April 3, 2011

She opens her door just wide enough to slide through the opening. She turns, shuts, and locks the door in one smooth, fluid movement. She moves through her small dorm room toward her bed, carelessly discarding her clothing as she goes. Shoes by the door, earrings and ring beside the jewelry chest. Pants drop to the floor, followed by a white shirt, fluttering down to rest on top of them. Bra and underwear hit the back of the futon by the window, sliding down its sloped surface to rest on the seat. Hair elastic is placed carefully on the book by the pillows. Then she hoists her slim naked body into bed. She pulls all four comforters up to her neck, and closes her eyes. With that simple motion her face takes on the endearing desperateness of a child in prayer. “Please. Let sleep come to me. Please.”

Sleep does not come. She gets up soundlessly, her lithe body sliding from beneath her covers, and she goes to the door again. This time, she pushes her desk in front of it. It whines against the wood of the floor, but the knock of its bulk against the door resounds though the still air of the room reassuringly. She gets back into bed. “Maybe now. Please.”

Still nothing. She pulls her laptop over, sets it to play an audio book. She turns on music, the most soothing songs she can think of, but they only make her cry. She turns on her space heater, then turns it off and abandons all of her blankets for only the sheet. “Please, please.”

Nothing. She screams then. Just once. A cry of fear and frustration; anger and helplessness fight in the sound. And she leaves her bed, taking one blanket and one pillow, and she slips inside her wardrobe. She can sit on the smooth wood floor and close the doors inward. Here she is safe. Here he cannot find her. Even in her thoughts he cannot possess her, cannot make her hurt herself. Here she can sleep. “Thank you.”

March 21, 2011

Four and a half years ago I was sexually assaulted.

Near the end of my senior year in high school, I was sitting in a car with my then girlfriend. We were discussing bacterial genetic modification. In the middle of the conversation, she randomly, suddenly, and quickly reached over and slammed her hand down my pants, and began handling my penis. I immediately felt terrified, trapped, and absolutely powerless. The very memory of that mixture of feelings haunts me to this day. I raged and flailed about in my mind, desperate to escape, but was physically frozen from surprise, fear, powerlessness, and the compromising physical position. The only thing I could do was to ask her to stop. She refused, and asked why. I asked her again to stop. She refused again, and asked, didn’t I enjoy this? Finally, desperate, I asked her once again, and she finally removed her hand. I can’t remember what happened afterwards, until hours later, that evening. I was hanging out with some friends, when they started asking about people’s sexual experiences. I brought up what had happened to me that day, but passed it off as something I had enjoyed, that I had wanted. Even then I knew that was a lie, but it was a lie that I would live for more than a year.

It took me two years to put a name to what happened. From that point, I slowly began to deal with what had happened, fluctuating between denial and anger, pain and fear. Slowly I have begun to work through the self-blame and fear that this has caused. I’ve started to realize that many of the strange behaviors I’ve picked up— jumping and starting at motions and movements people make, or feeling very afraid or anxious in certain positions or situations, for example—come from this experience. I’ve realized that it is the cause of the intense anger and tremendous hurt that I feel; for weeks at a time this causes me emotional and psychological pain nearly every night. I absolutely hate the fact that it has affected me.

Sexual assault of males happens. It happened to me. It could have happened to your friend, to that person you passed on the street. It could happen to anyone. So, think. When someone makes a joke about rape or sexual assault, it’s like a stab to the heart. Just being reminded of it is painful enough. And, regardless of whom you’re asking, ask first!

February 16, 2011

When I was 16 years old, I fell in love with a 26 year old man. He was the first man I ever loved, and I fought hard to make him notice me. I convinced him to ignore my age and the borderline illegality of our relationship, and we began dating.

Three months later, he started calling and texting me excessively when I went out. A few weeks after that he started yelling at me each time a boy texted me or talked to me. By the end of our fifth month together, I was terrified to go out with my friends, male or female, for fear of the screaming, the blame, the threats of leaving me.

I had been brainwashed. I believed that I didn't deserve the love I was receiving, that my existence in the world was solely to please this man and that I could never fully do it because I was so flawed. I was uncaring, selfish, stupid and a slut who would screw any boy that looked at me. I was told this every day for months.

