thoughtfullyradsalad-blog

[thoughtfullyradsalad-blog]

Take Back the Night Speech

It is a widely known and accepted statistic that 1 in 4 individuals will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Perhaps more concerning than this data is just how desensitized to the fact we have all become. When I was in 6th grade, a member of my family was sexually assaulted. Her experiences destroyed her. She struggled with depression, substance abuse, and couldn't maintain relationships with anyone around her. What’s worse is that no one knew. She hid the story of her assault out of fear; fear that she would be attacked for coming forth with the truth; fear that her story would be thought of as a lie. When my family member became the 1 in 4, I thought that I was safe -- the 1 in 4 had happened and I was destined to go through life without dealing with the agony that survivors of assault are met with.

When I was raped on February 28th, 2014, I finally understood the pain. The confusion. The suffocating emotions and distress that became all too familiar to my relative.

My freshman year at St. Lawrence was awful. Hailing from Illinois, I was immediately out of place. I had trouble making friends and often felt ostracized. I knew next to nothing about upstate New York, or the East Coast in general. The excitement I once had for new experiences and traveling to school quickly turned into discomfort and a strong desire to be accepted. Joining the swimming and diving team was the very best thing I did during my first year, not because I loved the sport, but because I had somewhere to be every day between 4 and 6, and concrete dinner plans every night.

When I was invited to go out one Thursday by some of my teammates, I immediately agreed. I hadn’t been out in a while and thought drinking with the team would be a good way to meet new people and diminish some of the stress that accompanies Bio 101 and college life in general. After drinking a few shots in a friend’s dorm room, our party was broken up by security. Luckily, we were invited to another party at one of the nearby theme houses on campus. It was there that I continued to drink, trying to keep up with those around me and prove myself as more than just the freshman girl from the Midwest. It was also during this time that I met a sophomore boy. He put his arm around me as we spoke at the party, and I thought nothing of it. When I later asked him where the bathroom was, this boy led me up the stairs, kissed me, and waited for me to return. We went into his room with a few friends, his arm still tight around me as we talked about our favorite songs. I finally began to feel like I was connecting with people at St. Lawrence. I found people who liked the songs I liked, who had similar interests, and even a guy who seemed interested in me.

As it got later, friends left for their own rooms and the boy began to kiss me. He took my shirt off and reached to unbutton my pants, but I immediately felt uneasy. He was acting aggressive, asking me to do things to him that I didn't feel comfortable doing. When I told him “no,” and that I wouldn’t have sex with him, he continued to ask. I denied his advances and got up to leave after receiving a text from a teammate asking if I wanted to walk back to the dorms together. However, when I reached for my coat, the boy suggested I stay. After all, it was cold out, and really pretty late, and couldn't I just sleep in his room? I thought about it, remembering my drunken state and earlier discomfort, but all of this was overshadowed by his coaxing and the fact that I truly thought I had found my niche.

I set strong boundaries, telling him for a second time that I was not interested in sex. I was there to sleep, not sleep with him. I crawled into his bed and fell asleep with all of my clothes on. I’m not sure how long I was asleep or what was done to me during that time, but I awoke to the feeling of weight on my legs and the boy on top of me. He had taken my clothes off and was having sex with my lifeless body. It took me a moment to process what was even happening. When I panicked, pulled away, and began to cry, he looked at me, annoyed, and asked, “Can I at least finish?”

These words still echo in my mind. I hear them when I’m trying to fall asleep, and on nights when I can’t. I hear them when my old favorite songs come on, before I panic and turn them off. I still feel him on top of me, his weight making it difficult to move. I’m not sure what I said next or how I got out of his room, but I do remember him asking if he had done something wrong — as if having sex with a person who had denied consent multiple times and was unconscious was some sort of blurred line.

When I made it back to my room that night, I tried to tell my roommate what had happened. She seemed unfazed and uninterested. It felt like no one was listening to me. I had no one to tell. Though I didn’t know what to call it, I knew something terrible had happened to me. I felt disgusting. I hated my body. I hated the fact that I even had a vagina or anything that anyone would ever want. I hated myself and my surroundings and the very idea of being alive.

I’m not sure what I would have done or how I would have taken the steps that I did after my assault without the help of my sister. Although I felt silenced and isolated from everyone in my vicinity, I knew that Sydney would help me. When I got ahold of my sister and told her what had happened, she consoled me and drove from Waterville, Maine to Canton, New York faster than I thought humanly possible. In the meantime, she told me to go to the emergency room.

