I met you on my first evening ever at Tufts, in the common room between our suites. My wilderfamily witnessed as you put your arms arounds me and sat far too close on the couch for a stranger.
I did not tell you that how you acted made me uncomfortable, as past abuse had taught me that speaking up only brought consequences, and I thought that I needed to value anyone who showed interest in someone like me. My friends didn’t speak up despite thinking your behavior was strange because they assumed that there was some reasonable explanation.
You raped me about a month later, in my own room after The Big Red Barn party. I had been drinking, and you had not. We danced, and I lost track of my friends. We walked back to our dorm together, and I had the naive hope that you’d go back to your own room and leave me alone. You did not, and when I opened the door to my room, you walked in uninvited and sat on my bed.
When I showed hesitation and put physical space between us, you told me that you would not touch me, but of course, you began to anyways.
I remember you looking me in the eyes as you told me that you were not going to leave my room. You did eventually, however, and I locked the door immediately, relieved. When you came back, holding a condom and speaking to me through the closed door, I opened it out of fear. The idea of you standing there, making a scene for the whole world to see as I hid inside, refusing a man who wanted me, was too much for me to take.
While you had sex with me, I only wished for it to be over soon.
Afterwards, I cleaned up my own blood with you watching, and on your way out you joked about trying again sometime.
I continued to live in the suite next door to you for the rest of the year, dreading the mornings you'd whistle on your way past my room while going to class.
After that, I stayed somewhere other than my own room as often as possible. I threw out the clothes I had worn that night. I returned the brand new shoes I’d had on because I just couldn’t look at them anymore.
I began sleeping a lot during the day but not much at night. My grades declined, my depression deepened, and my anxiety grew. The consequences of your actions came down on me hard as I limped through my Sophomore year. I failed a class, withdrew from another, and almost dropped out.
It's over three years later now though, and somehow, I have managed to heal.
I have managed to heal despite having to see you in passing on campus. I have managed to heal despite the fear I feel when I have to interact with you sometimes in order to check out a textbook. I have managed to heal despite ResLife making it too hard move away from you, Tufts policy making it financially impossible to take enough time off to rest and recover, and the OEO making it unbearably painful to pursue disciplinary action against you. I have managed to heal despite the reminder of you every time a potential employer asks me to explain that F and W on my transcript (I lie about it, of course).
I have managed to heal despite the unimaginable pain and hardship that you have caused me.
I am about to graduate now. Unfortunately though, so are you.