M.K.

The first time I was sexually assaulted, I was fifteen years old. I didn’t understand it at the time, not realizing that a boy shoving his fingers down my bikini bottoms in a crowded jacuzzi was actually not okay. I didn’t understand that the pain I felt as he touched me was not normal. I didn’t understand that in that moment, I froze, not out of pleasure, but out of fear. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in college, nearly five years later, did I come to terms with this. I have been sexually assaulted seven times in my lifetime, but there were two that changed my life completely. I was eighteen, recently graduated from high school, and my parents were out of town for the weekend. My friends came over one night for a sleepover, and with them came vodka. It was my first time drinking, and I quickly became drunk. A boy that I had met a handful of times was invited over and took full advantage of the fact that I was inebriated. There are a few details that I remember explicitly, the rest are blocked out either from unconsciousness or desperate will to forget. I remember lying face down on one of the air mattresses set up for the sleepover while my friends were in another room, his naked body walking around my kitchen, his hands under my shorts, and his mouth on mine. I remember drifting in and out of sleep as he continued, and eventually he was gone, and I was covered with a blanket. I woke up the next morning feeling hungover, dirty, and used as my friends excitedly mistook my shame for coy embarrassment, thinking that I liked him. He texted me the next day saying, “I’m so happy that happened, please don’t think it was anything bad, okay?” I never saw him again. 

Forward to a few months later, and I am in my first quarter as a freshman at Cal Poly. My roommate and I went to a dorm party where a guy I had recently met lived. The room was packed, and everyone was drunk, except for myself and my roommate. I sat on the bed next to the guy, and we began making out, which I was okay with. Before I knew what had happened, the lights were off and the room had cleared out. This had been planned. He forced his hands down my pants, roughly groping my chest and began unbuckling his belt. He grabbed my hands and pushed them into his boxers. I said no, over and over, and he responded, “it’s okay, just do it, you’re in college now, don’t be that girl”. Eventually, he got tired of my struggles and pinned me to his bed by my wrists. As he kissed my neck with my head turned to the side, I saw my phone was still in my hand. While he was distracted, I texted my roommate one word: “HELP.” By some miracle, she was in the common room, and burst through the door, giving me the chance I needed to push him off of me and run. We ran down the stairs, out the building and all the way home, tears streaming down my face. When we got home, I sat on the floor of our dorm room, rocking back and forth, sobbing “why wouldn’t he just stop?” No one had an answer for me. The next day I woke up to texts from his roommate, saying “I saw you ran out crying last night, but don’t think he did anything bad, he’s a good guy and he would never do that, don’t tell anyone.” And so, I didn’t, thinking that no one would believe me or understand. 

In the months following, I was so anxious walking around campus, afraid of seeing him, that I stopped going to class. I spent my days having panic attacks, crying in bed, and my nights binge-drinking in an attempt to forget. Even sleep was no longer an escape, as it was plagued with nightmares of dark rooms and relentless hands. I was drowning in anxiety, depression, and PTSD. An eating disorder from my adolescence resurfaced, and I stopped eating. I was barely functioning. It was at my lowest point, that in a last effort to save myself, I finally told someone. She was an older girl in my sorority, and she completely changed my life. She told me it wasn’t my fault, that she believed me, and that she would help me. From that point forward, I met with her every week, began going to Safer on campus, sought counseling, and told my family. I began living again. 

The trauma that I experienced is something that I am still working through to this day. In the years following my assaults, I confided in more and more people, finding that a support system was crucial to my well-being. I cut out toxic people in my life, and instead surrounded myself with friends who believed me, stood by me, and were patient with my healing. A year after my Cal Poly assault, I decided to begin my own survivor campaign. Working with a local photographer, I recreated the scenes of my assault and paired it with my written story. It was my way of closure, hoping that everything I had gone through was for a reason, and had the potential to help others who felt the same pain. I shared my campaign on Facebook, only expecting a few comments and likes. What I did not expect, was almost 300 shares of my story and the outpour of messages from women, sharing their own stories of assault with me. A startup company called Ulzi, whose mission is to stop sexual assaults on college campuses, immediately recruited me as a survivor advocate. It was through this company that I had the amazing opportunity to share my story across the United States, speaking in front of small groups such as sororities to auditoriums of thousands of students at a time. It was through sharing my experiences and breaking social norms surrounding the topic of sexual assault, that I truly healed. 

Now, I continue to tell my story and stand up for those who have been assaulted but are not ready to share. The stigma surrounding sexual assault causes victims to feel misunderstood, blamed for a perpetrators actions, and alone. I believe that I was put on this earth to be the change that I hoped for years ago. I share my story for fifteen-year-old me, showing her that I did not let our perpetrators, and what they did, ruin the woman I wanted to be. I share my story for victims of assault everywhere, in the hopes that it may help them heal and give them courage. To survivors reading this, please know that what happened to you was not your fault, you are not alone, you will heal, and YOU ARE STRONG. Your story is powerful, and no matter how difficult your healing process may be, know that you can always handle it.