I was sexually assaulted on New Year’s Eve. I’m fine, don’t worry, I’m okay.

Except that I’m not.

I’ve alluded to what happened a few times so far, but I’ve stopped shy of actually outright talking about it. I mean, how do you talk about something like that? It’s so heavy and intense and I feel guilty every time I tell someone because then it’s not just my heavy and intense burden, it’s theirs as well (Which is not to say that people haven’t been supportive, because they have. Without exception. I have wonderful friends and I’m so grateful for them).

Being in a foreign city when a crime happens to you is scary. I’ve never had to report a crime before, and I’ve never had to do it over the phone. I didn’t expect to be interviewed over the phone and I was unprepared and it was scary. Afterwards, I was shaking so hard I couldn’t put my sweater on, and my breathing was so constricted I thought I was having an asthma attack. I don’t even remember catching the train to my best friend’s house; when she opened the door, I burst into tears.

I’m not a person that cries easily in front of other people. I’m not a person that finds it easy to talk honestly and openly to other people about what I’m *actually* feeling. The last four weeks, I’ve cried myself to sleep almost every night. It’s hard not to think about what happened, it’s hard not to remember, it’s hard to think of anything else. It’s so lonely when everyone else has gone to sleep and there’s nothing to do except lie awake in the dark and think.

But I’m not just sad, I’m angry.

I’m not angry that the guy who assaulted me will probably never be apprehended or charged. I’m angry that he could take advantage of someone so clearly inebriated. I’m angry that I said no, repeatedly, and he didn’t even respect me enough as a person to acknowledge that. He probably doesn’t even realise that he did something wrong. I mean, otherwise he wouldn’t have done it, right?

I’m angry that something some stranger at some shitty warehouse party did to me could make me feel so guilty and ashamed. I’m angry because there were so many other people there and someone must have seen something but no one intervened. I’m angry, and I’m also tired and scared.

I’m scared because what if it was actually kind of my fault? What if I’d worn jeans instead of a skirt? What if I hadn’t taken that half tab of acid? What if I had gone home earlier? Maybe I didn’t say no emphatically enough? (although it’s hard to misinterpret the meaning of “please don’t rape me”). I’m scared to be in situations (large crowds of people, drugs, alcohol) where it might happen again. I mean, I couldn’t even stop it from happening the first time.

Logically, intellectually, I know that it’s not my fault, that what happened was a crime, but logic isn’t what keeps me awake at night.

I’m also scared that I’ll never be sexually attracted to anyone again. I’m scared that I’ll never be able to touched again without wanting to puke. I’m scared that I’ll never stop being reminded of what happened.

I want to be able to think of men without my palms going clammy and my mouth feeling dry. I want to be able to pass fair-headed men in the street without feeling faint and seeing dark spots in front of my eyes. I want to be normal again, or the closest thing there is.

When I phoned the police officer in charge of my case to inform him that I was returning to New Zealand, he asked if there was a way to contact me. So I gave him my email address, and he sent me an email saying,

“Chin up young lady, you have your whole life ahead of you. […] Use that smart brain of yours to achieve bigger and better things to make a positive difference to the world.”

I don’t want to ascribe any deeper meaning to his words but he’s right, you know. What happened doesn’t define me or who I am.

I have my whole life ahead of me.