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Spring 18 2

I was at a party, a year ago. I was enjoying myself, got a little too drunk, and decided I was done being the one left out all the time. Younger than everyone, never kissed a boy, never had any luck with finding boys, I decided enough was enough. When a boy asked me to dance, I said yes. We kissed, and while it wasn't great, I for whatever reason felt empowered and decided I could do anything. I had no need to be the shy, quiet, "prudish" girl. I was feeling myself and when that boy had to leave, I was open to anything. Another one came up not too much later (likely because he saw how easy things were with the other guy) and asked if we could talk outside. I naturally said yes, because with too much to drink and it being hot in the house, who wouldn't say yes? He complimented me, told me how hot I was, and really made me feel special. We started dancing and things got intense, very, very fast. He pushed me up against a way, pinned my hands up with his body so I couldn't move. With his hand he started rubbing up against me, feeling me up. He slid his hands down, farther than just my hips. In this moment I instantly sobered up. I didn't want this. A red alert went off in my head. I wanted it to stop. A friend made eye contact with me and got me out of the situation. The next day when I remembered what happened, I started shaking. Too much, too fast. I stupidly gave him my number before everything started and had to deal with him texting me. I always felt like he could find me. My paranoia grew as I discovered he was in my recitation. Week after week I had to sit with him, knowing he would text me and invite me to parties where I would be handcuffed to him with a bottle of liquor, forced to get drunk with him able to do whatever he wanted to me. I was such an easy target. I was too trusting. I know it's not my fault but I never said no. I regret so much. To this day I'm still scared he'll somehow find me, and continue what he started. Day by day I'm growing stronger. No person should ever have to be scared of being targeted by a predator, forced to see them on campus. Enough is enough.

April 4, 2018 at 2:02 PM

Spring '18 1

There are the monsters, the serial rapists, and those that see us just as walking targets for their sexual domination. Like the 45th president, Donald Trump. Or Harvey Weinstein. Or the relatives who sexually abuse their younger family members.


There are those "one-timers" who somehow think they're less bad.... and sometimes I wonder if they are? These people who just do it once or twice or blame it on blurred lines or alcohol. These people who think pushing just a little harder or trying to convince someone from a no to a yes is okay. Like Aziz Ansari or my high school boyfriend.

And there are people who, maybe they never made someone do anything they didn't want, or maybe they even consider themselves to be against interpersonal violence. But yet they laugh at rape jokes, they support environments where sexual assault is more likely to happen, they don't stop or fight against people they see taking someone way too drunk home or letting their friends think rape culture isn't a problem. Like men in fraternities and the ones who chant "no means yes and yes means anal". And the guys who laugh at those chants. The people who excused the president when he said he grabs women by the pussy and everyone who voted for him. The victim blamers and the people who call women sluts or whores. The people who think a dress or some high heels cause rape. The people who think that alcohol causes rape. People who are not active bystanders and allies to dismantling rape culture and advocating for survivors.

A reminder to those people: complicity is violence.
Rape is violence.
Hostility towards women is violence.
This culture is violence.
 You are part of the violence if you are not doing everything in your power to stop the violence.

End the violence.

