When you didn't say no, but you also didn't say yes

It was the last week of school when I briefly considered flinging my body over the balcony of my third floor apartment. This wasn’t entirely unusual for me—I’ve suffered from depression since I was about twelve, and I’ve been a cutter since I was sixteen. But at Duke, I finally learned to handle my emotions in healthy ways for so long I thought of these issues in the past tense. It was something I had dealt with then moved on from. It was done. And then this happened.

I remember waking up in darkness, not immediately sure of where I was. I remember mumbling something incoherently as I tried to process my surroundings. I remember feeling his body pressed up against mine as I tried to move and realized I couldn’t. I remember him kissing me, his hands running up and down my body. I remember the rough movements and sloppy undressing. I remember it hurting when he did it, a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. And then everything went dark.

The next morning, I told my two best friends what happened. I felt disgusted— with the experience, yes, but mostly with myself. How could I let this happen? How could I get that drunk? Didn’t I know better? It’s crazy because if it were anyone else those questions wouldn’t even cross my mind. But it wasn’t someone else’s experience—it was mine. And it’s different when it happens to you, and all you can think about is what you could—and should—have done differently.

So there I was, the day after it happened, sobbing uncontrollably in my third floor apartment, clutching the sharpest object I could find, trying to talk myself out of the darkness I had long thought was gone. I didn’t know what to call what had happened, I still don’t really. I know women who have been raped, drugged, had their no’s repeatedly rejected, but that wasn’t me. I never said no, not once. I’m certain if I had yelled or thrashed or just done something, he would have stopped. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. I just laid there—drunk, incoherent, slipping in and out of consciousness. He took my body while I let him. And I hate myself for it every single day.

Two weeks after it happened, the guy I was seeing ended things. He couldn’t handle what had happened to me, so he left. And while that was devastating, getting my heart broken turned out to be the best thing to ever happen. Because it gave me time. I could be self-destructive and sad and people would write it off as me trying to get over him. But eventually, that allotted time passed, and it was expected that I would get better. I never did.

I think about having sex with a guy, his body on mine, and it makes me want to vomit. How am I ever supposed to be with someone again? And more than that, why would anyone be with me? I’m damaged, and because of my cutting that damage is immediately apparent. I now have self-inflicted wounds all over my body. Perfect, strategically placed marks, constant reminders of a pain and sadness I have no idea how to control. I look disgusting, and I know that. But at least how I feel on the inside now matches my outside. That night changed me, fundamentally and completely. Because even when I don’t think about it or close my eyes and feel it happening—both of which do occur—there is a darkness that follows me wherever I am.

Eating habits have changed too. I eat everything or nothing at all—but the drinking is constant. It started when I couldn’t sleep anymore. I’d lie in bed, heart pounding mind racing, as a deep panic took over. I’d get up and pace back and forth over and over, frantically trying to calm myself. It was unbearable. But I discovered that if I drank, I could sleep. But then it expanded beyond that, and pretty soon drinking wasn’t just used to socialize or fall asleep—it was used to function. I am rarely ever sober anymore, though that was never my intention. I just wanted to stop the chaos in my mind, the voice that plays like a loudspeaker on repeat, telling me I am worthless, useless, ruined, stupid, a failure and a disappointment. The voice that tells me all the terrible things I should do to myself. The voice that tells me I am nothing. I try to fight it, but it is there every day. And it terrifies me. While the drinking doesn’t make it go away, it at least blunts it.

Often I wonder if I’m crazy, mostly I just wonder if I’m alone. Because at a school of so many students, amidst friends I know love me, I feel completely and absolutely alone. I cut and drink to cope, but even that isn’t always enough. When I first wake up in the morning, when I’m riding the C-2, on my walk to class—those moments when it’s just me—I feel so incredibly hopeless. I hide it well, and I know that. On the outside I’m just an average Duke student. I get lunch with friends and complain about being busy. I’m involved in my sorority and several other organizations. I hold leadership positions and do research. I made Dean’s List last semester. I have perfected the art of presenting myself as a fully functioning young adult. But I am falling, fast, and I constantly feel like I am living two lives. It’s my best-kept secret and daily nightmare.