There is a moment of impact. That moment when you recognize what is happening or what has happened. Maybe the actual act is not the moment of impact. Maybe the assault is not enough to resonate as "the moment". Maybe you do not even recognize that there was a moment, but believe me, there was. Let's talk about that for a second. Moments happen to us every single day, and I like to think of them as feelings and/or actions. The feeling of holding a pet or the action of shoveling cereal into your mouth or the feeling of stubbing your toe. Other moments could accompany other people, such as having a first kiss or getting into a fight with a close friend. These are all moments, and some of them are clearly more impactful than others.

There is a moment of impact. I could tell in his face that he was hungry, starving for any sort of physical validation that he could take from me, since I obviously was not willing to give any. As he graced his hands up and down my sweatpants, my heart began to race and my breaths became short and stattico, as if to give off the right frequency of alert to stop. He did not kiss me, as if I needed any more of an indication of his true intentions: They were not for graceful affection, but for scraping me clean for his own pleasure. I did not say anything after the initial "no". I grew silent and was thrown around like a ragdoll, no true bones and no true form, at the will of the one playing with me. As he grew tired of me and had finished his destruction, he left. And I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I had let it grow that far and ashamed that I had not turned down his incessant flirting beforehand: I had only laughed as if my uncomfortability was comedic. I blamed myself. My moment had not come yet.

My moment came a couple of days later. I had lost my appetite and my body had forgotten how to sleep. I dragged my body to swim practice and to classes, attempting to put on a brave face, while my insides were dragging me down to the ground and crying for help. They were crying for food and water and some sort of rest that I could not provide. I walked with my head down and screamed internally at the pain emanating from between my legs, where he had left his physical mark of tearing. And then I saw him walking around with his friends: My moment. I ran, tears streaming down my face right to my dorm and right to my bed: Ironically the only place that I felt safe, even after being assaulted in the same place. By November, I weighed 20 pounds lighter, which I can only account to working out three times a day and eating one granola bar and a cup of water. My mental health was in the distress, and nobody besides a couple of people knew what was going on. And they did not know how to help.

That takes me into the first category: friends or peers. *If someone you are close with has not been assaulted, they will not understand your situation!* It took me months to figure this out. Even if you are friends with a survivor, everyone has had a different experience and a different take on their experience. I have met individuals who have not spoken about their assault since it has happen, while I on the other hand am an open book. They prefer to hold it all in, until it consumes them and begins to show on their face. The best thing that a friend can do for you is to sit with you, and listen to you, and give a shoulder to cry on. But they can not fix you or take away ANY of your pain. And there are those individuals who will grow tired of you, not exactly you as a person but at the burden of the situation. And at that point, you can only let them go. Holding onto them will only hurt you more in the end.

The second category is parents. If I had to look my mother in the face and tell her what happened to me for a second time, I wouldn't. The amount of pain that built in her eyes was unbearable. Of course, everyone has a different family situation, but being a part of a supportive family truly does alleviate some weight on your shoulders. Parents take on pain, just the same as when you scraped your knee when you were younger. For the first few weeks after knowing, they will try and stay optimistic around you, pushing you to get out of bed and to eat food regularly. This support and push will help for a moment, but soon they won't understand why you are still sad and still don't want to leave bed, even though sleeping is impossible because the nightmares are unbearable. They will tell you that they love you and wish to understand, but they will still blame themselves for not having prepared you enough for "the real world", the world where men rape and women crumble.

The third category is lovers/significant others/just some guy. One of the immediate downsides of being assaulted that I did not quite pay attention to is the hole that it leaves. In discussions I have had and articles that I have read, most survivors form a sort of avoidance for sex; however, I did not catch the memo. I began trying to fill the void with whomever was willing to help, and most of those exchanges ended with a greater hole and a lot of tears from me. You will seek validation from these guys, because they mean nothing, and you mean nothing to them: It's just sex. Or that is what it is supposed to be. They don't know that your heart is in pieces and that every time feels like a dagger to the gut. And how could they? Guys who are actually invested will do their best to understand. They will hold you when you cry and share their words of love and support but none of it really lands. Their words can't take back his actions. The ones who love you and stay will grow tired of seeing you in the same constant state of being lost and being distraught. They will try and push you to grow past it, and when you are unable, they will grow tired and change the subject.

The last and final category is yourself. When I was assaulted, I grew so lost and stayed lost for over a year. (I still am.) I disappeared within myself and tried to make sense of everything. I spent sleepless nights awake, staring at the ceiling, laying in the same bed that I was assaulted in. I still stayed in the same dorm as him, so I took the stairs and avoided the elevators. I attempted to memorize his practice and school schedule, so I would never run into him or his teammates. I grew snappy with people, and when I was not snappy, I was quiet and nobody really wanted to be around me. I drew lines down my wrist with scissors, razors, and knives, attempting to feel some semblance of pain outside of what was racing inside my head: It did not help. I came home often and tried to associate my home with peace, but it became the place that I dreaded leaving and left a sore spot in my stomach. Sometimes, I just sat and stared at the wall. I sat and apologized to myself over and over like a crazy person, hoping that it would kick start something inside of me to move on. It is one hundred percent not an easy thing to process, and I am still discovering new ways to help myself, but there is always one thing that I come back to.

Don't blame yourself.

Don't blame yourself for the rape. Don't blame yourself for him denying it. Don't blame yourself for the way that others treat you after it. Don't blame yourself for not being able to get out of bed, or crying all of the time, or needing to take a break from others. Even slow progress is still progress.