Trigger Warning:Â This article may contain triggering content regarding sexual assault.
I chose to speak at the last Take Back the Night of my Davidson career. I couldn’t make myself go my freshman year, but I have wanted to speak at it since my sophomore year. From the moment I found out that the event would be on my 22nd birthday I was a broken recorder. I spent two months constantly replaying in my head the things I would tell my fellow students. I wanted my peers to know how much I’ve suffered, I wanted to share how I didn’t anticipate being affected by that night three years later, and how I’ve grown. I thought I had grown. I saw him at Carolina Cup, and although I teared up and gasped for a breath, I held myself together. I was even able to say his first name to my friends when they asked me about The Cup. I felt, and processed the situation, and I believed I was strong, so I moved passed it. But that was a victory I didn’t hold on to. I was nauseous all day before and after the event. I had convinced myself to speak towards the beginning, but then I saw faculty members in the audience and felt uncomfortable admitting how broken I felt. I said what I thought would be a general and neat portrayal of what I had gone through, but not how I had actually been feeling more recently. I was robotic and numb, which is how I am a lot of the time now, but I ended on a happy and grateful point. I felt my disappointment as I walked back to my chair.
I often get sad because I said “no.” I said, “stop.” What else was I supposed to say? It hurt, and I said it hurt, and I asked for it to stop. I said I was a virgin and that I wanted to remain that way. Yet, after he made eye contact with me while leaving my room, he walked down to the opposite end of the hallway and went downstairs to brag to his friends. Brag that he took my virginity, brag that he took something from me that he shouldn’t have been able to take away from me. I don’t know if I was raped, because I blacked out. I went backpacking the next morning because I prioritized not disappointing others over taking care of myself. When I returned, no one ever told me that I should get a rape kit. They made me get a physical exam, take Plan B, get tested for STIs. There was a hole in the wall of vagina, clawed there with deep scratches decorated around it. The uncertainty killed me for a while: the distinction between sexual assault and rape. I’m angry because for the longest time I didn’t deal with it. I assumed I was strong enough to let it go. But now I’m sad and I’m paying the price.
For the majority of these past three years, I was reserved. I was quiet and proper. I wasn’t true to myself. I made myself into someone that he wouldn’t have reason to judge, someone that wasn’t one thing or another. It took so long for me to become the person that I’m happy to be, but I now feel like that person is leaving again. I’m outgoing, I’m weird, I like things most people don’t like, and I like that these are things that define me. I never wanted that night to define me. I never wanted to become a statistic – I hate being predictable. I am myself – influenced by the things that I allow myself to be influenced by. Or so I thought. For three years I worried about how he perceived me, but finally it stopped. He left and I was still here. I was finally able to be myself and do whatever I wanted because it was my last year. I still can’t believe he thought he had a right to return to this campus. He never apologized to me, but showing up to my last frolics made it seem as if he thought he could hurt me all over again. He took away my comfort and my peace. What is even worse than the perceived lack of thought on his part about his right to affect me, is that it destroyed me.
I don’t want to be left with my thoughts. Once I start thinking about that night and the days that followed, the thoughts flood back into my mind and take advantage of me, rendering me weak once again. I miss being happy. It tortures me to have to constantly make the conscious decision to try to be happy – to fake it in an attempt for it to become real. I hate
constantly feeling alone, even when I’m surrounded by people that tell me that they care about me. I don’t feel like I have the support of “secondary survivors” as many have spoken about. Although I know some of my friends want to help me and to be there for me, I don’t feel like I can rely on them, because the defeated look on my face apparently isn’t enough to garner a talk. It has taken me a long time to realize the kind of support I need, but asking for it tears me apart. What is worse is mustering up the courage or desperation to ask for the support, but continuing to not receive it.
I don’t know how to convey that I can smile, laugh, crack a joke and be content, but that it doesn’t last. My moods are unpredictable and the smallest thing can trigger my feelings of despair. It’s hard to pull myself out of my head, especially while at school when everyone has a million things they have to do because I feel guilty burdening those closest to me with something that they shouldn’t be bothered with. Part of it is my fault. I often say I’m fine when I’m not. It’s just my initial defense to not seem pathetic and a way for me to weed out who actually cares for me versus who does not. I’m not fine. If you ask me a few more times you’d understand that. I thought it was obvious when I rush out of a room that I want someone to follow me. So I expected that, and not receiving that seemed like a lack of care and concern.
The littlest of things are triggers; reminders of that night and the following months. Along with the pangs of anxiety come feelings of doubt. I don’t reach out because I worry that I’ve blown this miniscule experience into something that it’s not. I thought I was stronger than all of this. Stronger than the sudden anxiety that hits me when I think I might’ve seen him, or that I might see him. Stronger than my self-destructive habits that result in me uncontrollably crying about my fears. Stronger than the negative emotions that constantly drag me down and separate me from enjoying my final moments with my friends. I’m hoping though that admitting that I’m not strong enough is the result of being strong enough to no longer ignore it. I’m not ok with it, and I want help to fix that.