If you've been to a previous Speak Out, you've heard my story before. You have heard about the years I spent in an abusive relationship where I was stalked, beaten, raped, and threatened. I survived that. I made it through. But I did not realize I would have to survive it all over again. When I came to college, I was coming from a strict and conservative family. One of the first things I did was download Tinder and decide to finally explore my sexuality and casually date. For the most part, it was a lot of fun. I was happy to meet people and it was fun to try new things out. Except for one time. He was a senior, maybe a junior? Regardless, an upperclassman. I'm sure he knew what he was doing going after first-years who just got to campus - and not that I was innocent or virginal or any other thing like that - and not that that matters. But I know he knew he was the cool, experienced older guy who could get me drinks and I could come chill at his apartment. He was (or is? I honestly don't know if he's graduated or not) in some improv comedy group on campus. He had a lame sense of humor that honestly grated my nerves. The type of guy who thought the height of comedy was puns. He insulted my knowledge of comedy and said my favorite stand-up comedians were bad...all the while his greatest jokes were those play on words. He was not my type. But I was trying new things? Maybe I was trying to find a new "type" because the last guy was such a shitty type. That aside, I still decided to go over to his apartment in Courtyard Lofts where he mentioned it was expensive but he can afford it, and he's smart because he's out of state. He was not hesitant to compliment himself. I felt in over my head as soon as I walked in the door. There was a giant bong on the coffee table and empty beer cans all over the floor. I had never even been drunk before but he poured me a too-strong Jack and Coke. We decided to watch a movie...so netflix and chill...but I had actually wanted to watch the movie. Instead, about five minutes in, he tries to roll on top of me and kiss me. Well kissing is fine. I like kissing. But in the middle of it, I felt his hand on my head and him pushing me down. I looked up, trying to give the signal that no, I don't want this, but he smirked and pushed a little harder. "I'm not really feeling that. Sorry" I said and tried to get up. He thought he could talk me into it and even paused the movie to have a conversation about why I should suck his dick. I basically just gave in after about a half an hour into his sales pitch for a blowjob. It was disgusting. I felt like I was going to throw up and it tasted like bad cheese. Yeah, I'm not gonna spare that detail because it was honestly one of the grossest experiences in my life. He held my head down until he finished. Then he graciously walked me to the bus stop. I haven't shared this story before because I had refused to acknowledge I have been assaulted twice. But I have. I am a double survivor but that's a trophy-less feat. Unless you count the shame, the nightmares, the anxiety, and the distrust I have felt by those two assaults. Anyways, I just want to say: Cheese Dick, you don't get to talk people in to sex. You don't get to push someone's head down and force them to do what you want. You don't get to manipulate people and you certainly don't get to assault people.

I’m sorry I didn’t shave. 
I’m sorry my boobs aren’t bigger. 
I slur words out and you slide your hand. Down my pants. Up my shirt. 
Simultaneously apologizing for being too much woman and not enough. 
I’ve forgotten how to do so much in this moment. 
The fireball burned ability out of me. 
I forgot how to hold my head up. 
I forgot how to keep my eyes open. 
I forgot how to say no. 
I forgot to say no. 
I forgot. 

I’m sorry I threw up again. 
I’m sorry you have to take care of me. 
I apologize for the inconvenience I cause while your hands slowly stroke away my autonomy. 
I forgot to tell you I didn’t want you inside of me. 
I forgot to tell you that, yes, that included your fingers. 
I forgot to tell you that, no, just one was not okay. 
I forgot to tell you that this was assault. 
I forgot to tell you that this would haunt me. 
I forgot. 

The fireball made me forget then. 
Now, it makes me remember.

I wonder if you know you assaulted me. 
I bet you don’t. 
I didn’t, not for a long time. 

A bad drunken hook up. 
The beginning of my slutty year. 
A right of passage. 
Sexual liberation. 
Freedom. 

The brain is a funny thing. 
It can take something and turn it into nothing. 
It can turn trauma into beginnings. 
Terrible into liberation. 
Force into choice. 

I took my newfound freedom to be a slut and used it to burry you. 
I buried your memory in a sea of drunken hook ups. 
I tried to find power in being desired, just like you had desired me. 
I tried to find joy in my choice, just like I chose that night. 

I chose to hold a handle of Fireball to my lips, until it burned my consciousness away. 
I chose to stumble my way into your waiting arms, ready to guide me to bed. 
I chose to lie on my side, just so the fire I kept breathing wouldn’t burn the breath out of me. 
I chose to stay still while your hands claimed what wasn’t theirs. 
I chose this. 

