A little over a month ago, on International Women’s Day, I was drugged on Sixth Street and subsequently raped by a St. Edward’s University alumni. I was a virgin. 

I have no memory from 11:30 p.m. until 10 a.m. There isn’t one visual. There isn’t one sound. There isn’t one smell. As I strain myself to remember anything, it’s as if there is a massive black hole that represents that night in my mind. 

On March 8, I learned the meaning of the word “terror” when I woke up in a foreign bed in a foreign apartment off campus and next to a man whom I only knew as a former Resident Assistant from St. Edward’s. I knew his first name and nothing more. 

The smell was almost unbearable. It was a mix of what I assume the aftermath of sex smells like and the pungent odor of my own vomit. 

Before going out on the night of March 7, I watched President Barack Obama’s address in honor of International Women’s Day. It hit me hard when he said, “In too many parts of the world, girls are still valued more for their bodies than they are for their minds.”

I didn’t realize that in a few hours, Obama’s words would be an accurate description of my recently destroyed self-image and perception of society’s view of me as a young woman. Moreover, for the first time, I really realized that women’s rights and respect for women aren’t issues only in the Middle East, North Africa, war-torn regions or other far-off parts of the world. These issues are very real in the United States, in Austin and on the St. Edward’s campus.

I am an honors student. I have an almost perfect GPA. I was a NCAA athlete. If I still graduate in May, I will do so with two majors. My work can be found in world-renowned publications, but right now I feel like that doesn’t mean anything. I feel like my body is the only part of me that matters.

As I look around society, I’m filled with rage. I don’t know if there is a word that accurately describes the extent of my emotions, but I think rage is on the right track. I can’t get away from the sexualization of the female body and the utterly repulsive victim shaming that seems to penetrate all levels of society.

I’ve experienced the victim shaming in personal relationships, and I’ve seen it on a national stage.

Recently, an Ohio congresswoman shared her story about how she was raped while serving in the military, and a congressman laughed at her. Not many people know what happened to me, but one person who I told asked why I went to that part of Sixth Street. Another friend told me that it’s slutty girls’ fault, because they give men the idea that women are easy.

That’s a lie. Rape is always the rapist’s fault.

I should not have to defend myself. No victim should ever have to defend themselves, but we live in a society that all but requires it.

We’ve all heard these revolting ways that people shame the victim:

What was she wearing?

I think I looked cute that night. I wore something I’ve worn to class and to church before. I was wearing boots without a heel, a non-cleavage-showing shirt and a cardigan.

The problem, though, is that it shouldn’t matter if I was naked, but if I said “no” or did not have the capacity to consent. That means I didn’t want to have sex.

She shouldn’t have drunk so much.

I was drugged, and that decision was made for me. However, not saying “no” because of drugs or alcohol does not mean I wanted to have sex. I don’t know if I said no. I don’t know if I was lying there like a dead body or somewhat coherent, but I do know that “no” means “no,” being drugged means “no,” being drunk means “no” and throwing up on yourself means “hell no.”

She was a slut anyway.

I was a virgin. End of story. Even if I would have had sex with random people every weekend, I should get to decide what goes in my own body and when.

The counselor has told me that rape is not about sex, but rather about power. With that in mind, why do we tell girls to act less sexual to prevent rape when it’s not a sexual act? It literally makes no sense to me.

I’ve probably taken 100 showers since that night, but I cannot get the feeling of being dirty off my skin. The horrible hickies have healed, but my heart is still broken. I don’t know how or if it will ever heal. I’m completely irrational. One second I’m kind of okay, and the next second I’m incredibly sad or shaking with anger.

When I go to bed, some nights I find the will to pray for him. He has an obvious problem. Some nights when I say the words to the Lord’s Prayer, I struggle to even think the words, “forgive those who trespass against us.” Some nights I fantasize about attacking him.

I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know what I want from life. I didn’t know how cruel the world could be. Through this process, I learned that my mom was raped and my grandma as well. When does this cycle end?!

Maybe when we stop blaming the victim.