An open letter for my future classmates:
As September quickly approaches, one subject comes to mind more often than any other. Many may think it strange that this particular topic pops up considering all of my other obligations. I am a mother of an almost three-year-old child. I have my apartment that is still littered with moving boxes. I have my new job at the hospital to train for. Most importantly I have Dartmouth to prepare myself for as an incoming freshman. Even with all this my brain constantly reminds me that my future classmates will be raped.
It’s not opinion. As much as I want to say that this doesn’t exist…. this won’t exist… it will happen and I cannot do anything to change it as much as I want to. The only thing productive I can do is tell you all about my experience and how I somehow managed survive.
I’m 25 now. I’m now out of the vulnerable age range for sexual assault on campus. I’m guessing that has more to do with the lack of women my age on campus to be assaulted. That doesn’t necessarily mean that I am safe now. It just means that I am older. I was 19 when I was raped. There wasn’t anything that I could do to prevent it. My clothes were not the problem. Drinking was not the problem. I was incapacitated and a man wanted to have sex with me.
I injured my arm during my first year in the Marine Corps during a training exercise. I dislocated the elbow and ruptured a ligament. I had a pretty cool metal brace and earned myself the nickname “Robo Cop” which many of my former colleagues still affectionately call me. I had to have surgery. It took a few months to go under the knife. My arm was the only thing holding me back from completing my training and going on to my first duty station. The surgery went well. They put me in a Wounded Warrior building to recover. I had my own room. I was on some strong painkillers. I couldn’t feel anything. I remember that day going by in blissful sedation. This hospital worker (a Navy Corpsman) came to check on me and I remember being okay with that. The following 48 hours were a living hell that no amount of sedatives could cloud from memory. At some point, I had fallen asleep. At some point, the corpsman stripped my clothing and raped me while I was unconscious. I woke up. I can’t tell you why I woke up. There was a man getting dressed in my room. I was exposed on my bed.
I remember screaming. I remember running. I found a woman in the hallway who called the authorities and escorted me in the ambulance to the emergency room. I had to tell so many strangers that I didn’t know, but I thought I was raped. I had to have a rape kit, which was a terribly invasive process. I had to take pills: an antibiotic to prevent contracting STDs and another to prevent pregnancy. I had to leave every article of clothing and have every part of my genitals swabbed. At the end of the process there was nowhere for me to go. I slept in the same bed I had been assaulted in.
Investigators told me what had supposedly happened to me. My DNA was found on my attackers scrotum leading NCIS to charge him with four counts in the UCMJ.
It took a year for my case to go to court martial. In the mean time I was stuck in a sick limbo. I started having panic attacks. I stopped eating. I dropped 20 pounds. That April I had a suicide attempt. After three days of being strapped to IV’s in the same hospital I had been assaulted at I was released. Coincidentally I ran into my rapist. The Navy still had him treating patients while awaiting court martial. My mental health spiraled out of control. I burned myself with cigarettes. I was diagnosed with PTSD.
A year after the assault my rapist was found guilty of all four counts he was charged with. He was sentenced to 90 days in the brig. Yes that is right, same a Brock Turner. Ninety days. He did this to me. He hurt me so bad. All it was worth was ninety days. He wasn’t white. He wasn’t wealthy. He was no more of a swimmer than anyone else in the Navy. It isn’t white privilege. It’s male privilege. You’ll generally only see higher punishments with a man who assaults another man. Something about violating the bro-code, I don’t know. Regardless, it’s never felt fair and I’ve never felt vindicated.
Somehow I had to learn how to live with this.
I had a baby. I left the Marine Corps. I went to community college. I had to transfer my anger and my hurt into something productive. I studied plants and fell in love with my subject. I played with my baby and found purpose through her. I volunteered and I worked hard and I got good grades. I had to maintain therapy. I’ve never been able to go long without mental health counseling. Even six years after my assault I still struggle. But I function and I excel. And now I am at Dartmouth, a school with its share of bad press in regards to sexual assault.
My advice to survivors:
- Find support: This isn’t something you have to go through alone. The isolation can be deadly and for me it nearly was. Even if you don’t want help, find someone who will be there for you as a confidant if you need them.
- Find passion: Spend your time doing something that you love. A healthy hobby that makes you feel safe and relaxed will make some of the other things you are going through subside, even if just for a little while. I beg of you, do not pick up the bottle. Alcohol will exacerbate any mental health problems you may be struggling with and extend the healing.
- Find purpose: For me it was family. It took me becoming a mother to find something worth living for. My perfect tiny child helped me get through each day. She allowed me to push myself a little harder and love myself a little bit more.
Most importantly, know that you will not feel like this forever. The pain will never go away, but you will get stronger. Your shoulders can carry more weight than anyone would ever think possible. You are important. It was not your fault. Do what you need to do to feel safe and feel loved.
For anyone who would like to talk, you can always PM me on Facebook. I will also link in resources at Dartmouth. Rape is real. Please know you are not alone.
