Posted on 04/02/2014 12:32:15 PM PDT by Responsibility2nd
Editors’ Note: This is a first-person, present-tense account of the aftermath of a sexual assault that took place in 2013. For reasons of both style and substance, we have left it in present tense.
I’m writing this piece as I’m sitting in my own dining hall, only a few tables away from the guy who pressured me into sexual activity in his bedroom, one night last spring. My hands are trembling as they hover across the keyboard. I’m exhausted from fighting for myself. I’m exhausted from sending emails to my resident dean, to my House Master, to my Sexual Assault/Sexual Harassment tutors, to counselors from the Office of Sexual Assault Prevention and Response, to my attorney. I’m exhausted from asking for extensions because of “personal issues.” I’m exhausted from avoiding the laundry room, the House library and the mailroom because I’m scared of who I will run into.
More than anything, I’m exhausted from living in the same House as the student who sexually assaulted me nine months ago.
I’ve spent most of 2013 fighting the Harvard administration so that they would move my assailant to a different House, and I have failed miserably. Several weeks ago, in a grey room on the fourth floor of the Holyoke Center, my psychiatrist officially diagnosed me with depression. I did not budge, and I was not surprised. I developed an anxiety disorder shortly after moving back to my House this fall, and running into my assailant up to five times a day certainly did not help my recovery.
“How about we increase your dose from 100 to 150 milligrams a day,” my psychiatrist said in a mechanical, indifferent voice. Sure thing.
This morning, as I swallowed my three blue pills of Sertraline and tried to forget about the nightmares that haunted my night, I finally admitted it to myself: I have lost my battle against this institution. Seven months after I reported what happened, my assailant still lives in my House. I am weeks behind in the three classes I’m taking. I have to take sleeping pills every night to fall and stay asleep, and I routinely get nightmares in which I am sexually assaulted in public. I cannot drink alcohol without starting to cry hysterically. I dropped my favorite extracurriculars because I cannot find the energy to drag myself out of bed. I do not care about my future anymore, because I don’t know who I am or what I care about or whether I will still be alive in a few years. I spend most of my time outside of class curled up in bed, crying, sleeping, or staring at the ceiling, occasionally wondering if I just heard my assailant’s voice in the staircase. Often, the cough syrup sitting in my drawer or the pavement several floors down from my window seem like reasonable options.
Dear Harvard: I am writing to let you know that I give up. I will be moving out of my House next semester, if only—quite literally—to save my life. You will no longer receive emails from me, asking for something to be done, pleading for someone to hear me, explaining how my grades are melting and how I have developed a mental illness as a result of your inaction. My assailant will remain unpunished, and life on this campus will continue its course as if nothing had happened. Today, Harvard, I am writing to let you know that you have won.
***
He was a friend of mine and I trusted him. It was a freezing Friday night when I stumbled into his dorm room after too many drinks. He took my shirt off and started biting the skin on my neck and breast. I pushed back on his chest and asked him to stop kissing me aggressively. He laughed. He said that I should “just wear a scarf” to cover the marks. He continued to abuse my body, hurting my breast and vagina. He asked me to use my mouth. I said no. I was intoxicated, I was in pain, I was trapped between him and the wall, and I was scared to death that he would continue to ignore what I said. I stopped everything and turned my back to him, praying he would leave me alone. He started getting impatient. “Are you only going to make me hard, or are you going to make me come?” he said in a demanding tone.
It did not sound like a question. I obeyed.
She contacted an attorney but not the police. She does not explain why, so we don’t know.
_____________________________________
This is very telling. Her lawyer probably told her she could could file charges with the police, and perhaps even sue the boy. But after all is said and done - she would lose.
Her anonymous letter here? Probably the last desperate resort she could think of. Correction. I wouldn’t be suprised if she doesn’t take this public with Tweets and Facebook postings.
He continued to abuse my body, hurting my breast and vagina.My guess would be yeah, pretty sure.
When the administration stonewalls, go to the police. Or just go to legal authorities in the first place.
More of the left’s war on women.
Or perhaps her story is a hoax, it didn't happen the way she says, she was willing at the time, and now is unhappy because the one night of sex was not followed by promises of undying commitment.
Girls should be told repeatedly during orientation: "If you are not interested in having sex with a guy, STAY OUT OF HIS ROOM". And preferably, stay sober too.
Her father needs to take care of this matter.
Well said. It is the proper position.
It’s stupid that she gave in and regrets it
***
It’s also stupid that she stumbled into his room after too many drinks.
+1
At “The Crimson” sidebar, right below the link for this article, there is another link to an article: “15 Hottest Freshmen of class ‘17”
Our culture is soaked in sex, and we don’t even know how wet we are. Woman will bear the brunt of the sexual revolution.
This woman will never find peace until she admits to herself that her own irresponsible behavior led her to be raped, as surely as if she had staggered into the street & was hit by a car.
I hope she learns the lesson that she alone is primarily responsible for her own safety AT ALL TIMES, & that depending on others after the incident to make you feel better is not necessarily gonna happen.
Harvard people think talking solves all problems.
Like I said before, morons.
I recognize that face.
Oh, is, is, is something or other.
Wear it like a medallion Hillary, you have earned it...
This sounds more like a rape. Not a Rape Rape.
Move on/
‘Her father needs to take care of this matter.’
He can start by explaining to his daughter that men, even those you trust and are friends with, are always interested in sex with any women that are willing. Showing up drunk and vulnerable shows more than a little willingness and a lot of stupidity.
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