The statistic goes that one in five women will get sexually assaulted in their lifetime. It happens all the time and to people that you love, people you could know. It could happen to a relative, or a friend. Or the girl writing this article.

It happened months ago, some dark corner in a loud party. I didn’t know him. It happened and I don’t think about it anymore. Or, I don’t until it comes up. Recently, while traveling with my family, a program was playing on the television. This woman was at a club with her friends, one thing led to another and she was struggling under some man that would not take no for an answer. I saw the way he held her wrists; I could feel it. I could remember the feeling that I thought I’d forgotten. Helplessness. I saw the character not only physically struggling, but her voice struggling to form the words.

My body had stiffened up; it was like premature rigor mortis. My mouth didn’t even belong to me anymore. I did not ask for this (No one ever “asks for it”) and I couldn’t make my mouth say the word no. The words were caught in my throat and all I could do was shake my head. Because when you’re little, before you learn how to speak, you learn to shake for no and nod for yes. I kept shaking my head and shaking my body trying to writhe myself away. But he was so much stronger and he had the advantage of height on me. If my friend wasn’t standing near me at that moment, if she wasn’t an arm’s reach at that very moment, I’m pretty sure I would’ve been raped that night.

The woman on the TV screen was walking outside now and she was wracked with sobs. I remember that too. Crying all the way back to my dorm. Confused, afraid, unsure. Confused because, hey, you always hear about sexual assault and sure there are statistics but it could never happen to me, right? How could that happen to me? Afraid, because to this day I don’t know who that guy was. And, I’m not sure I ever will but the truth of the matter is, he is not the only scumbag that walks this earth. Unsure because I couldn’t see how life could be the same after the fact.

But, I proved myself wrong. There is life and joy and happiness after helplessness like that. What helped was telling people. My RAs, my friends, the people with me that night, I cannot thank them enough for helping me get in touch with campus resources. To Campus Police for listening to me, for the counseling center in giving me a space to recover, to revive.

Frankly, I am more resilient than I think I am. Nearly two weeks later, I was back to my old self again. But in between that night and that point of recovery, I felt so incredibly alone and fatigued. Of course, I knew I had people I could talk to, during the day I had no problem. It was at night where I felt the most crushed. I felt like crying a lot and I mostly did. It made me feel like a real person again. I spent a lot of time wondering if I would recognize him in the dining hall. I felt like this would follow me forever. But it didn’t, it’s not.

I was afraid that this experience would define me for the rest of my life. However, that is not true. I have the power to decide whether or not I let that moment precede me, the person that I am. If I let my fear precede my passions, my talents, or my hopes. I am more than this, it is a part of my memories, a sliver of myself, but that is all it will ever be. A fragment of a whole person.

I am a person, and no one else has the right to decide when I stop being autonomous and become an object for them to use as they please.

I do not think about it, and when I do it is in passing. It was something that happened to me, and unfortunately happens to many other people of all genders. I wrote this for closure. I wrote this for those who are like me, for those who are still afraid or for those who still play host to such ghosts. I wrote this for the boy that assaulted me and I hope he hasn’t done it to anyone else since. I wrote it for others like him. To let them know that they will never, ever take away someone else’s being, we will never relinquish the power of our personhood. That belongs to us, and us alone.