Welcome to the SpeakOut! Blog

Break the silence that surrounds sexual assault, sexual harassment, interpersonal violence, relationship abuse, stalking, hate crimes, and identity-based violence. Share your story here on our anonymous blog.

To speak about an experience with any form of interpersonal violence is difficult, but it is also empowering. Breaking the silence reduces shame and helps others to speak out about their own experiences.

End the shame. Be empowered. Speak Out!

Thank you for Speaking Out! We would love to get your permission to share your testimonial. If you would like to allow your testimonial to be used at a later Speak Out!, please let us know by making a comment or a note in your testimonial.

We are holding our first fall Speak Out! in October 26th, 2017 from 7-9 pm in The Pit. For more information, check our Facebook page.

Because this blog features stories of interpersonal and sexual violence, we offer this *content warning* as a way of caution. We also ask that you do not reproduce any of the content below, as the authors of these personal stories are anonymous, and cannot give consent for their stories to appear anywhere other than this blog or at a Project Dinah-led SpeakOut event.

Monday, November 9, 2015

I was at a party, a small house party at my best friend's house. This friend's boyfriend invited some dudes who showed up, strangers who refused to leave when asked. I was standing alone when he caught my eye, as he talked with his friend, winking, pointing, making it obvious that I was the object of their discussion. He walked over. He handed me a drink that tasted strong, but I was already drunk enough to not care. The night blurred on with more drinks, smooth talking, a laugh, more shots, a touch. He led me to a bedroom, or so I'm told. I don't remember entering that room. I don't remember him locking the door. I don't remember my friends knocking, demanding that he open up. I don't remember telling him it was okay to do with my body what he pleased. I do remember waking up naked next to him whose name I did not know. The soreness and the blood in my underwear told me what my memory couldn't. My friends say it wasn't rape, but the absolute disgust I feel when I imagine what he did says it was. My sister told me it wasn't rape, but the ten pregnancy tests I took out of anxiety, the constant nausea that didn't leave for six months, and the feeling of absolute worthlessness that still threatens to make an appearance tell a different story. Society says it wasn't rape, but the fact that I had to ask my friend to change his fucking cologne because I felt on the verge of a panic attack every time I smelled it, because it was the one my rapist wore, says it was. I'm tired of pretending it didn't happen. I'm tired of accepting the blame. He raped me. 

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