This is a post that I had debated whether or not to write, as it’s deeply personal, but ultimately decided to write for the sake of others as well as myself. I’ve received a couple of requests to write about this, and it’s been my experience that sharing such stories often makes one realise she’s not alone, not to mention the handfuls of people who benefit from hearing personal accounts. That being said, I apologise for the length of this post.

I am twenty years old. I am a sophomore at a relatively prestigious university in Boston with an excellent gpa, and I am going to graduate next May. I am a law-abiding citizen and what most people would consider a good person. I go to Mass each week, I donate money each week regardless of how measly my funds are and I go to confession at least once a month. I volunteer, I study hard and I live my faith. I love my family, I love my friends and I love my boyfriend of a year and a half. In most regards I am not so very different than any other young woman my age; I have similar hopes and dreams and fears.

Up until two weeks ago, I believed that — that I was like most other young women, and women in general. Since then I have been living a life of pain, afraid to sleep and anxious of night, and fully struggling to maintain a normal existence and keep it together. On April 18th, on my way back to my room — from a weekly volunteer meeting, no less — I was physically and sexually assaulted.

I normally attend these meetings with two of my friends and would not have been walking alone if it had not been for the fact that they had papers due the next day. It was between 9 and 9:30 at night when I headed back, and it happened on an overpass above the highway, on a usually relatively busy street. I had my headphones on and two men in dark sweatshirts with hoods approached me, walking from the opposite direction. They stopped and the man nearest me tapped me on the arm. I stopped and took off my headphones. He asked me if I had change for a five and I apologised and told him that I didn’t have any money on me at all. I proceeded to put my headphones back on and took a step or two before I felt my arm being tapped again. I took my headphones off again thinking the man was going to ask me directions to the nearest T-stop. At this point my memory is a little fuzzy as to the exact words the man said, but it was something along the lines of, “Hey, what’s a pretty girl like you doing out here alone at night? Why don’t you come on back with me to my place.” I nervously laughed and proceeded to lie through my teeth, saying, “No, thanks. I’m on my way home; I have to meet a friend to study.” I wasn’t meeting anyone, but he didn’t know that. I quickly took another step or two before he grabbed my arm and said, “You don’t understand. That wasn’t a question.” I tried to pull away and told him to let me go. Still holding my arm, he pushed me roughly. I fell into the metal bar railing on the sidewalk of the overpass — face first. My mouth hit the bar and I busted my lip. In order to prevent myself from falling over, I grabbed the bar to steady myself, but before I could pull myself back up he grabbed my arm again and yanked me to my feet, pulling me close to him. He grabbed both of my arms, holding them down with my palms facing up. I tried to pull away, but he only gripped my forearms tighter and pulled me closer to him. I told him to let me go. He didn’t say anything, only brought his face close to mine. I looked away, but I could smell alcohol on his breath. He brought his head near mine and lowered his face, brushing his lips against my neck. Again, I pleaded with him and told him to stop and tried to pull away. He lowered his face to my chest and rubbed his face against it and then brushed his lips against my breasts.

It was at this point that I lost the ability to speak. The lump in my throat was much too big. I couldn’t plead with him. I couldn’t yell at him. I couldn’t scream for help. I was panicking, completely unsure of what he was planning to do or what was going to happen. His friend did nothing. He simply stood by and watched. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t think; I could only panic. After brushing his lips against my breasts he released one of my arms — which one, I can’t remember — and lifted his own up to my chest. He touched my breast and groped it. I brought my free arm up and shoved him in the chest, pulling my other arm free from him. I immediately turned and tried to run. He lunged after me and got ahold of my left wrist and yanked me back. My body lurched back and spun around, and as I spun back around, without even realising what I was doing, I brought my fist up and punched him in the face. Blood immediately started flowing everywhere, even getting on my hand. He yelped in pain, pulled his hand to his nose and screamed, “You bitch!” With his other hand he hit me, knocking me down. I fell on the ground, landing on my left side, and before I knew what was happening, he was kicking me in the ribs on my right side. He stopped to attend to his nose while I lie on the ground with the air knocked out of me, unable to breathe for the longest ten to fifteen seconds of my life. Then I pulled myself up and ran. As I ran past my attacker, he grabbed my shirt. It strangled me briefly, but I didn’t stop. My shirt ripped completely from the front to the back, exposing my bra and my wounded side. I just ran. I didn’t look back. I didn’t even notice the stabbing pain in my side. When I got back, I threw my shirt away immediately. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want it anywhere near me. Then I showered several times to get the blood off my hand and the filth off me. I was unable to remove the blood, but the filthy feeling didn’t go away. I called Steven to tell him what happened and then I went to bed in hopes that I’d wake up to find it had all been a bad dream.

It wasn’t a dream, though. I have two broken ribs on my right side and one cracked rib on my left side to prove otherwise and to remind me. The pain now is as bad as it was two weeks ago, and from what the doctor told me, it’s not going to improve any for some weeks still. Everything hurts — showering, combing my hair, dressing, undressing, carrying my backpack, opening doors, lifting things. I get exhausted easily. Showering, getting ready and going up or down a floor of stairs is exercise.

That’s just the physical, though. It says nothing of what I’m feeling emotionally or psychologically. It says nothing of the nightmares I have every time I sleep — and that’s when I sleep. (I sleep even less now; I’m afraid to. The nightmares are so terrible that I’ve come to prefer the torturous nature of sleeplessness and extreme fatigue over them.) It says nothing of the fear and anxiety I feel when the sun begins to set each day, because I’ve become afraid of night. It says nothing of the heightened awareness I’ve developed, how I notice every time someone enters or leaves a room or every time someone moves. It says nothing of my own guilt and my own anger toward myself because I sit and wonder if this is my fault and whether or not I could have prevented this. It says nothing of my feelings, of the filth I feel and can’t clean off. I feel dirty. I feel violated. I feel as if my innocence was taken. Yet, of all the feelings I feel, not one of them is anger or hate towards the man who did this to me, because whatever I’m going through is nothing compared to what he is or will be going through. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to go through life living with the knowledge of having done such a thing.

For the past two weeks I’ve felt completely isolated and completely different from other people. The truth, though, is that I’m not. Most women will never experience what I have or feel the way I feel, and I am whole-heartedly thankful for that. However, too many will. One out of three women will be assaulted at some point in their life. That number is alarmingly high. One out of three women will know the physical, emotional and psychological pain I feel sometime during their lives. The fact that I have so much in common with so many women is not a consolation or a comfort. It’s frightening.

It may not seem like it at times, but this world is a wonderful place. There are wonderful things and wonderful people in this world worth fighting for. I have trouble seeing that now, but before two weeks ago I could see that, and I have no doubt that I will again. Even as I myself struggle with this, I have this one word above all others to say to all the women who, too, have experienced the travesty of assault: hope.