Because no, I don’t want to, that’s why.
I don’t need to prove sh*t to you or give you a reason.
To all the girls unsure of how to politely decline advances: think of what a boy would do if he was turning you down, but also remember how you would want to be turned down.
Step away from situations that make you uncomfortable and stand up for yourself.
Boys: evaluate the way you speak and act. How must your words make girls feel about their self-worth? How would you like it if girls treated you this way?
I cried when I needed to, and stopped when I had to. I wouldn’t let this boy ruin me or stop me from having good times in the future.
So the next weekend I returned to that all-too-familiar house.
I saw him. He was caught in my peripheral vision, and suddenly I noticed his figure looming closer and closer.
He was in my face. He extended his big, strong hand. He reached out for a handshake and said “Hi! Nice to meet you, I’m ____, what’s your name?”