As I sat in the waiting room of Canton-Potsdam hospital, representatives from organizations like Renewal House came to visit me. I was asked to tell my story upwards of 10 times that day, still attempting to process all of its parts myself. I was told to fill out forms and complete surveys so that my story could be “entered into the system” and “added into the yearly rape reports.” I had become a statistic. My humanity was stolen from me and replaced with a number. A percentage. The rape kit took over 4 hours to complete. I have never felt more alone in my entire life. My parents were over 1,000 miles away and the closest people I had were questioning me like reporters looking for a story that would sell. The pelvic exams were made more uncomfortable as nurses produced a digital camera to take photos of me, legs spread, more strangers’ hands touching my weak body. I was made to decide whether or not I wished to take medication that might destroy my liver, but would also prevent venereal disease. I was told to bend over as I was administered a shot in my ass that would subsequently make me vomit for hours. I was touched and examined and pricked and questioned and this son of a bitch back at school didn’t think he had done anything wrong. No, you may not finish.

Though I was scared and entirely numb to my experiences, I knew I had to speak up about my rape. I had to be the voice that my family member could not find. I had to get the justice that so many never have the chance to receive. I had to make sure that this individual would never do this to anyone else and that no other freshman would have to decide between a liver or a venereal disease while her parents sat at home wondering if their child was okay.

The backlash of my speaking out began in the one place I thought I was safe — St. Lawrence’s judiciary board. The Special Hearings Board on campus is one that is dedicated to dealing with allegations of sexual assault and overseeing the punishments for such actions. Despite the fact that I approached the school only three days following my assault, my case was not heard for three months. I walked through the student center, into Dana Dining hall, to therapy at the health center, and ran into this boy everywhere. I spent more hours sleeping than I spent awake so that I wouldn’t have to relive that night or pretend that I was alright. And then I didn’t sleep, out of fear that I would wake up the way I did last time. Suffocating. Silenced. “Can I at least finish?”

When the date of my trial finally arrived, one of the school’s judges commented on the amount of alcohol I had drank that night, being overtly judgmental and surprised that I had remembered anything -- As if I should have expected this to happen to me when I chose to drink. When I confided in a friend about what had happened, she said it was alright and I was “lucky it wasn’t a real rape.” As if the only way to be raped is by being maliciously beaten. A portion of my attacker’s statement claims that although I did not give verbal consent, my body language told him I wanted it. I was unconscious.

The summer before my sophomore year, a boy I hardly knew messaged me saying he was sorry for what he heard had happened and asked me to tell him everything that I remembered. I refused, and as it would turn out, this student was trying to use my words against me. He was attempting to take my story, twist my words, and create a case of self-incrimination so that my now expelled rapist could return to campus. I trusted no one. I was told I was looking for attention. I was told I drank too much. I was even told that I had a sleeping disorder that made me hallucinate the entire event. I was told so many times and in so many ways that I was wrong, that I had made a mistake. I was told so many times that I was the one lying that I started to believe it. I began to second guess my decisions and even felt bad for my attacker. I actually believed that I was at fault — that maybe kissing him had been consent enough.

This is why I have remained silent for so long. I’ve become so timid about breaking the confidentiality of my own situation out of fear that others, like the friend of my assailant, would attempt to convince me that what I had done was wrong. That appealing to my institution in hopes of ridding our campus of someone who could cause others the same pain I felt, was a mistake. I, like many other survivors, truly came to believe that what I had done was unjust because others had told me so — that maybe this boy didn’t actually hurt me and I was being dramatic. But it’s all bullshit. I am able to stand up here today and say with confidence that I did the right thing. My experiences are real, no matter how many people try to invalidate me. I still get glares from people who were there that night, who know bits and pieces of my story, who still think that I am in the wrong, who don’t realize what was done to me.

I was stripped of so much. I had no self esteem, no reason to even be awake or truly living most of the time, but I’m still here, and I’ve overcome. I was naïve to the fact that assault can happen to anyone, and naïve to the fact that not everyone would believe me when it did. Although these things have happened and I’ve seen and felt and heard and endured what I have, I am stronger for it. I am a survivor of sexual assault, and I’m here to take back the night.