Two months after the emotional abuse had worn away any sense of self preservation, the physical abuse started. I had been a virgin, saving it for the right person, and he took that from me. He guilted me, demanded of me, and sometimes forced me to have sex with him whenever he wanted. I was humiliated.

One day, he hit me. As corny as it sounds, he must have knocked some sense into me because that was the last straw. I looked him in the eye and said I couldn't do this anymore, and left. I went home and cried for days because I thought I had lost the love of my life.

It's taken me years to come to terms with the fact that I was in an abusive relationship. Despite all the warnings and the guidance we get in schools, I wasn't prepared for the emotional abuse that wore me down to the point where I couldn't fight back once I recognized the "real" abuse. I considered turning him into the police for statutory rape to get back at him, but revenge was never going to help me feel better.

The statute of limitations just ran out a few months ago and to this day I wonder if I did the right thing. I like to think that it was my first step in finding myself again, because I am an all too caring and forgiving person who doesn't believe in toxic things like revenge and hatred. That being said, I'll never forgive him for what he did to me, but I have moved on and found someone that loves and adores me more than I can ever imagine. I am his world, and he would do anything if it made me happy.

I hope telling my story can do something for someone out there. You're not alone, and it's not your fault.
What I remember the most is hoping it would be over soon. Waiting for him to finish so that I could get out of there. He disgusted me. I kept telling him it hurt. That I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to do this. He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t care about me. He only cared about himself. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t understand why this was happening. I was grown up. Living on my own. Making my own decisions. So why had I made such a bad one? I thought he was cute. I thought he was nice. I never expected him to act like this.

When it was finally over I got up and put my clothes on. He tried to kiss me goodbye and said “I’ll call you.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I needed to be anywhere but there. A week later he did call me. I told him I never wanted to see him again. He seemed truly puzzled. That made me angry. Seriously? You don’t know why I think you’re a despicable human being. Months later I saw him out in a club. He came up to me. “Hey sexy,” he said, “long time no see.” I told him to get away. Again, he appeared truly puzzled. What’s with this guy, I thought? How can he not understand. As I was thinking about all this, he touched my arm. “GET OFF ME”, I screamed. He jumped back. ‘Hey, chill out,’ he said. “Don’t be such a bitch.” There it was. I was a bitch. Emotional. Angry. Overwrought. Bitter. And he was just a nice guy trying to make a girl’s day. Fuck you, you rapist.


I've used art to express how I feel because words fall short. Images are so much more powerful- I want everyone to understand how I felt when I was sexually assaulted and art is my way of provoking the world. This piece is called Nightmare and this is what it means to me: I feel vulnerable everytime someone touches me, it's like I'm supersensitive, and over and over again I can feel him touch me there. I can't get rid of it, it's not an image it's a feeling.

Like any MIT student would, I’ve studied this and done my research. I’ve read the stories of other survivors online. The stories, though all uniquely horrifying, share certain patterns, none more striking than the fact that no one ever thinks it will happen to her. When you read about it, when it's a scary idea instead of your daily reality, you think you're smart enough to avoid it. You're not slutty, that you're trained in self-defense. You think that in the impossible case that it happens, you'd have no qualms reporting it. You’ve watched enough Law and Order — you know it would be the obvious choice, what the law is. That you would deserve justice, and that you would get it. But it doesn't matter – because you're smarter than that. You won't let it happen to you. It’s horrifying that 90% of survivors on college campuses can identify their attackers, but that won’t happen to you. 1 in 4 women gets assaulted in her life? That’s tragic, but not your life. You won’t let it happen to you.

Then it does. Then you’re on the other side of the statistics.

I’m now part of the 1 in 4. And I have to tell you, it doesn't always hit you right away. It doesn't always hurt right after. Your first reaction isn't always to tell someone. Your second reaction isn't always to go to someone in a position of authority. Sometimes, all you want to do is take a shower and crawl into bed. Sometimes, you don’t even think anything is wrong.

I now fall into the 90% who can identify their attackers, but identify barely covers it. I can tell you his full name, where he lives, where he grew up and what his mother does for a living. I can tell you what I was wearing, down to my shoe and jewelry choice. I can tell you what I drank; I can tell you where it happened. And I can tell you what it felt like to tell the story. I spent four years of my life training and being trained in counseling, how to listen, how to understand pain. And yet I missed my own behavior —the classic behavior of a victim. Every time I told the story it got a little worse, but each time I felt like I was giving an accurate account.

