'You Are Not Alone': Meet the Woman Helping Rape Survivors Find Their Voice

It was almost two years after I had been raped that I found myself sitting in front of a camera, finally ready to talk about it.

I was midway through spring semester of junior year when my professor gave us an assignment requiring students to depict "feminism in your life." Immediately, I felt an uneasy sensation in the pit of my stomach: I couldn't help but think about my assault. Unable to admit to myself that I was actually raped, I had grown accustomed to suppressing what had happened.

I feared that facing the sexual assault head-on would cause me more suffering than simply pretending it never happened. I worried that others would confirm all of my self-doubts about the attack. I felt I was to blame for even putting myself in such a situation in the first place. I worried that what happened to me was just an unfortunate mishap, a hookup gone wrong. I felt as though I didn't have the right to turn around and call it anything else because I had, I thought, essentially signed up for it. Most of all, I was terrified people might think I was making a big deal out of nothing—which is what some of those closest to me had said directly after the fact.

When it came time to record my account of what had happened to me, I found myself stalling. It was late by the time I finally mustered up the courage to get the camera equipment, and it wasn't until three in the morning that I had the camera set up in the basement of the computer lab. Aside from the quiet comfort I got from my friend sitting across the way, the room was empty and I was alone. I pressed record and just sat there looking at the camera for a while; I guess I didn't realize beforehand that I wouldn't know what to say or where to begin. Then I started by recounting the events of that night.

It was, obviously, painful to relive what happened. It was hard to even get the words out. I think I struggled mainly because talking about it helped me see the facts: that what had happened to me was clear-cut and not confusing at all. The facts are as follows: I was drugged (although I'm still unsure whether premeditated or not), then both vaginally and anally raped, while on my period, with a tampon still in. It was hard to admit to myself. It was even harder to say out loud. But a weight had been lifted off me when I spoke into that camera, and for the first time, I felt like I could begin to move past what had happened. It became clear to me that my silence wasn't helping me forget about the rape—it was merely allowing me to avoid it. Only now do I recognize how exhausting that was.

On the day the assignment was due, I arranged the video for my classmates, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. I knew that, when it came down to it, I would have trouble vocalizing my thoughts to the class, so I let the video speak for me. I held my breath as I played it for them, hoping it would help them understand, hoping they'd be on my side, and terrified of what I would do if they weren't.

When the lights came on, I saw that some of my classmates were crying. As I began to open my mouth, I burst into tears before I could get a word out. I had told myself I wouldn't cry; I didn't want to make a big deal out of it or for it to be this dramatic scene. But it turns out they supported me more than I could have hoped for, and I no longer felt like I had to belittle what had happened to me. The whole experience was so emotionally overwhelming that it is hard for me to remember exactly what was said and by whom. I do remember that it was the very first honest conversation I had about being raped with people who related to me—whether from their own personal experience or from a place of compassion and understanding.

This is how it started: Be Heard, a project that essentially allows other survivors to do what I did for my class assignment: to share their story with the camera knowing that someone is there listening to them, supporting them, and making it clear that their voice matters. I want to make sure survivors have proper coping mechanisms at their disposal. Even if your family or friends aren't there for you, there are others out there who understand what you are going through and want to be there for you. I know all too well what it's like to use unsatisfactory methods of coping; if I had been introduced to a project like Be Heard, maybe I could have avoided going down the wrong path.

In the aftermath of the assault, I developed an unhealthy relationship with sex, having a series of one-night stands that I told myself were empowering but that really left me feeling used and upset. I was vulnerable and, not long thereafter, someone close to me assaulted me for a second time. Once again, I ignored it and continued having casual sex in an effort to numb the pain. And I'm not the only one. Most who have shared their stories with Be Heard speak about the unhealthy ways they tried to cope.

If I had the chance to go back, I would do things differently. I wouldn't ignore what happened—not just because I would have liked to see my rapist actually face the consequences of what he did, but mainly because I probably could have spared myself a little less pain. With Be Heard I'm trying to do just that for other survivors who haven't gone down the same road yet. I want others to know that they're not alone in being sexually assaulted and that they're not alone in feeling unable to speak up. Perhaps most importantly, I want the public to understand the scope of the issue by hearing survivors share their perspectives without fear.