Anonymous
Photography by Ally Szabo
Before reading this letter, we'd like for you to know it discusses an experience with sexual assault. If you think that reading about this will be triggering for you, we encourage you to take a pause before reading this letter, center yourself, and prepare any resources you may need to access after reading it. If you'd rather not read this letter, we encourage you to read a letter on a different topic, such as this one. If you're reading this, your feelings are valid.
If you’re reading this, know hard things may take time.
I have tried to write this letter dozens of times before today; it is hard to place words on something that seems so big. How do you define a moment when your life changed permanently? A tick on the timeline marking “before” and “after.” A moment you’ve always associated with sadness, anger, and hurt.
Well, I’m going to try one last time.
By the end of May, I will leave this school - I will have graduated and joined the rest of the world. Four years ago, this moment felt light years away. Four years ago, when the rest of the world was carrying on as it does, time felt still.
Just a month into my college career, I thought I had lost a part of myself. Even worse, I believed a part of myself was stolen from me. I felt like the rug had been pulled out from underneath me, before I had even had the chance to land my feet. I didn’t truly know the significance of what happened; all I knew was that I felt violated, cheated, and less than. I didn’t know who to turn to; who would understand me and not put me into a box? This new start to my life seemed like it had screeched to a halt.
Never having been prepared for a situation like this, it took me several days to ask for help. I finally sought medical attention, and when the doctor asked me if I had been raped, I thought my world had shattered to pieces. It all felt too real. To me, words like “rape” were whispered like curse words - weaponized by those who didn’t believe or understand. The word didn’t feel right in my mouth, piercing the sentence with stigma and accusation so razor sharp. It felt too drastic and dramatic to be used to describe an experience I lived through, when I always knew myself to be a responsible girl with a privileged life. Saying anything along those lines felt like I was shouting from the rooftops.
It makes me sad to know how embarrassed I felt in the weeks, months, and years after. I believed this moment was reflected in my character, that my value as a person was reduced to this moment outside my control. My thoughts turned to convincing myself I somehow deserved this. I was filled to the brim with shame and humiliation– as if I were guilty and this was my deepest secret. No person would want to associate with me, or love me, if they knew this. I felt doomed, trapped, and stuck in a headspace of regret and shame. I was imprisoned by my own definition of myself. While the people around me were evolving, it felt as though I were stuck in time, and I grew tired of being confined to this.
To “move on,” I found it was easier to blame myself than him. Pointing the finger at myself allowed me to believe I could fix what went wrong. I believed I could fix what hurt me so deeply. It allowed me to believe that there was a logical reason why this happened to me as opposed to someone else. If this were the case, there must be an adjustment I could make, right? I was impatient. I wanted to rid myself of this burden, of this story that made me feel so lonely and different. I wanted my life back to the way it was “before,” and I was angry I couldn’t get that on my own.
The days went on. The months passed by. The event felt more distant, yet still so present. While the physical markings faded, they were replaced by even deeper impressions in my spirit. I was unhappy - with myself, with the world. I was angry, and full of hate and disgust for this man who forced me to grow up faster than I intended to. Full of hate for this man who subjected me to the politicized, judgmental narrative of sexual assault. Full of hate for the man who forced me to now explain myself. But, as much as I hated him, I hated myself more.
How could I have let this happen? What could I have done differently? What if I didn’t wear whatever it was I had on? How could I have stopped it? Why didn’t I know what was happening until it was too late?
The more I searched for an answer, the more I learned that some things cannot be explained. Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason. Misfortune lands on the lives of many, and that is simply my case. I am certainly not the only person to experience this form of hardship, and in many ways, I still am quite lucky - but that doesn’t make my experience any less significant.
It takes time to heal, to move away from moments that you feel define you so strictly. There is not any universe in which my attacker could be seen in a positive light. He has to live with that burden for the rest of his life. As much as I wish I never had to go through this experience on my own, I learned so much about myself. As I waited restlessly for solace, for an explanation, for a glint of hope that I would see myself as more than this, I learned to be patient. After I stopped rushing myself through the grieving process, I slowly began to heal. I never understood why this had to happen, but I became at peace with the fact that I couldn’t change it. Allowing myself to set aside the narrative I had placed upon myself was no easy task. Realizing the truth of my situation was challenging. Changing the narrative I convinced myself of was uncomfortable. Yet, this being so difficult is what built me back stronger. It was not a quick process, but it was freeing.
I will never forgive that man for what he did to me. He had no right to take what he did that night. But I have the right to take back my life. I know in this world, the stakes still remain high. It pains me to know that putting my name on this story exposes me to potential negative repercussions. While I don’t hold the power to change the narrative of sexual assault in this world, I have the right to change the narrative I share about myself. I don’t share this story for recognition or praise; I do so to finally put it to rest - to rid myself of what I have held onto for so long. With this story, I bid my farewell to Villanova. There are many great things from this school that I wish to take with me in my next phase of life, but I hope to leave this one behind.
Anonymous, Villanova University
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