The Reason
I woke up in the back of a Jeep Patriot. My legs were hanging out the open door - my pants on inside out, my zipper was broken, and my underwear weren’t underneath. I pulled off the small, stained golf towel from my chest and put my shirt back on. The guy I was with that night walked out of the house and drove me home. At my house, I sat down to pee only to be disturbed by the pain of an unfamiliar stinging. Later, I broke down into tears as I recounted the night’s event with my girlfriends before they suggested I go to the hospital. The nurses performed a rape kit, asking if there were other objects in the car, like the golf clubs I knew were in the trunk, or if there was more than one assailant. Over the next several weeks, the slightest bump or touch from a man in a bar or a club would send me into panic. The panic would take me over so completely that my friends would pull me into the shower, hoping the water would calm me, or maybe shock me back to life. My sorority house and work became a place of questioning as the police followed up, asking me to relive and dive into details of that night. After crumbling within my small college life for weeks, I finally broke down and told my parents. It felt like a confession - a sin I needed to seek redemption from - instead of what it actually was, a heinous act against me. I felt so broken, I couldn’t focus on school or anything really. At that time, my counselor told me I had to take a medical leave because she was concerned for my mental, emotional, and physical health. After that one night, I was shattered into pieces, without glue to put myself back together.
It took years for me to really, truly come to terms with the fact that I was a rape survivor. To this day, I still look for some explanation: I must have said yes, I must have been drunk. Even now, each day is a constant struggle, trying to remember something, anything that would give me insight as to why this happened to me. But the why is not my purpose today. Today I am here to shed light on the reason.
I couldn’t stop to think about what my next step would be because I couldn’t stop thinking about what my last step was.
Many people ask, “Why didn’t you go to the cops?” “Why didn’t you press charges?” “Are you sure it was him?” Honestly, at 20 years old I was barely strong enough to get up each day - I was holding on by a thread. I couldn’t stop to think about what my next step would be because I couldn’t stop thinking about what my last step was. I was constantly going over my choices that night, my words, my thoughts and how, maybe if I did one thing differently I wouldn’t be in the position I was. I thought I wouldn’t survive what would happen to me if I tried to find my rapist.
I wonder, fourteen years later, if I would have done it differently? Probably not. There wasn’t a task list given out after a rape. There wasn’t a clear path laid out for me. The only thing that was clear after my rape was that no one understood, but everyone questioned. Every single person I encountered after my rape, the cops, the nurses, my friends, my co-workers, my family, they all had questions, but I didn’t have the answers. So, I made a choice. I took back my choice, and I moved forward the only way I knew how, day by day, deciding for myself what my future would hold.