It took me years to learn that I didn’t chose. 
I wasn’t liberated. 
I wasn’t free. 
I was assaulted. 
You assaulted me. 
I wonder if you know. 

How can you share a story that is so long, so powerful it has engulfed your entire existence since the day it happened? At age 14, I thought I was in love. It started by my incredibly naive, innocent, freshmen-self kissing an older, attractive junior boy. It was perfect... until it wasn't.
I was pressured every time we were together. "Please, baby, suck me off. I know you don't want to have sex, but oral is different." "No." was my response. And "no" stuck, at least for a few months. When we were together, he twisted my words and spit them out again. Months later, I was finally convinced it was nothing. 
Next was the pressure to have sex. We went back and forth in arguments. I was 14. I didn't even know how to give a blow job until he made me. Sex was a word so far off in my own dictionary, but I knew the more I fought, the more he was fueled. I felt less every day. I was ice. He was fire. 
One day, it wasn't about me giving in anymore. It was about me being a body he could fuck. It was about us making plans to see each other, but if sex wasn't involved, then he wouldn't come. Sex was all he cared about. I resisted, but when I did, the violence started. 
I remember the day I ignited a bomb inside of him. 
"Quit, E, you're hurting me." 
"No, you like it." 
"No, I don't. I want you to stop. If you aren't stopping, then you are RAPING ME. This is rape." 
"Okay, fine. I am raping my girlfriend. I can't rape my own girlfriend, bitch. Get the fuck out of here."
At 14 years old, I went from complete innocence to not even considering myself a real person anymore. I felt like I was alive to be fucked. Wow, this is what love is, I thought. It isn't that great after all. 
I felt nothing. I retracted away from the world. WHY WON'T ANYONE HELP ME? I was screaming for help and no one was there. It got worse. He isolated me. My friends were now my enemies. I had no one to turn to. My parents were oblivious, they just thought I was rebelling. I stopped eating. I stopped caring. I stopped living. 
I am an independent person, even in that relationship. I became numb, raw, broken, but that never meant I stopped fighting. I would fight for the right to have my clothes on, but he always won. He grabbed me and squeezed. He made sure I knew he was in control. 
I remember getting out of the shower and looking into the mirror. My breasts, my hips, my stomach--they were all camouflaged by colors of black, blue, green, and purple bruises. Some were fresh and some were old. This was my reality. I told myself, "Break up with him. This isn't how it's supposed to be." Of course that wasn't the first time I had wanted to, but I was terrified. He could do anything. But in that moment, I knew I was about to take my life back. 
Leaving him was hard because he wouldn't leave me. He would cuss me out in the school hallways, yell at others and told them I was a whore. I believed him. I was his whore. I was guilty. It was my fault. He sent me pictures of him cutting himself. He threatened to take his own life if I didn't get back together with him. But I was done. I told authorities and I told my parents. That was the one puzzle piece I gave them. I held so much anger against so many people because no one knew. No one saw my bruises. No one noticed I wasn't eating. No one noticed I felt dead inside. No one came to my rescue. I was in a war all alone and still no one to this day knows what I went through, not until all of you. 
So, I grew up too fast and I still don't know what love is because I am too afraid to fall in love again. But you wanna know something really cool? I survived. I didn't let him win. Do I feel my chest tighten if someone is wearing the same cologne as he did? Yes. Do I shrink in fear when I see him? Yes. Did I cry the day he told me he was moving to Raleigh to be closer to me? I cried. 
At graduation, I stood before my high school class and the majority of my town and you know the first person I saw in the crowd? Him. But I didn't panic and I didn't shrink. I looked him straight in the eye and I knew I was finally getting my life back. There will always be days, but he won't be in anymore of mine. He took a lot of things away from me, but here I am today. I survived. I promise you, you are strong. You will survive too.

