It’s been a year.
You may not remember me, but your name and face are ingrained into my brain. You changed my life in one of the worst ways possible. Your insatiable desire to get what you wanted, when you wanted – I guess it was worth it for you, but it screwed me up.
For months afterward, I was an emotional wreck. Your careless deed sent my depression to new lows and my anxiety, both general and social, to new highs. Do you know how hard it is to attend the second largest university in the nation and be afraid of people walking behind you? I was always looking over my shoulder, always checking out of the irrational fear that you’d be there. I was terrified of turning my back to anyone. A couple weeks after you hurt me, I met a person that shared your name and had an anxiety attack. I wasn’t okay.
You had no right to my body. When I said “no,” you heard “yes.” When I said “stop,” you magically learned the word “no,” but only because it served your own, selfish purposes. Then you picked yourself up and went along with your normal business, saying we should do it again sometime. You probably would never even consider it rape, would you? You praised yourself as being the kind of guy who doesn’t force girls into sex if they don’t want it, and yet you did. If I confronted you, you would deny that I ever said no. You’d probably try to tell me that I enjoyed it, that I wanted it. You’d curse me out and accuse me of being a bitch because I ceased replying to your messages and blocked your number.
It’s been a year.
I blamed and still blame myself. After it happened, all I could think was “I could have fought harder. I should have fought harder.” But no, instead, I was unable to move. I froze and was physically unable to fight back. I felt betrayed by my own body. Disgusted by it. My best friend had to constantly tell me, “It wasn’t your fault” and you know, I can easily believe that for others but when I remember what happened, all I can think of is that I didn’t do more to stop you. That maybe if I had done something differently, I would still be okay.
And sometimes, I feel really guilty for feeling this way. After all, my life wasn’t at risk. I wasn’t left for dead or even injured too badly. It wasn’t a case of abuse or a recurring incident. It was once, and I came out of it intact.
But I was on edge for so long after it happened. I constantly clawed at and cut into my skin, tried to rid myself of the filth that you left, attempted to wash the feeling of you off of me. I ached for a body that you had never touched, a life in which you had never existed. Everything felt so heavy and it was difficult to move. I couldn’t sleep through the night and something as small as my neck itching was enough to send me into an anxiety attack because all I could remember was you, choking me. I craved physical closeness and reassurance from others, but feared intimacy and couldn’t be touched. I very much wanted to die.
It’s been a year.
Slowly but surely, I’ve found ways to move on, to get over it. I dance, write, make music, read, work, take classes – anything and everything to keep myself busy, to try to forget. I’ve built a strong support system, and now?
Now, I’m okay most of the time. Writing this didn’t send me into an anxiety attack and although I still resent you, I’m no longer consumed by what happened. I’ve moved on with my life and I’m doing better than I thought I ever would be.
You very nearly ruined my life. I can’t erase you from my narrative, but it’s been a year. Here’s to another one, without you.
