On Feb. 22, 2013, I wore a cream dress that I borrowed from my floormate. On Feb. 22, 2013, I went to a beach-side bar in Daytona. On Feb. 22, 2013, I was sexually assaulted.
I remember what I was wearing because I had to get the blood stains dry-cleaned out of it before I gave it back. And while there’s certainly a large portion of the night that I don’t remember, I can still remember the most important part.
The event was a date function with a fraternity, and it was during a period in my life when I was really struggling with depression and using alcohol to cope with it. That’s relevant because on the night in question, I got very drunk and upset, so I wandered off from the group to a nearby hotel to sit in the lobby and cool off.
The next thing I remember is being in the hotel elevator with a group of strange men who ignored my cries and my screams of “no” as one by one, they shoved their hands into my underwear.
They laughed to each other about having sex with me, but before that could happen, I managed to get out of the elevator and run for the stairs, away from the people who had just violated me. At some point, I tripped while I was running and scraped both my knees, so when my friends finally found me a few hours later, still drunk and stumbling next to a main road in Daytona, I was covered in tears and blood.
I had gone missing from the fraternity function — and let me state for the sake of clarity that while the Greek system may certainly be complicit in some assaults, I do not fault them at all for mine — so I received a call from the Dean of Students Office later that night. A short conversation with them to ensure that I was OK and not still missing, and it was all over.
They didn’t ask what happened, so my secret was safe, and I alone was left with the memories. Memories kept coming back to me and playing through my head. I would have panic attacks on campus when I saw Greek letters that reminded me of that night. I didn’t want anyone — friends, boys — to touch me, as their fingers felt just like the fingers of strangers creeping up my thighs, pushing aside my underwear, covering my mouth while I yelled “no.”
I blamed myself for it. You see, I did everything wrong. I was drunk. I was alone. I was wearing a revealing dress. I was the perfect case for victim-blamers. I was asking for it.
Except I wasn’t. I wasn’t asking to be assaulted. No one ever is. One in five college women are victims of attempted or completed sexual assault, and none of them want to be taken advantage of. Many assaults, like mine, will involve alcohol — 89 percent, actually. Most assaults, unlike mine, involve an attacker whom the survivor knows — a whopping 90 percent.
In a way, I’m lucky. I’ll never see the men who assaulted me again. I’m not dating them. I don’t live near them. I don’t have classes with them. Many survivors do not have this privilege. I’m also, in a way, lucky that I managed to get away before I was forced to have sex — something that I know would have been far more traumatic, although this does not lessen the validity of my or any sexual assault.
It’s been more than two years, and my life is so much better in so many ways, but sexual assault isn’t something you ever really get over. My knees still have scars from falling down the stairs. Sometimes I’ll still be triggered, always at the worst moments, and it’s hard to explain why you’re suddenly crying in the middle of a party.
The sad fact is that I’m not alone in this. So many, too many, people have stories like mine. Stories of unheard “no’s,” stories of unwanted touching, stories that they’ll never forget.
If you haven’t experienced assault, support and listen to the stories of survivors. Attend events like Take Back the Night, which took place this week, to see what you can do to end sexual assault and rape culture.
But if you are a survivor, I want to urge you, if you’re comfortable, to talk to someone about it, whether that’s a professional or just a friend. And I want to remind you that it’s never your fault, and that people exist who believe and support you. And even if it doesn’t seem like it, healing is possible.
Your assault doesn’t define you and you’re allowed to be sad or be angry or feel how you want to feel. And even if it still hurts sometimes, the scars on your knees will eventually fade and the blood will wash out of your dress and one day, things will seem a little bit better.
Robyn Smith is a UF journalism junior. Her column appears on Fridays.
[A version of this story ran on page 7 on 4/3/2015 under the headline “A story of survival: Sexual assault is never your fault and other lessons learned”]
