I need you to know that “locker room talk” matters.

I need you to know that words matter.

Because words condone actions.

And if you condone causal banter insinuating sexual assault, if you condone rape jokes, if you treat a woman’s “pussy” like a book on the shelf that’s just yours for the taking, you’re creating a hostile environment for victims of sexual assault.

I’m not going to waste my time or yours by looking up sexual assault or campus rape statistics. We all know the numbers. If you don’t, give it a Google. It’s worth a Google.

The problem with numbers, though, is that they only tell you part of the story. They desensitize you. They make you think “oh shit” for a second or two before you go about your day just as you had before. But the details matter. The story matters. And for the survivors, it doesn’t go away after a moment of thinking, “oh shit”. I’m not sure it ever goes away.

So here are three stories. Three stories of brave women, strong women, women whom agreed to open up to me because they, too, need you to know that this happened. My motive for writing this is really simple- I want you to remember these women. I want you to remember these stories. I want you to remember these words the next time derogatory remarks are made about women; the next time a rape joke is made; the next time sexual assault is deemed "locker room talk". Because guess what? It happens. It's happening, everywhere, all the time, and it needs to stop.

(Not that it matters, but some of these happened on our campus. Some did not. But the point is, it happens everywhere. I also recognize that these are exclusively heteronormative narratives and apologize for the lack of perspective in that regard.)

“I need you to know that they grabbed me by the pussy”

First of all, I wasn’t going to agree to this (no offense), mainly because it hurts to talk about. It sucks to think about. But given the video that’s surfaced regarding Donald Trump’s “lewd comments”, I need people to know that this stuff happens. I need them to know that it happened to me.

I was a drunk freshman girl, drinking warm beer in a frat basement, wearing a skirt that was too short. It was the third weekend of college and I had lost my friends in a crowd. I was dancing with a guy whose name I didn’t know, whose name I still don’t know. And he was bigger than me. And his hands kept trying to go up my skirt, despite my objections, despite my visible discomfort. And for you naysayers out there, I said “no” seven times. I said, “don’t” five, and “stop” three.

And yeah, I should’ve walked away, or tried to find my friends, or gone back to my dorm. It was right across the street after all, with pizza even on the way. But I was a drunk freshman girl, drinking warm beer, wearing a skirt that was too short. I didn’t want to cause a scene; I didn’t want to be a bitch. Because that’s the worst thing of all, right?

So I held his hands on top of my skirt, searching the room for my friends, trying to remember where exactly the staircase out of there was, anyway. And that worked for a while. Until two of his buddies surrounded me. Until they backed me into a corner. Until it was six hands, and suddenly I couldn’t hold them all.

I can count on one hand the people in my life I’ve told, and I never reported it. Truthfully, I buried it somewhere until the Brock Turner case this summer. Because she did everything right, you know? She had a rape kit, she had witnesses, she reported it, and I didn’t even know their names. It kills me that I don’t even know their names. It kills me that I think about what happened every night I go out, every time I meet someone at a bar or club, every time the name Brock Turner is mentioned. It kills me that it’s affected my sex life, and that I’ll probably never be able to just go home with someone like another college girl at a party. It kills me that I’ve yet to have a day go by without thinking about it, even if it’s just for a second, but I doubt the boys involved give it any thought at all. It kills me that, if anything, I was simply their “twenty minutes of action” that night. But I need you to know that this happened. I need you to know that they grabbed me by my pussy. And I need you to know that every time someone excuses that comment, every time it’s labeled “harmless”, it pierces my heart like a knife. And in some small way, I’m thankful that Donald Trump made that comment. I’m thankful he gave me a reason to type up what happened to me, and I’m thankful he reminded me, yet again, that I’m no less strong for what they did to me… only weak men do that to women.

“I still have to convince myself that there’s nothing I could’ve done”

I don’t really know how to start, and I’m not sure I ever will know how to start. I can tell the same story a hundred times and the only thing that remains is the lack of emotion. I guess if I sound like I care, I’ll have to deal with all the feelings again.

Numbness is easier.

I was raped a month into my freshman year of college. I want to tell you that I wasn’t drunk, that I wasn’t on any drugs. I want to tell you we were sober on that Sunday night. I want to tell you that I told him no. I want to tell you I told him no three times. I want to tell you I knew him and we’d hooked up before. There are so many things I want to tell you, but they don’t matter. Because he raped me. He raped me. It was his decision. It was his fault. And regardless of how logical I am, I still have to remind myself. I still have to convince myself that there’s nothing I could’ve done. I have to tell myself over and over again that it’s natural to stop responding in that situation. It’s understandable that I shut off.

