989 days, 3 hours, 18 minutes, and 47 seconds later

989 days, 3 hours, 18 minutes, and 47 seconds later

To the small town, liberal arts college quarterback that sexually assaulted me,

It’s been 989 days, 3 hours, 18 minutes, and 47 seconds since you assaulted me. I have a lot of things I’ve been wanting to say for the past two years, but I haven’t been able to put them into words.

First of all, what you did was rape. Yet, two years and 9 months later, I’m not able to use that word. I’ve never been able to use it because I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed of what you did to me, of the way you made me feel, and the way I continue to feel to this day.

I still go back to that night, February 28, when I met you 10 minutes before you assaulted me. I was with a friend who I thought was trustworthy, but let you lead me from the path to the party we were going to up to your room. We had only met 10 minutes ago. Why did you take me to your room? She told me I was drunk and assumed I wanted it. My passing out from drinking too much should have told you no. You having to hit my head in the wall should have told you no. You having to pry my clothes off of me should of said no. You having to drag my limp body around your bed should have said no. I should have said no.

I remember very little except waking up at 4 am, naked in your bed, feeling more scared than I had ever been. I was in pain. I got up to use the bathroom in your dorm, at a college I’d never been. Realizing I had no clothes on me, I figured out what you did. I snuck out to use the bathroom, to try to make a plan. I had left everything for this out of town visit in my friend’s dorm. I couldn’t drive home. I couldn’t do anything. I texted her, and of course had no answer. I had to come back to the room where you had just ruined me and lay there until she returned my message. When I was leaving, you asked for my number. I gave you random digits because I never wanted to hear from you again. As I was leaving your dorm, I saw the first flowers from spring starting to bloom. Irony at it’s finest.

You were the second person I’ve ever had sex with. I had actually broken up with the first love of my life a month prior and was already depressed.

I had anxiety for months. I developed a drinking problem and an eating disorder. I took anxiety medicine to sleep so I didn’t have nightmares. I worked out for 2 hours a day and ate very little. I wanted to die.

The summer after freshman year, I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. I felt I had no control over anything in my life, and I thought having sex with strangers would fix that.

It didn’t.

Sophomore year of college, still in this terrible phase of life, trying to meet someone new, I saw you on Tinder.

I have never felt so nauseous in my life. Curious to see if you’d remember me, I swiped right. Turns out you remembered the girl you took advantage of. You asked me if I wanted to come back for more. I asked you about the night, telling you all I remember was being unconscious. You lied to me. You told me I talked during, that I complimented how great you were. I thought this was funny, because all I remember is you slamming my head into your wall when I tried to argue and say no. You asked me to come meet you back at your dorm. I told you I’d consider it. I never responded. That was the last of you.

I was upset with myself. I wanted to ask why. Why did you, a 6’1 220 pound football quarterback, think carrying a 5’4 130 pound to your dorm to have sex with was ok? What about that night was ok?

Flash forward 2 more years. I’m in a loving and healthy relationship with someone of almost a year and a half now. I still take anxiety medicine. I still have nightmares of you assaulting me. I still have trust issues. I still get triggered when there’s a scene on TV where a man is getting rough with a woman because I know where that leads. I still can’t 100% trust the most loving person in my life. I am still broken, 2 years later.

I’ve realized I’m just less broken, and that’s ok.

For 989 days, I’ve pretended I’ve been fine. I thought I healed, but I haven’t. But no matter what, because of you, I’m stronger than I’ve ever fucking been. And that’s the real, hard, truth.

A.B, #19, the quartback at that stupid small town college,

I’ll be ok.

And last of all,

What you did was rape.

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Hi! I'm Heather, a blogger here on When You're Ready.org Sexual assault is something extremely personal and important to me, and I’m trying to use my own experiences with it to help others deal with theirs. No one should feel alone in his or her experiences. While I can’t stop these things from happening, hopefully spreading knowledge will help people learn how to handle sexual assault. I want the world to be a place where people feel safe to talk about their experiences to ensure they can heal. Keep talking, Keep sharing. When You're Ready, I'll be here.



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