It's been one year since I stood on this stage, reading the same story I've heard so many times before. I thought that the worst part of it was over for me. And even though my trauma still haunts me to this day, I never thought I would have to relive that feeling again.
That was a year ago.
Now standing here today, I have a new narrative. Another notch on my bedpost of shame and fear.
My mom used to tell me to be careful. That I was giving guys the wrong idea, leading them on, putting the thought in their head that it was okay to take advantage by being too forward.
I drank too much and saw you on the street. Your fraternity was closed that night because of some event, not that it really matters. We went back to my room and I felt so tired. You didn't know that at the time I had 8 shots, 3 over my limit, and had taken my medication that night, a deadly mixture. I shouldn't have done that, but I was blackout drunk and stupid. I passed out.
That didn't give you the right to rape me.
You raped me.
You must've known when my eyes were closed and I wasn't responding. I guess a grunt, as you described it, was enough to take my clothes off. Maybe that's why you flipped me over on the bed, face down in the covers, my body limp and dead. If you looked at my face while you fucked me maybe you couldn't pretend like it was okay.
You woke me up by dragging me off the bed to wake me up. Maybe you realized I was unconscious when you couldn't shake me awake. The only thing you said to me was the condom broke.
At that point I didn't even realize we had sex.
I screamed at you to get out when you wouldn't accept that you raped me. I tried to keep it together but after you left I broke down. You destroyed me in all of ten minutes.
You texted me the next day to come meet you at your frat house where you were living to talk. I wasn't sure whether or not to report you.
To this day I wish I did.
You told me, sitting on that brick patio wall, that you had asked for my consent. I asked you if I was responsive during sex, if I had given you a yes, if at any point you realized that I wasn't awake. You didn't have a clear answer for that. You told me that I could report you if that's what I wanted. I wish I told you that I didn't need your permission. I wish I didn't talk to you. Your side of the story didn't matter. It still doesn't.
Before I left, you asked if we could hug goodbye.
You raped me and you asked if it would be okay for you to touch me, to embrace me, not even 24 hours after it had happened.
You never said the word and you never admitted to it.
There's a chance that you're here in the audience tonight. It's possible that you're here because you do feel guilty. It's possible that you're not here because you're afraid you'll finally be caught. I hope you are afraid.
I hope you stay up at night thinking about what happened like I do. I hope it wakes you up in the middle of the night and I hope you wake up screaming.
You'll never know what it feels like to be scared to have sex. To be scared to trust someone again after being raped. To enjoy having sex one minute and then be triggered the next. To have to sleep in the same bed you were raped in for 40 more days.
A Tufts University student raped me one year ago on April 2, 2015 in my dorm room.