In college, I was part of a tight-knit group of young women. There were five of us in the core group. Two were roommates and their room, 513, was our central meeting place. There was a lack of formality when it came to hanging out. It was totally normal to walk right in if the door to 513 wasn’t locked and downright mandatory to stop by if it was propped open. We were honest and comfortable with each other.
Or so I thought.
Rape doesn’t happen the way you think it will. I wasn’t drunk or drugged at a party, no one jumped me after dark while walking home alone; the attack didn’t even start as being physically rough. It was slow, insistent, and shocking. My rape was terrifying, uncomfortable, and incredibly confusing. The physical pain was as bad as the betrayal; the psychological injury of living in the same building as the rapist almost ended me entirely, but I still had my friends, I reasoned, so I was able to keep going with my collegiate career. Keep reading »