The Aftermath

I have mentioned before that during my RA training, they taught us how to respond if a resident came to us about a sexual assault: the right words to say, the appropriate resources to send them to, the correct reports to make and who to make them to. But what I found out is that, that process isn’t concrete. It’s not the same for everyone. Until it happens to you, you don’t really understand what it’s like to be in the survivor’s position. And when it happened to me, my training became irrelevant.I tried to believe everything was as it was before that night. The bruises and marks faded, and I tried to convince myself that it was fine. What had happened was behind me, and it was time to move on. I tried to mentally wash my hands of the ordeal. But that was just the thing...no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t run from what had happened. It always caught up with me, sometimes when I least expected it, leaving me crippled and broken.That night would come back in flashes as I was walking across campus, eating dinner, hanging out with friends. It was like being punched in the stomach, knocking the breath out of me and leaving me vulnerable and scared. For months, I could barely sleep because of the nightmares. Some days I barely ate, and others that seemed to be all I did. I forced myself to go to class, even when I just wanted to be curled up in my bed, because at least I had something to focus on. Something that wasn’t the thought of him and what he had done. I threw myself into my course work to keep the image of him holding me down out of my head. I became hyper-paranoid that I’d randomly run into him while walking across campus. It was possible; the university wasn’t very big. I would get to class, and my heart would feel like it was about to leap out of my chest. And when I would shower, I would scrub my skin until it was raw and red because of the phantom feeling of his hands lingering on my skin, his body on mine. For the longest time, there was just so much denial. It was easier when I was with friends. I had to be in the moment with them, instead of trapped inside my own thoughts. It was easier to pretend that nothing had changed, that I was the same woman as before. It was easier to pretend that I wasn’t breaking under all my pain and shame. And for the longest time, no one knew that anything had happened. Nobody suspected anything. Because I tried so hard to believe that everything was the same. But like I said, you can’t run from the truth forever. It will always catch up to you.And it caught up with me one afternoon in January. I had taken a nap and dreamt of the assault again. I woke up in panic, looking around the room as if he were just hiding in a corner. I threw on my jacket, grabbed my keys, and raced out my building. A few minutes later, I found myself at my friend Kira’s building. She let me into her room and by just looking at my face she knew something was really wrong. After breaking down on her floor, I told her everything. It just poured out of me. All of that pain that I had been keeping inside of me just flooded out. She held me as I sobbed and told me that it sounded to her as if I had been raped, that Eric had assaulted me. Kira herself had been assaulted, so she knew the signs. That was when I knew I couldn’t hide from the truth anymore. But it was almost more painful than the denial. From then on when I was with Kira (which was often), I couldn’t fake normality anymore. It was like the wound had been reopened, and I felt exposed wherever I went. The paranoia grew worse with that. It felt like I didn’t have my inner shield to protect me anymore, my denial, and if I saw him, I thought I’d lose it right there. Eventually I did. Eric came up to me in our student union center while I was talking to a guy friend, who was visiting. I had just enough time to slap on a fake smile before he hugged me and asked me how I was doing. While he complained about his busy schedule and how his car had broken down for the tenth time, I could feel my friend watching me. He knew something was off. After Eric finally left, I felt all the nausea and fear I had been trying to suppress come rushing up and I made for the nearest bathroom. When I came back, my friend wanted to know what was going on. So I told him. My friend is a pretty chill guy; not a lot gets him riled up. But after I told him what Eric had done, he was livid and asked me in all seriousness if I wanted him to mess with Eric’s car while he was supposed to be fixing it. I told him it wouldn’t be worth it, that Eric wasn’t worth it. Another time Eric tried to approach me while I was having brunch with my dance team in the cafeteria. I just stared at my tray, praying he would leave. I knew Kira must have kept him from coming over because at one point she jumped up from her chair and it went screeching back as she did so. I saw Eric leave out of my peripheral. Kira told me afterward that Eric had been coming towards the table, and she jumped up, pointing for him to move on. Then, he had looked at me and then back at Kira with a “triumphant smirk” before leaving. I remember the feeling of disgust and horror that settled in my stomach when she told me that. I realized that he knew all too well what he was doing to me. I broke down and cried right there in the cafe. Everywhere I went, it was like he appeared as if from thin air. When my dance team practiced in the performing arts center, he was there, walking by our room. When I went out to the bar with friends, he was there, watching me. My paranoia got so bad at one point that every time I went to leave my building, I had to mentally prepare myself. I lived in fear at a place that had once felt like home.It crossed my mind only once to report what had happened to me. But I killed that thought almost as soon as it came to me. I had read enough articles to know what happens to rape survivors, especially when consent was called into question. They talked about how going through reporting their assault was almost as if being raped all over again. It had been months since my assault. There was no physical evidence. And I invited him over that night. I agreed to have sex with him in the beginning.I never told him no.I never told him to stop.I didn’t fight back.Who would ever believe me? So I kept my silence. I never reported my assault. And to this day, Eric hasn’t had to answer for what he has done. He gets to go on not being publicly labeled as a rapist, as the predator that he really is. In the aftermath of all this, the only one who was left to deal with the fallout was me.-Khaleesi