Everyone says that i should feel lucky. Everyone says call yourself a survivor because that is what you are. Everyone says don't worry one day you wont even think about it anymore. Everyone says you can get through this you are strong. Well they are wrong. They don't know what this feels like. No matter how many times i try to explain. They don't flinch when a man they don't know really well touches them. They don't get paranoid whenever a man is near them on the bus or at the grocery store. They are not afraid of having sex with someone. That's because i have gone through something they haven't. I was raped twice when i was 17 years old. I don't remember much about the timing. Things are blurry and foggy. I suppressed the memory for so long that i forgot details. I do remember how i felt. What he did. And how it effects me now. I remember being at his house because i thought he was a friend. I remember getting bored so we made out for a bit. He said he wanted to take a shower. So he left the room but i wanted more so i followed. When i got in the shower with him that's when things got violent. He took me by the arms and forced me against the wall of the shower. I tried to speak but I couldn't. I tired to say stop i tried to say no. In my head i was thinking what is happening? Then he did something that i will never ever be able to forget. He forced himself inside my butt. He kept going even after i screamed from pain. He didn't stop. So i went limp i let him continue. He took me by my neck and pulled me out of the shower and through me on the floor. Where he continued until he was done. He made things happen that i never knew could happen and i just waited. When he was done he cleaned up the mess on the floor and went back to his room. I put my clothes on and left. I was confused. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I never told anyone what happened on that day until last year. I was scared. I wasn't even sure if it was actually rape considering i followed him into the bathroom and I originally consented. It happened again a few months later with a different man. That too i also kept secret.  I want every woman out there who has been through what i have to know you are not alone. You can get through this. It may take time and it will be hard but you can do it. Don't do what i did. Don't suppress the memory. Don't hide it. Don't take it all on yourself. Find someone you love and trust and they will help guide you. You have the strength 

Me too. 

I haven’t posted that on Facebook yet, but me too. I used to be very open about being a survivor, but now I tend to not disclose. I’m worried now that people see me as the domestic violence girl or the one who’s always harping about consent. I am worried people don’t see me as the girl I was before the assault. I am also worried that I am not the girl I was. I’m now the girl with PTSD, the girl with the “crazy ex”, and the girl who won’t walk home alone at night and always carries her pepper spray. Even though it wasn’t an “attack” or by a stranger. It was a guy I loved, maybe still do love?… I’m now the girl who was in love with a guy who beat me, raped me, stalked me, and tried to kill me. I worry that is who I am when I tell people I am a survivor. I’m worried that is all they will see. Do you see the cool shit I do? Do you see I am funny, smart, and driven? Do you see who I am, beyond what happened to me? I am not what happened to me. I commend the bravery of those that were able to post “me too”. But I don’t want to out myself anymore. I feel like every time I tell someone I’m a survivor it feels like a confession. It feels like I’m admitting to something wrong that I did. It makes me feel dirty. I don’t want to feel like that but I don’t know how to feel. I just don’t want to be the “survivor” anymore, I just really want to be me. 

I was sexually assaulted and impregnated, only to miscarry my twin boys under the stress of persecution by so-called friends, failing my classes and living in a toxic environment - all in my first year and it took until my sophomore year to acknowledge how deeply I had been hurt. I graduate soon, I hope one day to come out but for now, I am more than happy to be healing and surrounded with people who believe my story and support me.

