When I was a sophomore at Tufts, my boyfriend at the time raped me. We had been dating for 8 months. We had been drinking, got in bed, and he wanted to have sex. I said no, and closed my eyes to fall asleep. He got on top of me anyways. I said "No" and "Stop" several more times, but it didn't stop him from having sex with me. At that point, silent crying seemed like the only appropriate thing to do.
I didn't understand that it was rape until the next morning. He cheated on me and broke up with me a week later. During our nasty breakup, he told me his therapist said I was imagining the rape.
Four months later, he convinced me to get back together with him. And sometimes, late at night, he would cry about what he did to me, and I would reassure him that he didn't rape me, he wasn't a bad person, and that we belonged together. I would tell him it was all me, that I was being overdramatic. I was only 19. Now, at 24, I can't believe I wasn't there to protect my younger self.
In a year's time, I will graduate law school and hopefully become a successful attorney. But some nights, I still wonder if it really was rape, or if I was imagining it all in my head.