First, I pretended it didn’t happen. I called it “sexual assault”, like that was somehow better than “rape”. Rape reminded me that his dick was actually inside me.

Then, I pretended it didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t waiting until my wedding night, when I was with a person I was absolutely sure loved me for more than my sex. I just didn’t want to be sad about it.

Finally, I stopped trying to be his friend. I stopped pretending. He made it abundantly clear that he didn’t understand what was wrong with his actions, so I did what I was dreading and reported the assault.

Reporting it was painful. They ask you really personal questions. You have to be very blunt and plain and it can be uncomfortable. I was lucky that I kept the text messages from him confirming that it happened. I was lucky that he didn’t argue that it happened. But it was still absolutely awful having to tell the same story multiple times in excruciating detail to strangers.

The worst was probably the actual hearing itself. My rapist’s opening remarks were that rape had too harsh of a connotation and he wasn’t a rapist. I mean, I don’t know what else to call his dick being inside my vagina without my consent, but *shrug*. He was suspended for the following school year.

Not having him around campus didn’t necessarily stop me from thinking about it. I tried to transfer, but that didn’t work really well. I never told my parents what happened and they were very skeptical about me wanting to change schools. Even when they gave in, I was waitlisted for the school I applied to. After finishing two years, it didn’t make sense to do the other two somewhere else, so I stayed. I told myself it would just be two years and I would never see this kid again anyway.

I don’t know if it’s gotten easier to think/talk about. It kind of just comes and goes in waves. I don’t know if I’ll ever be “over it,” but I do have hope that it won’t dictate my life or my actions towards others. I strive to be more than what has happened to me while still using my experiences to help others. It can be hard to balance and I definitely fail sometimes, but going forward, that’s always my focus.

“At least I asked”

I was an RA in college, and for each break all staff members were required to lock up the residential halls. Working alone was prohibited; it was late and the buildings were empty, as all residents had left for vacation. Working in pairs was meant to keep us safe. So when a senior on staff insisted we work together, I agreed without concern.

It started with comments discussing how much better porn was if you paid for the premium videos, which lead to him insisting I join him sometime, despite meeting just 10 minutes prior. After I casually mentioned my pet cat, he spoke emphatically how he’d hunt down my cat, skin it, cook it in chili and feed it to me… all the while acting as if this was an appropriate way to interact with a stranger. The lock-up only took a couple hours, so at the end of the day I brushed off this encounter as bizarre and put it behind me.

Our next break, he insisted we locked up together again as “we worked so well together last time”. I ignored the horrible pit in my stomach; he vocalized his wish to work with me so publicly, and I didn’t want to seem difficult in front of my colleagues. I regretted my decision the second we left the safety of our group. Right off the bat he made unwarranted remarks about my body; he bet I looked good naked. I’d answer with silence, hoping he’d realize how ridiculous what he said was in the context of two colleagues on the job.

Then, as we walked side by side, he'd fall back behind me and kick the back of my knees out so I’d trip. He laughed. It was a joke, relax. He kicked me again, but while I was walking up a flight of stairs. It felt like a sick game of cat and mouse, but one where I couldn’t run away. It was 9 at night, we had a job to do, and we were all alone.

Suddenly I felt his body on mine. He crushed me against the wall, pinning me; touching my body and pointed out that we were all alone. I said no; I pushed myself away. He did it again. My body was against his much bigger body, his face on mine, his hands on my chest. I pushed away again and without a word began walking home as quickly as I could.

He followed behind me and asked me to have sex with him. I declined. He questioned my sexuality. I told him that what he was doing was harassment, but he defended himself. “At least I asked,”instead of just taking what he wanted. Instead of just taking me. As if his asking was a badge of honor, and not actually required. We were approaching my building when he “jokingly” asked what I’d do if he followed me into my building and forced himself inside. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that; I was able to rush upstairs quickly and close the door. Finally. The evening felt so exhausting, and I felt that I had to have been misinterpreting the reality of the context. Truthfully, I didn’t even consider reporting it, until my close friend insisted I did. I know now that I am not imagining that this individual used his size and seniority over me; I know now that this wasn’t appropriate in any situation, but certainly not at work. And I recognize now that how he made me feel- dirty, unsafe, insignificant, and unworthy of respect- is a reflection of him, and not of me.

We. Deserve. Better.