**Stress Warning** This post is a personal account of dealing with sexual assault. Please contact UBC Counselling Services or call VictimLink BC at 1-800-563-0808 if you need support with this issue.

On Nov. 11, 2013, I was sexually assaulted. This isn’t about how or by whom — this is about what I did once I got away.

I got home at 11:26 p.m. and talked to my roommates about what I thought had just happened to me. They were patient and listened. They supported me by simply allowing me to speak. Once I finished, they confirmed my suspicions and offered to go to the police and the hospital with me. I hadn’t yet decided what I wanted to do, so I just went to bed and woke up after a very restless night. I foolishly awoke thinking that I’d be fine. I had a shift at the collegium from 7:15 a.m. to 10:15 a.m., then at Koerner’s Pub from 10:30 a.m. to 4 p.m. I thought I’d be able to get through the day with only slight discomfort, as if I had a pebble in my shoe. After 30 minutes at the collegium, I started to cry. Those who know me well understand that crying is a very normal part of my life. But this was different. I wasn’t crying because I witnessed something sad or I was angry or happy. These tears were those of hopelessness. I knew I was hurt. And I knew I wasn’t myself.

I have a wonderful support system in my life. The next Collegia Community Assistant came in early because I knew I needed to leave. When I called Koerner’s Pub, my manager told me to take as much time as I needed. I went to UBC Counselling Services at 10 a.m. and spoke to my Collegia supervisor at 11 a.m. All of these interactions encouraged me that it was okay that I wasn’t okay. I had yet to tell my parents, which is very bizarre for me. I tell my parents everything — from when I see a cute boy, to how annoying I find a professor, to how much I love dark turkey meat. But I knew that dealing with my parents’ reactions would make everything that happened to me that night real. Not telling them made it seem less real somehow.

Seeing how much my assault hurt my parents was both devastating and affirming. It wasn’t my fault. What happened to me was truly horrible.

When I got home from talking with my supervisor, I had my roommate call the cops, who came to my house. This was the best experience I could hope for. Two male cops came and stood in my tiny, unacceptably messy room and allowed me to cry and make jokes about what happened to me. They supported me by not judging my reaction. They comforted me by reminding me that my reaction is normal and that I’m moving forward.

After four hours of talking about my assault, the cops told me what the law could do. It was difficult to hear that, because of the nature of my statement, I may have a hard time pressing charges. I entered the process not wanting to deal with lawyers or damages. I simply wanted the man in question to have a record. Even still, the reality that my sexual and physical assault was considered a “grey area” was hard to process. Why is there a grey area at all? Isn’t it black and white? The posters in the bathroom stalls on campus make it seem black and white. Even the “got consent?” clothes are white letters on black cloth. What the man did to me was assault. But, according to the law, it would be difficult to prove that I was assaulted because I didn’t verbally say “no” or “stop”; because I was on a date; because I entered his house willingly. The cops told me that it would be a clear-cut case if a stranger had assaulted me while I was walking on a street. My situation was different because I knew the man; because of the location we were in; because of the lack of verbal reaction. It didn’t matter that I was unable to speak. It didn’t matter that I tried to get away. To the law, this didn’t mean much. If we were to go to court, his lawyer could spin it and make it seem that I wanted or enjoyed it. I accept this. I understand this. But the operative word is “spin.” The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines this understanding of “spin” as: a special point of view, emphasis, or interpretation presented for the purpose of influencing opinion.

But after you strip everything else away, the facts remain: I was damaged. And he did that. He did that to me.

After a few days in bed (spent either watching 24, crying, or sleeping) and a daily walk, I was able to return to school. I was only able to do that because of my support system. I cannot even begin to express how much they did for me. My professors were understanding. Some cried and one swore, which was exactly what I needed. (I needed someone to be mad instead of sad. Thank you.) My bosses and supervisors gave me space and didn’t rush me back to work. The very few friends I told rallied around me. My roommates made me soup (it was the only thing I could eat for a few days), let me talk, watched movies with me, left me alone when I needed, and cuddled in bed with me. My Mom stroked my hair, took me to the pharmacy to get all the prescriptions I got from the ladies at VGH, and wrote prayers for me around my room. My Dad took me to all the places that the man and I talked about and loved. My Dad took me to these places because I needed to reclaim them. I needed to feel safe again. And for those of you who’ve seen my Dad, you know no one would want to mess with him, especially after his daughter was harmed.

I went back to classes and my daily life, but it was the dull version. I got a glimpse of what my life would be like if I didn’t work two jobs and wasn’t as involved as I currently am. It was quite boring, but exactly what I needed that week. I began to get back into work and campus life slowly. I dropped out of one class, but finished the other three. I enjoyed the exam period. I spent Christmas with my family and watched too much Alias. I was back. I was myself again. My faith and my support system are the two things that did that (Mr. Sutherland and Ms. Garner helped too). I thought that I was over it – I thought the storm had past, always and forever. But I have since learnt that even though the storm is behind me, the hurt returns, like a boat being knocked by the waves.

Then I went to the UBC Student Leadership Conference. Waneek Horn-Miller spoke of her experience with trauma when she was stabbed during the Oka Crisis. She stayed in bed for five days afterward. Her mother, a very strong and caring woman, came into her room on the fifth day and said the world would understand if she wanted to give up because she had a very legitimate reason. But her mom imparted a truth that I realized when I was coming home from the hospital the night after my assault: “If you give up, you’ll be giving [the person who hurt you] your dreams like a present.”

No one can have my dreams. NO ONE. I will not be a victim. I refuse. That is why I had to play Breezeblocks, which played on the evening of my assault, on repeat for days while I was in the shower, cooking dinner, on a run, on my way to class, and brushing my teeth. I reclaimed that song. That is why I went to counselling. That is why I was perfectly content taking some time off of school; I needed to allow myself to be made whole again. This is why I asked my dad to take me to Meat and Bread and throughout Granville Island. But even now, when I hear Breezeblocks and I’m not prepared, it still stops me in my tracks. The waves come; I feel hurt again.

My experience may have created a grey fog in my life, but I am here now – live in colour. There can be no grey area in sexual assault. It is black and white.

I encourage you to think about the effect our words and our actions have on others. I encourage you to engage in conversations during Sexual Assault Awareness Month here at UBC and beyond. I encourage you to seek answers and stories with a yearning to learn more and understand better. I encourage you to ask before engaging in a sexual act with someone.

And to those who’ve been sexually assaulted, I encourage you to know that beyond the grey fog there is a life full of vibrant colour. It will come again, even through the waves.

 

Note from the author: I did not write this because I want sympathy. I do not identify myself as a victim. I urge you to remember the last time you saw me. This will remind you that I am moving onward and upward. And that fills me with joy.