I didn’t call the cops, but it still happened.

Recently, Donald Trump tweeted “I have no doubt that, if the attack on Dr. Ford was as bad as she says, charges would have been immediately filed with local Law Enforcement Authorities by either her or her loving parents. I ask that she bring those filings forward so that we can learn date, time, and place!”

Even though it happened over 6 years ago, I still get triggered. The Brock Turner case triggered me to work with my therapist and tell my parents. The #metoo movement triggered me to open up to my guy friends who never knew what happened. And the above tweet triggered me to finally write my story.

I was a junior in college when I was raped. It was what my friends and I considered to be a typical night out. We went to a house where some older boys lived to drink before heading to a bar. I knew some of the guys that lived there; some were in the business school with me.

Most of my friends went to the bar, but I chose to stay behind with my friend Stacy*. We drank a little more and eventually left with the guys to meet my friends. Stacy had a bad night too. She got sick at the bar, had to be carried out, and had little recollection the next morning. Coincidence? I don’t know.

There’s honestly a lot that I don’t know. But there are parts I distinctly remember. I remember leaving the bar with a guy named Scott*. I remember walking back to his house where the night began. I remember going up the stairs to his room. I remember making out. And I remember falling asleep, with the lights on and fully clothed.

I woke up in a different room, in the dark, naked. There was someone on top of me. There was someone inside of me. I saw his face. It was a guy I barely knew. I didn’t go home with him. I fell asleep in Scott’s bed. Someone, tell me what happened.

After finding my voice and my strength, I shoved him off of me and tried to find my clothes scattered on the floor. I kept hounding him. What was going on? How did I end up here? Where is Scott? He said he “didn’t know.”

Frantic and unable to find my purse, I threw open his bedroom door to try to find my phone. I found a gaggle of guys, sitting there. Did they know? What did they see? I found my purse. It was sitting on their mantel, propped up like some trophy. Someone had changed my wallpaper. It was now naked men with their genitals exposed. Did they laugh?

It was the middle of winter, in the middle of the night and I needed to get home. I demanded that he drive me home. The whole car ride was silent, cold. He still had nothing to say to me.

I saw him from afar the next night. He came up to me and said, “you know I didn’t rape you, right?” This time, I had nothing to say to him.

. . .

It took me a really long time to accept my rape, to even acknowledge it. I didn’t want anything to burst the bubble I had built during college, and dealing with life would just have to wait. Years later, my depression and anxiety got to the point where I needed to seek help. I found a therapist, and worked with her in intense sessions. I learned to use the word “rape.” We went back and forth over if I should tell my parents, whether I even could. I found the courage to look them in the eye and and tell them I was assaulted, violated. That I was raped. They didn’t cry, they didn’t yell, they didn’t look at me as if they were ashamed of me. Rather, they hugged me and were so incredibly supportive and respectful.

After attending the Women’s March on Washington, I found the courage to text my rapist. Almost five years later, I found his number from a mutual acquaintance, drafted a text and sent it during a therapy session. I tried to prepare myself for every outcome. What if he said sorry? What if he denied it? What if he didn’t answer? I was only able to send the text once I realized that the answers to those questions were irrelevant. I was texting him for me, to unleash the burden I had been carrying for so long onto its rightful owner. This was no longer my black cloud, it was his.

He never responded.

. . .

A lot has happened in 6 years. I’ve gotten two degrees. I’ve watched my sister marry the love of her life. My parents adopted a new dog. And I have healed, some. People say that time heals all wounds, but what they don’t realize is that healing isn’t passive. Learning to overcome the aftermath of sexual assault takes more grit and more work than you can possibly imagine.

When I finally told my story, my friends and family asked me if I ever thought about calling the police, reporting it to my school, or going to the hospital for a rape kit. Of course I thought about it, but so much of what happened was out of my control that I needed to be able to control something. I needed to control who knew, what they knew. I needed to control my story and my truth and quite honestly, my reputation. I didn’t want to experience the second wave of trauma that comes with a trial. I didn’t want my personal life dug up for the world to see, for my character to be attacked. I couldn’t bear the thought of having a judge ask me why I couldn’t just keep my knees together, which is a reality for some victims. I wanted to handle what happened in a way that felt comfortable to me, on my terms, at my pace. Coping with the aftermath of sexual assault isn’t linear, and we can’t expect it to be. I don’t want what I didn’t do to overshadow what I did do. I worked hard on myself and re-learned how to love my body. I confronted my attacker in a way that made me feel safe. And I shared my story when I was able, with my parents, with my friends, and now with you.

I may not have called the cops, but it happened. And I’m healing.

. . .

*Indicates name has been changed