I am learning to speak. Listen.

Editor’s note: This story includes strong language, as well as mentions of sexual assault and self harm. A list of sexual assault reporting options and on-campus resources can be found on theNotre Dame,Saint Mary’s andHoly Cross websites. Mental health resources can be found on the Notre Dame, Saint Mary’s and Holy Cross websites. Additionally, per our Viewpoint policy, The Observer does not typically accept anonymous submissions. An exception was made in this case, owing to recent events and the importance of the Letter’s content to the campus conversation surrounding sexual assault.

The first time someone ever named it was at a party. I was playing “never have I ever” in a small circle with people I knew already, but didn’t know too well. Friends of friends, acquaintances from my major. And by that, I mean people that I would later get to know very well.

I was playing never have I ever and one of them said, “never have I ever had sex”. I remember making the mistake of hesitating, then uttering what I believed at the time to be the truth, “I don’t know if I have.” An uncomfortable laugh. A pause, and then one of the people playing shouted, not too serious, his finger pointed at me triumphantly, “sexual assault!”

Like he’d discovered something before the rest of us. Like he was the smartest one in the room and he’d beaten me to the punch.

And by that, I mean that I didn’t say it. I was once again left unable to speak.

And by that, I mean that he shouted, “sexual assault!” and I remembered his voice saying “you have great t*ts” in the same playful tone.

And by that, I mean an image congealed in my mind of the bruises from his thumbprints on my chest as I walked to the fridge and back pretending to laugh. And by that, I mean

I have a hard time saying “rape” out loud.

And by that, I mean that I put my smile back on and got as drunk as I could.

And by that, I mean sorry—

I know you don’t want to hear another rape story.

But, I mean, I didn’t ask to become one. I was minding my own business not being a walking crime scene and then I became one. And by that, I mean that now, every version of any story I can tell includes the word “rape.” Every sentence I can form about who I am includes the word ‘after’. My story is a rape story.

And by that, I mean, yes, I’m more than the things I have experienced but no, I didn’t really manage to survive these experiences and no, this isn’t the same person who played “never have I ever” at that party.

And by that, I mean I killed that person 3 times over.

And I think you know what I mean by that.

I mean that I’ve never liked my body, but now it disgusts me.

I mean that when I look at my college transcript, my eyes scan over the bad grades and I see rape, I look at my university diploma and I see rape, I look at how it took me an extra two years to get it and I see rape, I look at photos on Instagram and I see rape, I look at how I panic when people touch me and I see rape, I look at the scars I put on my body myself and I see rape—

And by that, I mean that I tried to get rid of it. I thought that if I destroyed my body, I could remove the stain.

And by that, I mean that there were a lot of times when sexual assault didn’t feel like a funny throw-away comment at a party.

And by that, I mean I’ve walked into a professor’s office to apologize for being a bad student for the 50th time that semester, hiding words carved into my skin underneath my sweater, feeling hot shame on the back of my neck, wishing I was able to say, “Sorry, I was assaulted, and I had another nightmare last night and I laid curled up in a ball for half an hour this morning trying to remind myself that it was not happening again and getting out of bed this morning took everything I had left in me.”

And by that, I mean that you didn’t just take my body, but you took my voice too.

And by that, I mean that you cut out my tongue, but left the rest of my mouth alone so you could fit your d*** inside of it.

And by that, I mean I can’t just get over it. Sorry.

And by that, I mean I wish I didn’t have to keep apologizing to people.

And by that, I mean I have a hard time saying “survivor” out loud because I’m not. I am something undead. I am a haunted space. I am ruined potential. I am a murder and resurrection in one.

I am trying my best.

And by that, I mean that I am so tired.

And by that, I mean that sometimes I just want someone to hold me, but when I have another person’s hands around me I feel like I am suffocating.

And by that, I mean you took this from me too.

And by that, I mean that I have met so many people who have been sexually assaulted. I have met so many people whose stories sound similar to mine. I am in awe of every single one of them.

The first time someone ever named it was at a party. I was playing never have I ever in a small circle, people I knew already, but didn’t know too well. A man shouts, not too serious, his finger pointed at me, “Sexual assault!”

Like he’d discovered something before the rest of us. Like he was the smartest one in the room and he’d beaten me to the punch. 

It was not my first assault. 

It was not my second. 

I was once again unable to speak.

And by that, I mean that I lost almost all of myself. But the parts that remained have learned to build back a body to live in, and I am taping back together my tongue with painters’ tape, and sometimes it falls apart and it is slow work and hard-won.

And by that, I mean that the person who played never have I ever at that party did not survive. I am someone different. But I am still here, nonetheless.

And by that, I mean that there is nothing beautiful about my brokenness. There is nothing triumphant. It is ugly. But it is mine.

And by all this, I mean

I was raped.

I was raped. And I am learning to speak. Listen.