I was raped when I was thirteen years old, by an older teenager. It took me forever to come to terms with the fact that I was raped, as I was confused, and almost romanticized the rape in my own head. Being only thirteen, I thought, maybe that is just what sex is like... he must love me. Despite convincing myself of these things, I knew deep down that what happened was wrong, but I blamed myself. I had an instinct, and I went against it. I still struggle coming to terms with just what happened, being so young and in such a public place. The rape was awful, but the emotional toll was even worse. 
I remember laying, cold on the sidewalk as I gazed up at the stars, having a complete "out of body experience". How long have I been here? How did I get to this point? These were the questions that ran through my head. I still don't remember exact details of the rape itself, as my soul completely left me that night, it was almost like looking down on myself and feeling nothing. I remember hearing him groan and grunt and being so confused as to how something so horrible can happen in a public place such as a sidewalk. Has he done this before? Is he not scared of getting caught? I was in my last year of middle school, and I shouldn't have been "dating" in the first place, but my friends were, and I finally convinced my mom to let me go out on a date. If she knew what had happened, she'd never let me go on a date again, because I know just allowing me to go was against my mother's own instincts. However, I went with a few friends, as it should've been a group date however the group quickly split up, leaving me with a guy I had been set up with but hardly knew. Still, being only 13, I felt flattered that he'd even want to stay since he was a senior in high school. 
Quickly, everything changed. He didn't want to do, "date stuff" it seemed. No movie, no bookstore, no stores. He wanted to walk around outside, but I remember thinking it was a pretty night, so why not. But that should've been my first clue. Next, he didn't want to walk, he wanted to sit, but not at the tables near the rest of the world, alone on this sidewalk, beside this closed building. He complained his knee hurt, and needed to sit right there. I felt the need to accommodate and went against my instincts doing so, so I sat, but I did not stand up as the same girl. I don't remember what happened next sequentially, I just remember him on top of me, his hands in my pants, and him ripping my jeans off. Why didn't I scream? Say something? Did I say anything? I was frozen. I no longer felt what was happening... instead I saw stars, heard crickets, but felt nothing. 
When he was done I assume, he got off of me, and I was bleeding pretty bad. He blamed it on the fact I was a virgin and that's why he usually doesn't go on dates with virgins. But he grabbed my hand and stood me up, put his arm around me, and walked me to the meet up location where the rest of my friends were waiting. What had just happened? He is acting like it is so normal? Is this normal?
After that date, he made it clear he didn't want a relationship, but I was confused and tried to get him to stay interested in me because I didn't want to come to terms with what actually happened. I wanted him to say he loved me and he was so attracted to me he couldn't resist. But none of that happened. He got what he want, and then he went on to ignore me. I have carried the guilt around for years, for not reporting him, as it was obvious he had done this before. But I was scared. I kept silent for 5 more years, until I went to get an IUD and found out I had an STD and therefore couldn't get one until it was treated. Why would I have an STD... but I'd never even had sex or been in a realtionship, how is that possible? Then I realized... he took something, and gave something.

Its been just over 8 years now. 8 years ago I was out with my friends, at one of the first weekends back from Christmas break. I was the designated driver for the night out. We were at house party, dancing and having fun. Then there was a boy...I was single. I figured we could dance, have fun and kick start the start of a new semester. He started to kiss me and told me I was beautiful. He was drunk and I was uncomfortable. The house was crowded, and it was stuffy inside so I decided to go outside to get some air. He wasn't far behind me. This wasn't going to be anything, it wasn't going to happen to me. I was strong, I could get away. But I couldn't, and it did.

He pushed me off the porch, and around to the side of the house. He pinned me against the side of the house and he started to touch me, putting his hand down my pants. I still thought, no way is this happening. I said I don't want to have sex. I remember saying that. I remember asking him to stop. He just pushed me harder against the house, and it was so cold. I didn't scream. I didn't yell. Maybe I couldn't, I don't know. I felt his belt scratching into my hip and for whatever reason I remember that hurting the most. Maybe its because I see those scars every day. Who knows. He left me there, cold and alone, on the side of the house, in the cold. I still don't have the courage to call it what it was, but I know better. 

I went back inside the house, got my coat and the keys to my friends car. I drove my friends back home, and I said nothing. I showered that night and said nothing. I didn't get out of bed the next day, but still I said nothing. I've let a handful of people in, to know a part of my story. But still lack the courage to call it what it was. It haunts me this time every year, where I feel small and betrayed by my own body and mental strength that I thought I had. Of the people who know, its not that they don't care, they just don't know what to say. Im surrounded by so many women who have the courage to speak up for themselves, and to share their story without shame, and I can't understand why I can't.

