I didn’t last two days in college

I didn’t last two days in college

A #SurvivorStory by Drew

I was sexually assaulted on my second night of college. I was the one sober kid walking drunk freshmen back to their rooms. My attacker was one of those drunk freshmen, blacked out on tequila. From the second I got them to their empty dorm room, things went south. My back was to a wall and, no matter how many times I tried to push them off, they just kept going. I can still hear them saying “I have to” over and over and over.

At first, I was completely vulnerable with strangers. When everyone’s in their first week of college, there’s no one to cry with other than strangers. After two weeks, I started to become socially isolated. My attacker was everywhere on campus; I became a sort of recluse. By the end of the year I was either in my dorm room or the university’s interfaith center praying that things would get better.

By the time I got myself together enough to report to Title IX, Public Safety, and county police, my attacker had admitted to sexually assaulting me in a group-chat of over 20 students.

Even with a written statement admitting to sexual assault, the university found my attacker not responsible. I sent pages upon pages of appeals. After months of waiting, I received a single page response telling me I was simply incorrect with no support for this claim. I appealed again. A vice president of the university responded, denying my claims again without support.

After this, the dean of students told me she hopes the courts hold my attacker responsible, but she would do nothing to change the school’s actions.

My university falsely accused me of retaliation and would not drop their claim, even when I had the support of lawyers specializing in the subject, forcing me to go through a full university conduct process during finals where I was ultimately found not responsible.

Ultimately, I left the university. I left the continent for three months just to put as much space between and what happened as possible. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I spoke to the people who were the first to find out what happened.

I still can’t think about Boston without getting angry. I still can’t smell tequila without flashbacks.

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