Editor’s note: The Battalion does not publish identifying information of rape and sexual assault victims. The names in this article were omitted to protect the subjects’ identities.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay? It just seemed like the thing to do.”
I turned away. Finally, I said, “It’s okay. I’m just thinking. It’s been a long day.”
It was 3 a.m. We’d been up talking about God only knows what. He’d kissed me, but I didn’t want more. We’d been dating for only a short time, virtual strangers. I was naïve enough to think that he shouldn’t drive back to his apartment at that hour; it had been a long football game day, and we were tired and exhilarated by the victory. At least, I was. But he was conscious enough to put his hand around my throat, hard and unforgiving, and bite my lip until I bled. If I’d had the breath to say no, I don’t think I could have. I felt empty, and he pulled my hair, he clutched my throat, and I was gone, somewhere else. I do not know where.
Of course there was further context, other details. But my identity and my past have no bearing on what happened to me, because it was something that was done to me, by another human being. No one asks survivors of robberies whether they were asking for it.
I was numb afterwards. Afraid to draw attention to what happened, I deflected his questions, unable to think, somehow, of a way to ask him to leave. By morning, watching him sleep, I’d convinced myself that it was a miscommunication, and that what was done, was done. I moved on because it was the only thing I could do to remain emotionally intact; it was the least complicated option.
But a year later found me racing out of a lecture on sexual assault, with a constricted, tight feeling in my throat that wouldn’t leave. With shaking hands, I dialed HelpLine. I started seeing a counselor. I saw my doctor, who explained the legalities. I saw a trusted mentor, who remains unswervingly supportive. I saw my friends, who were, many times, the reason I got out of bed. I kept going to class; this was nearly all I did.
Now, I still sometimes feel like it’s all I can do to survive. My experience isn’t uncommon, nor is it representative of all survivors’ experiences, so I can only speak on what I know. I know that it is not easy to speak up within a system that is largely distrusting at best. I know that we must educate ourselves on what consent looks like, because I wouldn’t wish my pain on anyone; no daughter, brother, friend, or stranger. I know that we must rehabilitate our survivors, conscious that one solution doesn’t fit all, and we must remember that while I am the one in five, I am more than a statistic. And I am ready for a day when all of us can breathe easily.
Anonymous ’16