A year ago I sat in the pit while I heard my testimony read back to me. I remember tears streaming down my face, but feeling supported by all the souls that sat around me. Now I sit here and I write this brief post just to say it does get better. It doesn't get easier, it still hurts like hell every day, but you get stronger. I remember sitting there and hearing almost this same story, that a lot can change in a year and it gets better and blah blah blah. I remember wishing so desperately that it was true, but not thinking there was any way out of the darkness that surrounded me and yet here we are. I walked out of a bar midsentence the other night ago when a certain Robin Thicke song came on. The man I've been dating followed me out and wrapped his arms around me and didn't say a word. I didn't have to explain or justify, he just sat there and shared in my pain. A year ago I couldn't even think about touching another human being, that then turned into hypersexuality and sleeping with anyone I could get my hands on, and now we're here and I'm in love with a partner that I could have never seen coming. Life is weird and uncomfortable but I would't be where I am today if I hadn't taken those small steps forward because of Speak Out. I guess what I'm trying to say is confront that pain, however you need to do it. Confront the trauma and the pain and the disgust and all of the negative feelings that come along with being a survivor. It doesn't have to be in huge ways, it can be as simple as making yourself that meal or looking at yourself in the mirror. It's worth it. Taking two painful steps forward and about 15 steps back is worth it, just keep moving. Just keep holding on to that tiny little minuscule sliver of hope that it will get better and one day the dark won't seem as dark.

I lost nearly a year and a half of my life to domestic violence. I can't talk too much about that time yet. I'm not ready, and I don't know that I ever will be. And that's really okay with me- forgetting is welcome. What I can talk about is my survival story. After the violence started, I tried to breakup with him about once a week but it just never seemed to be possible. There was sobbing and begging, insistences that "I'll do better" and "I'm trying my best." If I didn't respond to that manipulation, there was begging me to just have "one last dinner" or "one last movie" and by the end of that dinner or movie I was back with him. It may seem incomprehensible that this mess kept me so long, but I cannot describe how hard it is to leave someone you love, someone who is in genuine pain, someone who blames you for their pain and after that propaganda you believe it. 

After months of trying and failing to leave, and a particularly violent assault, and the realization that I no longer loved him, I broke up with him in the only safe way I could- via text message. And I was free. For a whole week, and the best week in my memory, I was free. Until he begged me to come over, telling me he was really worried about me and wanted to make sure I was doing okay. It was bullshit, and when I came over, he raped me. I didn't try to leave again. Instead, I convinced myself that there was nothing wrong and I was safe and this was only helped by his "honeymoon period"- being a sweet and doting partner so I wouldn't leave again. 

I didn't leave again for 7 months. And when I did, I left for good. That was three beautiful months ago and I haven't seen him in two and a half. The last time I saw him, to drop off his stuff, he raped me for the last time. That entire night seemed like a collage of painful scenes, the details and transitions I cannot remember- begging him to stop, passing out, coming conscious, stumbling out the front door with him yelling at me to come back, falling into my car and driving until I felt safe. I remember sitting on the side of the road, sick to my stomach on the side of MLK, and crawling into my bed. I was in pain, confused, but also knew that I was done. It was over. 

That part of my story is pain, suffering, and over. "Everything happens for a reason" is complete bullshit and I would love nothing more than to erase that part of my life. But feeling even slight happiness after a year and a half of immense suffering is the most cathartic, gleeful joy that I have ever felt. The closest way I can describe the last three months of my life is as I've been drowning as long as I can remember, and now I can put my head above water and breathe.

In May of my senior year of high school, I was sexually assaulted by someone who I had considered to be a friend. We were at a party; and I was intoxicated and passed out on a bed when he came into the room. I remember being so confused when he began to finger me and feel me up; I was still half asleep and so drunk that I couldn’t move. I kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to, I’m sorry, I really can’t do this.” He didn’t stop. 

