I’m angry.I’m angry because when B, a guy that lived in my apartment complex, asked if he could drink with my friends, C and R, and me, I said sure and told him my apartment number.
I’m angry because B convinced us to go back to his apartment with our bottle of tequila.
I’m angry because when my friends started making out in B’s apartment and I decided to go back to my own, B came with me, uninvited.
I’m angry because I can’t remember what happened between leaving B’s apartment and crying and begging him to stop as he pulled my clothes off.
I’m angry because B, who was almost 30 and at least twice my size and had a pocketknife on him – although not out – and had attended some sort of military academy in the past, was taking off my clothes and touching me and saying things like “let’s 69” while I cried and said, “Stop, I want R, please go get R.”
I’m angry because I froze.
I’m angry because when I did try to move, he put his knee on my leg to pin me down, and I was afraid of him.
I’m angry because when I begged him not to have sex with me, he told me, “I won’t; I don’t have a condom.”
I’m angry because I convinced him to let me go, to stop, if I gave him a blow job.
I’m angry because I was crying too hard to even give a blow job, and he was pissed because I “used teeth.”
I’m angry because when my friends knocked on the door and interrupted, they didn’t try to make him leave, even though I was crying and begging them to get him to go away.
I’m angry because B told his friends everything that happened – including the parts where I cried and begged him not to – and none of them thought it was wrong.
I’m angry because his friends told me I shouldn’t be embarrassed and that they didn’t judge me for what happened, like it was my fault.
I’m angry because his friends jokingly nicknamed him “The Rapist.”
I’m angry because when I told R what had happened before he and C interrupted, he acted surprised – not because of the assault but because I was upset about it. “It’s not like that won’t happen again,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”
I’m angry because when I reported the assault to the police, unsure whether I wanted to press charges yet, the female cop twisted my story around and told me I had led B on, that it was a misunderstanding, that it was my fault because I was drinking.
I’m angry because the cop told me it wasn’t a sexual assault – it was an “incident,” and I couldn’t press charges because “nothing happened.” She told me it was consensual. She told me I could hang out with him in his apartment, but I shouldn’t invite him back to mine.
I’m angry because the cop told me she wouldn’t call the witnesses I provided in my statement, and then she called every single one of them – presumably including B, who lived a floor away from me.
I’m angry because when I told a guy who grabbed my ass at a party not to touch me, he laughed in my face like I had said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
I’m angry because when my boyfriend tried to get the guy who grabbed my ass to leave the party, the guy’s friends cornered me, laughing in my face and taunting me: “Oh yeah, I’m going to go get raped now, ha ha ha.”
I’m angry because at that party, two of my sorority sisters found me crying and screaming that I had been sexually assaulted, being taunted by guys, and they told me to “shut the fuck up” and “stop making it the fraternity’s problem.” One of them tried to punch me in the face (and almost succeeded).
I’m angry because my sorority did not take the incident seriously, and both girls are still active members while I gave up my senior year in the house to get away from those girls and an organization that condones victim blaming and violence.
I’m angry because that sorority’s philanthropy is working to prevent domestic violence.
I’m angry because when I walked in on a sober guy having sex with my friend, who was so drunk she could barely talk or walk and had repeatedly told me she didn’t want to have sex with him, I was the only one that thought what was happening was wrong.
I’m angry because a girl I thought was my friend grabbed me and shook me, saying, “I’ve been raped too, you just need to get the fuck over it” because I was crying about being assaulted.
I’m angry because people tell me “at least you weren’t raped.” What happened to me could have been so so much worse, but does that mean it’s okay, that it doesn’t count?
I’m angry because my friends are embarrassed when I call someone out for victim blaming or even raping someone.
I’m angry because B took college away from me and turned it into so many negative experiences.
I’m angry because society wants me to stay quiet and be ashamed and feel like this was my fault.
I’m angry because it’s such a big problem, and I’m such a small person.
I’m angry because I have a little sister.
I’m angry because one day I might have a daughter.
I’m angry because the idea of having a daughter makes me cry.