My assault didn’t happen on this campus. It happened during my first few weeks abroad in Dublin. I was still living in an empty apartment before my flat mates moved in, still surrounded by casual friends rather than people I knew I could trust. The university hosted a party for visiting international students and by the end of it my professors were handing me open bottles of wine and telling me to not let them go to waste. By the end of the party the room was spinning so much that I had to lie down in the hallway so I didn’t fall over. On our way to the after party, a guy I sort of knew came to find me, grabbed my hand and said “Hey, you shouldn’t be at a bar right now. Let’s go back to my place.”
The next thing I remember, I was in his bed and he was trying to have sex without a condom. I tried to get up but he kept telling me it was fine, that we were having fun. I begged him to at least get a condom and eventually he listened. I’ve blocked out most of what happened but one moment is burned into my memory. It’s of him forcing me on top of him, holding my hips to make me move and keep me from getting off as I told him it hurt, as I kept asking him to stop.
Afterwards I stayed curled up in a ball in his bed, too afraid to move. He got up to take a shit and left the door open, obviously past the point of caring what I thought of him. I was in so much pain but didn’t realize until later that it was because he had left the condom inside me when he pulled out. After I was sure he was passed out, I got up and dressed in the dark. I left without him waking up.
On my walk home that night, I was harassed twice. I was standing waiting for the light at an intersection when a pedicab pulled up next to me in the street. The passenger had his pants down around his ankles and looked straight at me as he began to jack off. When I was almost home, a car of men offered me a ride because a pretty girl like me shouldn’t be out by herself so late. I had to say no multiple times, and the last thing one of them screamed as they drove away was “I’ll fucking rape you.”
The only thing I could think was, “someone already beat you to it.” This is the first time I have ever told the full story of that night out loud, even though I often talk about my experiences as a survivor. People often tell me how strong I am or brave I am to speak out against sexual violence, but sometimes I want to tell them that they’re wrong. I work so hard to be OK but sometimes I’m not and I shouldn’t have to be. I’m doing my best to heal but it’s taking a while. And why shouldn’t it?
My mother can’t refer to my Zoloft prescription by name. When she asks me about “my medicine”, I can feel the way her support is undermined by the shame of premarital sex and mental illness. My boyfriend of a year and a half just broke up with me because he could never really separate my post trauma anger and mistrust from my actual personality. He told me he didn’t want to be with me the same week that the Zoloft began to kick in, the first week in too long that I have felt at normal or grounded or OK.
As much strength as I have found in the wake of my assault, I have also found weakness. I have felt alone and betrayed and abandoned and defeated. I need you. I need you to support me, to be there for me when I am at my lowest. I need to stop feeling like trying my best to be OK is only good enough when I succeed, and like you’re more surprised when I am struggle than when I am strong. I shouldn’t have to feel like I need to take care of you instead of the other way around.
If you care about me, listen to me. Believe me. Trust me. Love me. Because my strength can only carry me so far.