It took me a long time to come to terms with what had happened to me. It wasn’t until last winter that I was even able to call it sexual assault. Even now, it feels as though my story is somehow invalid, like I don’t have the right to tell it, because it could have been so much worse. I know abstractly that you can’t compare or quantify suffering, but somehow I still feel selfish for thinking my story is important enough to share.

My attacker goes to school here. I see him all the time. Many of my friends from high school are still friendly with him, even though they know what he did to me. I have had friends question the validity of my sexual assault and the ways in which I’ve dealt with it; who have put my experience up as a topic for abstract intellectual discussion, who have told me to “look at it from a rational perspective.” The trauma of peoples’ responses to my sexual assault was, for me, worse than the trauma of the sexual assault itself.

I struggle to feel empowered in the wake of my sexual assault. A few weeks ago, I went to the Title 9 office to ask about my options. I was told that if I outed him on yikyak or posted flyers, I could go to honor court for harassment or slander. The woman I talked to said that she hoped I could get to the point where I could pass my attacker in the street and not feel anything. To me, this is not what justice or healing looks like. I don’t want to pass him in the street and feel nothing — I don’t want to pass him in the street at all. I wish that I trusted my school to make that happen for me. I wish I had faith that if I took him to trial, I would be believed and supported by my school. But I don’t. So while my attacker moves easily through the world, I hide my panic attacks during my French class because sometimes I run into him as I’m walking into the building, and I am terrified of telling new friends about what happened to me, because I don’t know if I can handle yet another person telling me that I am wrong in how I feel.

More than anything, I want my attacker—and my friends who questioned my story-- to have some idea of what it was like to be me while he was assaulting me, what it’s like to be me now. Of course, they will never understand unless someone does to them what my attacker did to me, and I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. But I wonder: did he feel sexy and attractive when he assaulted me and I couldn’t move? Did he feel powerful when he said hi to me in the dining hall, and I was so scared that I couldn’t speak? Did my friends feel intelligent and sophisticated when they instructed me to look at my assault from an intellectual perspective? Did my ex-boyfriend think he was doing me a kindness when he told me that he wasn’t going to tell me what I should have done because I was doing what was best for myself, but he thought I should have reported it so that it didn’t happen to other women? As though that’s something that I haven’t struggled with or worried about every single day since it happened?

But I have also been lucky. My parents, and most of my friends today, have supported and believed me every step of the way. They have made me feel justified in my feelings and my experience. They have spent hours talking me through rough days. I have had more love and support than most survivors ever get. And I know that there are days where I will still feel like I can do nothing to change the reality of my situation, but this, right now, is a moment where I can empower myself--and hopefully other survivors--through speaking about something that, by its nature, was incredibly disempowering.

I went home this month, and I saw my abuser. I think it quite cruel he didn't recognize me because I still think about him every day; not only that, I wake up in cold sweats from nightmares where I relive his actions and scream in my sleep because I think he is there with me. I have to realize that he is far away, and I don't even think he knows where I go to college. But I can't even find the innocence in a hug or soft touch anymore because every interaction with him was never with good intention. He didn't recognize the person who he used so violently, rapaciously, and greedily. He used my body like it did not matter if there was any of me left after he was done. He didn't recognize the person who tried to love him through it. He didn't recognize the girl who bled for him. He didn't recognize the girl he would lock in his car, and not let her go until he was satisfied. He didn't recognize the girl he stalked after he left her. He didn't recognize the girl he saw more as a punching bag than as a partner. He didn't recognize me, even though every time I go home I spend my time in fear, hoping I do not see him.