"Oh we hooked up" became "oh we hooked up and he wanted it to go further but we didn't." Then that became "He really wanted to have sex, but I was so not down." Then one day I said it. One day I told the right story. The story that says that you were so drunk you were passing in and out of consciousness on your feet, that says that you went upstairs with him. The story that remembers telling him you're too drunk to climb stairs, that no, he should not get a condom because we are not having sex. The story that remembers what it felt like to wake up, God knows how many minutes later, because your feet hurt because someone forced your legs up against a wall above your head. To wake up with someone inside of you. To realize that someone had stolen your virginity in your sleep. The day you say "he raped me."

You never know how people are going to react when you tell them. You never know if they'll cry, or be shocked, or get angry... or just not believe you. You don't know if they'll blame you, or say it was your fault. But the reaction that in its own way makes the least sense is “But it’s MIT, stuff like that doesn’t happen here.” As if our brilliance makes us impervious to this problem. As if our fraternities are immune to sexism.

By the time I accepted it, I was already falling in love with a very sweet boy in the same social circle. Shortly after we said those famous three words, I decided never to report what had happened, because I couldn't bear to bother him with it—because the person who attacked me was his brother. Besides, I thought, love can fix anything.

And so at first it was great, it was a beautiful distraction, it was fixing it. So what if I couldn't shake the nightmares, my sweet boy was holding me when I woke up panicked in the middle of the night. So what if I still saw my attacker all the time, I was in love with someone who loved me, and that was fixing it. And then, when I wasn't getting help, when I wasn't talking about it, then it started to get worse.

I insisted that everything I do be normal, that our relationship be unaffected by my pain. Force it out with love. Force it out by forcing myself into normalcy. I didn’t realize I was making myself relive it over and over, every night, at the hand of the person I was trusting to help me heal. But after a while, you start thinking you’re broken because being with the person you love doesn’t feel good, doesn’t feel good at all.

Unfortunately our society and especially our institution doesn't prepare people for helping someone through trauma, and, with few exceptions, fraternity culture doesn’t reward anyone for empathy and listening and patience. So one day he realized that most boys don't have to deal with this, with girlfriends who get really quiet after sex. That there are girls who don't take everything so seriously, who are just a good time. That’s when he told me I just wasn't fun anymore, that I was too sad to love.

At almost every point you think it can't get worse. When denial leaves and you feel the blow of acceptance, you think healing means it's all uphill from there. Then when the first person doesn't believe you, you think you'll develop an immunity to the indignity. Then when someone you love more than you could dream of loving yourself leaves because you're too broken, you think well it couldn't hurt more. It can only be better than this nightmare. But escaping it feels impossible.

It was after he left that all of the pain finally hit me. I begged that someone would have the mercy to end my life, because I couldn’t sleep without pills, and every time I woke up the unimaginable pain returned. I stopped eating because I was constantly nauseous. I didn't look when I crossed streets, thinking it wouldn't count as suicide if I was just leaving it up to chance. I didn't make eye contact with people for more than five seconds because odds were that I was going to start crying without warning. I was told that I was unloved and unlovable, and simple daily function was torture.

I'm never going to get justice by any conventional definition of the word. Sexual assault is trapped in darkness, suffocated by awkward social standards and sexism. We think if you're smart it doesn't happen to you. If you're smart you don't do it to other people.

I can talk for hours and hours about that night, the other snippets I remember, about the boy I loved telling me I wasn’t fun or normal because he didn’t know how to support a rape victim. But that’s a horror story that isn’t as important to me as the day I finally understood that I’m not a victim, I’m a survivor.

I want you to take away from this what resonates with you, what will make you think, make you listen and make you care. But if you know anything, know this: if you don't understand how to help someone, don't abandon them – get them help. If you don't believe them, ask yourself why someone would, or how someone could, fake that tremendous pain. It doesn't always leave a physical mark like a beating, or signs of something missing as if you were robbed, but no marks doesn't mean no pain, and no signs doesn't mean they haven't been robbed of something far more meaningful than money or belongings.

I’m a firm believer, however, that beautiful things can come from the dark. So what you can give —what you must give —is light. Please – give light.