It is odd for me to write about my experience, despite trying to tackle it more times than I can count. I was still trying to understand and make sense of my sexuality and gender identity in college, and saw this as a place to become who I truly was. When I came to college I was nervous and insecure and in the process of developing an eating disorder that I wouldn’t recognize until a year later. My first weekend here a guy I had met when I came here for orientation invited me to watch a movie at his house with his roommates. He was a senior and lived off campus. I remember wondering what his roommates were like and if we would be friends. It was so new to me that I could make friends so quickly in college and I was excited and nervous at the same time. We get to his apartment and we are watching the movie. He starts bringing me alcohol. It was my first time trying it and I felt so grown up. He kept handing me drinks and I kept taking them. I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I got up to go to the bathroom and almost fell back down. I had to hold onto something every step I took. I must have had 7 or 8 drinks, and for my first time drinking, it was enough to leave me with the strange feeling that I only had a small part of control over my body. When I got back, he was still sipping on his first drink which was surrounded by the empty bottles that I had. When I sat back down, I closed my eyes and tried not to get sick. He put his hand in my hair and I froze. I still remember the chill it gave me -- i was smart enough to know what was going to happen next. His hand kept touching my body and I remained silent and stiff, focusing on the movie, hoping this would all go away and disappear. I distinctly recall feeling a wave of anger toward myself -- feeling stupid for not knowing better, thinking that I had put myself in this situation -- a thought I would hold onto and tear up my insides for the next year. He kept getting closer to me and I kept still and I said “I don’t know.” He stopped for one second and continued. He said something that I forget, all that mattered was that he had every intention to keep going. Again, I mumbled “I don’t know.” He kept going. I remember that he felt so heavy on top of me and I kept trying to focus on the movie and leave my body and this couch. I felt so tight and nervous, like a corpse and I was being buried under him. I kept waiting until he would be done. For months I was so angry at my stupid self. “I don’t know” That’s all I could say? I felt so fucking dumb. I should have just said no. Better yet, I should have known; I should have pulled it together and pushed him off and ran out, but I didn’t. I waited. I waited until he would take me home and I could sleep. He was my first kiss, my first date, my first anything. I felt so passive, but angry -- angry at myself for the longest time. I remember thinking that it was normal and that sex was supposed to make you feel guilty and sad and make you cry. I thought that was normal. For a year I felt bad about myself and who I was. I felt like I had given away a part of my soul. It never occurred to me that maybe it was taken. Sometimes when his face would pop into my head I would have to run to the bathroom and would stay in there for twenty minutes crying, or kneeling over the toilet heaving. It felt like my body was trying to force something out and never could. Whenever I was alone I would scream. At myself, at him, at God, anyone. I would would lock myself in the bathroom when my roommates were gone and let out all the tears, sometimes just laying on the floor because standing was too much. Some days living feels like too much. I’m not here to tell you that I am better, or that recognizing it for what it was has completely healed me. Sometimes I think I am a monster -- for all the hate and anger I hold in my heart, for the pain I want him to feel. It does scary things to you and makes you different, but there is healing, and I am healing. I am not better, but I am getting there.