I graduated this year, and so did the person who assaulted me. For weeks after, he was all over TVs in every single public space at Carolina, all over newspapers, granted scholarships, put in leadership organizations and joined by influential individuals across campus--including the Chancellor. Meanwhile, I was struggling to get out of bed and into class. I watched mindfulness videos over and over again as I couldn't sleep at night and I made sure someone walked with me everywhere I went because I couldn't stand to walk alone. I will always remember the hotel with disgust, his blank face, and how he kept on going even after I repeated no three times. And the hitting and the permanent burn scar I have from when her threw my own hair straightener at me. After the break up, I lost all the mutual friends, not him. I started wearing baggier and baggier clothing because I didn't want anyone to see the shape of my body. He immediately started dating someone new, in his sister sorority, and everyone loved the two of them together. They pretended I didn't exist. He still posts Twitter comments about rape culture and how it's wrong, passes judgment on others who carry out sexual assault, was even a part of the Men's Project. And Carolina applauded him every step of the way.

I am scared.

I can feel my heartbeat every time I walk down the gloomy street back to my house at night. My hands get sweaty if I have to stand too close to anyone of the opposite sex on the bus. Sometimes, I am even anxious when someone walks up to me at a bar.

I wonder if there will be a time when dark remote streets do not urge my feet to run and my head to replay that evening on the streets of a foreign country.

It happened two years ago. I was walking down a dark, deserted road, taking a shortcut to a bus I needed to catch. Behind me, I could hear steps. Coming closer. A voice: “Sorry, sorry, madam, sorry.” Then, a face, getting closer to mine. His hand trying to catch me. His body pressed against mine, I tried to keep walking. Finally, the feeling of his hand between my legs – a violent, fast, determined grasp. I do not recall if I made the decision to scream, but I hear my own voice. A motorbike is coming closer. I feel how he is detaching himself from me. And then – I don’t feel anything anymore. I run. I scream. Tears are running down my face. I run and I can’t stop, until the motor bike driver stops to talk to me. He tells me to go to the police, but I do not hear him. He offers me a cigarette. I don’t smoke, usually. He waits for the bus with me. We smoke. I do not remember how I get home.

You might say that this was a while ago, that this occurred in a big city and that worse things could have happened. But this is not what I am talking about.

In our society, we tend to wait for the extremes. You were sexually assaulted? Well, you weren’t raped. You suffer from anxiety? Well, at least you are not depressed. Although these differentiations might have some truth to them, it is the comparison itself that is wrong. Mental health is not about the objective severity of the experience and its relative standing compared to others, but about the subjective, personal and extremely individual harm and suffering.

It took me two weeks to press charges against the stranger who assaulted me. I could hardly remember his face, let alone any details. When the police finally found someone capable of interrogating me in English, one of the first questions I was asked concerned the time that had passed since the incident: “Why did you not come earlier?” The answer to this question can be summed up simply –I didn’t have the strength.

I remember the days afterwards all as if they were yesterday. I remember rubbing his dirt off my body, even the parts he hadn’t touched, trying so hard I hurt myself. The twitching of my entire organism every time a man stood next to me on the bus. The feeling of disgust at myself and sexuality in general. His visits in my dreams. How my flatmates held both of my hands when we went out a couple of days later.

I started talking, and I realized I was not alone. It didn’t help fill the hole inside me, but it helped me feel powerful again. Active.

Things need to change.

The predominant perception of sexual assault as something the victim can be blamed for must be addressed. “You shouldn’t have walked alone in a dark street.” “You shouldn’t have worn that skirt.” “You asked for it.” This victim blaming is deeply insulting, biased and unbearable. It distorts the vast number of crimes happening every day, scaring women for life. It ignores the real perpetrators, and how we need to raise awareness in our society – for sexual assault, rather than “adequate” dresses.

We who experience sexual assault need to speak up, even though it’s hard. Everything we do not talk about slowly becomes a part of us. We shouldn’t give those who assaulted us the power to dominate our well-being. We can’t reverse what has happened to us, but we can reduce the pain felt by other victims.

Let’s work on this together. Please keep your eyes open. Keep on talking. And never, ever blame yourself.