On Saturday, October 28, 2017, I woke up with dried semen on the insides of my thighs and navel.

I looked next to me, and he was sound asleep. The kind of deep, content sleep, filled with hazy dreams and lazy smiles.

I haven't slept like that in months.

I remember heaving over the side of the toilet. I remember crying. I don't remember what happened that night or how you got into my room.

It took me four days and a lot of convincing before I finally talked to campus security.

We sat on cold chairs, at a cold table, in a cold room and they had me recount everything from that night.

How my friends and I were supposed to go to a party, but we never made it there because one of them became ill.

How he was supposed to be our designated driver, but instead he ended up in my bed next to me.

How I had consumed enough alcohol that night to not remember anything the next morning.

How he was stone cold sober.

And how he took advantage of me.

I called him later that day. I asked him what happened. He snapped, "Don't do this to me, I asked you a bunch of times! YOU SAID YOU WERE OK!"

I was drunk. He was sober.

He called me later to tell me he purchased a "Morning After" for me and I must take it in front of him. I asked if he had come inside of me. "Stop," he said, "you remember."

I couldn't help but blame myself. Did I tell him I wanted it? Did I initiate physical touch? Is this my fault?

When they say words can kill, your own aren't excluded.

I stopped questioning what I didn't know and went back to what I was sure of.

I was drunk. I did not want sex. I woke up: naked, violated, afraid, confused. As the pieces fell together, I felt worthless.

What would my mother think? How could I ever tell my father? What did I do?

No.

He did this.

And with irrefutable confidence, I knew what had happened. And what had to happen. He raped me. Now I had to get justice.

They say the hardest part is talking to someone. Boy, are they wrong. I had to relive that night over and over as people tried to determine if what I was saying would hold up in a court case.

I had to go into an enclosed room and have myself audio and video recorded as I shared my story once again. I had to answer deeply personal questions. I had to look an officer hard in the eyes and tell him every detail that I could remember about my rape.

But the hardest part wasn't the officers, or the attorneys, or even the dean of students… it was him.

Every time I would see him on campus I would get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. At first, we would just pass one another and I thought that was bad enough until I started seeing him with my friends.

He would be walking with, talking to, and hanging out with MY people. I felt totally betrayed. I felt alone. Then people, friends and strangers alike, started coming to me and bringing to light just exactly what was going down.

He had been telling people that the reason I had accused him of raping me was that I had wanted a committed relationship with him and he was unwilling to do so. See, the abuse wasn't simply sexual anymore. He was referring to me as "Lucky Number 7" (meaning his seventh body count).

He told people I was just "any other woman" and he would not be brought down by me. He started referring to himself as "Rican God" and asked others to do the same to show that he could not be brought down by this, that he could not suffer any consequences.

So instead, I did.

I suffered. Again, and again, and again.

It had been brought to my attention that he was telling anyone and everyone about what he had done.

Make sense?

He was telling people his version, you know the one where I accused him because he didn't want a relationship? He was recruiting my friends and others to give statements to the school and his lawyer on the status of our previous "relationship."

You know, the one where he bought my friends and me alcohol (illegally) and sometimes drove us to parties because he was sober (just like he was on the night that he raped me).

The worst part of all of this was that I didn't have a bit of support. My roommate told me she didn't want to be involved because she couldn't handle it. Yeah, you heard that right, SHE couldn't handle it. I was terrified to tell my parents, and when I finally did, my father wanted to pull me from school as fast as possible, and he got his wish.

So now here I was. 76 miles away from the place I thought just two measly months before would be the best four years of my life. Back home where I was forced to act like everything is fine.

My parents wouldn't even tell my family the reason for my coming home early. My ex-roommate, when asked, retorted that the university just wasn't right for me, that I couldn't handle it. She now tells people I'm a liar when asked about the rape because she doesn't want any part of my tragedy, she told me she hates me for "doing this to her."

On Friday, April 20, 2018, almost six months after that horrific night, there was a trial held at the university to decide whether or not I'd get the justice I deserve. On April 20, 2018, the ruling was in my favor, and he was found guilty on all accounts. He will not be able to attend the university next fall and hopefully will never touch another girl without her permission again.

I was raped and I handled everything on my own. I went to the authorities, I shared my story, I held myself together when every cell in my body was revolting against me. I fought for myself against my rapist, my roommate, my friends, even my own parents.

I might not be on campus, but I am still here. I am still fighting. I am still smiling. He took something from me that I will never get back. But he could never take away my voice. I will be heard. I will be healed.

I am a victim, but more importantly, I am a survivor.