I’ve been through so much worse that I don’t feel justified in sharing this story. It pales in comparison to the assault my first-year and the stalking and assaults that happened the year after that, but no matter how hard I try, I’m going to have to let the pain in. All I’ve felt these past months is empty. 

He was charming, and he cared about feminism. He was a graduate student, so I trusted him. I’m not sure quite why, but he didn’t seem threatening to me. I ~thought~ that he was different.

So when I texted him to meet me on my birthday, I didn’t think that it was going to be much harm. I just wanted to see him and spend some time with the people I liked. He was completely sober, but I was close to black-out drunk. He left his apartment to see me, even though I was clearly not in a state to be interacting with him. I know that a good person would have taken me home or not came. I technically know that it’s a big deal that he took advantage of my weakened state, seized the opportunity, but I cant shake the feeling that all of this would have been so different if I never sent that stupid text. I “know” it’s not my fault, that he should have known better, but I can’t help feeling that I could have prevented him from hurting me. How dare I let myself think I could trust someone?

I remember sitting in TOPO, and I remember walking to his car, because it was “right there.” I don’t remember saying I wanted to go to his place. I felt sick, but he was so strong, you know, and supported me to his car. We go to his place, and I’m taken to his room. I’m not sure how I got to the bed, but at some point my dress is off. I remember flashes of him holding my arms down. I try to break free, but he just holds me down harder. He gets off on it. I’m turned face down, and he’s on top of me. I can’t breathe, but I hear his panting on my ear like a fucking dog. He touches me everywhere with his, his fingers. I ask him what he’s doing, but he just responds by saying, "pleasuring you." It’s sick. My body responds, but I don’t want it to. At some point I fall asleep, but I don’t know how or when. I’m gone.

I woke up, and I didn’t know where I was. Naked and confused, I found his arms around me and his dick between my legs. I took a minute to process, but I got good at shoving it down. The room got blurry and I rushed to find my clothes. I felt so ashamed. As he offered to drive me home, I saw the word “feminism” on a book on his desk. I wanted to throw up on it, but I just tried to ignore it so I could get home. He noticed that I started crying and tried to reassure himself. "You wanted this, right?” What a joke. 

When I am finally back at my apartment, I spent 2 hours in the shower. I felt the unexplained bruises he left me with — the ones left while I was asleep. A week later, I can still feel the bruises on my thighs, near my vagina. I keep getting this weird watery discharge and pain near my vagina, but I know he didn’t penetrate me when I was awake. I didn’t get my period for more than 2 months after the incident, but the 3rd month I can finally get some solace knowing that I’m not pregnant. 

To this day, I still hate the fact that I don’t know what he did to me while I was sleeping. What made him think that he was entitled to my body? He should have known better.