With the injustice of Ke$ha's trial constantly bombarding newsfeeds and timelines of many Millenials, the horrific act of sexual assault is getting its time in the sun. This isn't a unique occurrence. Almost every time someone makes media headlines about rape the main argument in the story is how the woman or man's (men do suffer from rape and sexual assault) case was horribly dealt with. A disturbing fact about our society is that one in every four college women have experienced some form of sexual assault, and one in every six men will too. Unfortunately, that now makes me a statistic.

While my rape didn't occur during my college years, I began to deal with the aftermath of my assault at the beginning of last year. For some time after my experience, I wouldn't let anyone close to me. I lied, alienated myself from my friends and began to stay home on weekends –– preferring the company of my bed and Netflix to the packed rooms of a house party. Everyone knows that rape is a traumatic experience. However, most people only know this because they've seen rape scenes depicted in movies, crime shows and television. What most people don't know is that a lot of times, victims are raped by those they know and trust. This was my story.

Silence doesn't mean that the person you're hooking up with is consenting. For the longest time I blamed myself because I didn't believe that statement. I thought that I deserved what I got –– that I was a tease and a flirt. I believed this to the point where my social anxiety escalated, and I began second guessing and overthinking every word I said. Coming into the college environment only made my anxiety worse, but now there was an added element: drinking.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an alcoholic in fact, it's the opposite. Last year I could never let myself go for fear of giving guys the impression that I liked to have a little too much fun. I watched my every move, I felt guilty if I hooked up with a guy and I never understood why. I had suppressed my traumatic experience to the point where it manifested itself into anxiety and an eating disorder. Only when I allowed myself to get to know a guy and trust him was I actually able to say the words "I am a victim of sexual assault."

I don't think I ever told him that he was the first person to know about my trauma, but his reaction definitely started to help me through the healing process. It made me see that I wasn't expected to do anything I didn't feel like doing simply because I brought a guy to my college dorm. Through copious amounts of therapy and meeting people with similar stories, I've changed my statement. Now, "I am a survivor of sexual assault."

Coming to terms with what happened to me was the start of a very long healing process. I mean healing in the sense that there will always be an invisible scar. My anxiety worsens and flairs up like a rash every time I see something related to rape. Safe to say that this week has been rough. I'm taking steps to heal myself by talking about my experience, educating others, and taking steps to help future women and men that experience sexual assault get the justice they deserve. Through Culture of Consent (a club at my college), we take steps to make sure that survivors get the proper help they need to report their assaults.

This year, I've begun to feel somewhat comfortable hearing the stories of other people who have gone through rape. Before my therapy, hearing the stories of others further implemented my belief that my experience was unworthy of being upset over. Nobody jumped out of the bushes, grabbed me and assaulted me with a knife to my neck. I invited my assaulter over. In my mind, it was still my fault. That is, until I started seeing bookmarks that had the sentence "silence does not equal consent" written on them. Something clicked and my anxiety and obsessions with food and self image started to make sense. That's not to say that I was healed the second I began to accept my experience as sexual assault. Last semester, I went to a talk by Katie Koestner and had to run out of the auditorium because I began to have a panic attack. For many other people I've talked to, these flash backs and anxiety issues fade with time and therapy, but they never really go away.

Now, with Ke$ha's case plastered across my newsfeed, I felt that people should know that the trauma doesn't stop once Ke$ha is freed from her assaulter. People, like the judge that made the decision on the case, seem to think that because she's held under a multimillion dollar contract, she is a piece of property. She's a human being who was continually assaulted and harassed by a someone she's contractually tied to. If I still can't look at the face of my assaulter, I don't know how she can mentally survive having to be in the same room as hers for hours on end. The thought makes my blood boil and my heart break for her. Until people in this country stop thinking of celebrities as objects to make money off of, Ke$ha isn't going to get a win in court.

In terms of the larger issue of sexual assault, college administrations need to stop thinking of reports as a shameful number. While having a higher report number does seem like a bad thing, it means that women feel empowered to bring the injustice that someone caused them to the attention of people in power. Administrations need to stop oppressing survivors and start to take cases to more serious levels then a simple suspension. Many survivors on my campus run into their assaulters almost everyday and that thought horrifies me.

People need to stop viewing rape as a traumatic experience that ends after the act is done. Women and men who've survived the assaults are effected by it every single day of their lives. I know I am.