The summer before my sophomore year, I was sexually assaulted. It took me a long time to come to terms with what happened, and my story is not one that is about my attacker. In fact, I would rather not mention his name or much about him because he’s not important nor should he have any claim to the strength I have found in myself.

What is important to know is that I ended up alone with him on a dock where I worked, it was late, we had been drinking, and I was listening to him tell stories about his time in Afghanistan. He told me he had PTSD and the resulting recurring nightmare he had because of it. I was trying to be supportive, be someone he could talk to, but when the guy started to advance on me I tried to leave. Key word: tried. His army training, his speed, and strength, greatly outmatched my WiiFit training. There wasn’t much I could do.

I spent the next two weeks pretending I was fine, but avoiding the guy. Inside, a monster settled in my chest. It sat on my lungs and pressed on my heart, making everything seem more difficult. It spread lead through my veins, weighing me down. After two weeks, I told my boyfriend at the time. He did not take it well. He was angry at the guy who assaulted me, but instead of being truly comforting he told me all the things he would have done to the guy if he was there to protect me.

I never have felt more like property in my life.

Instead of being concerned for me, a human who had been hurt both physically, he was concerned for me, his girlfriend that someone else stuck it in. The conversation didn’t last long and ended with me crying to myself to sleep for the next few nights. The relationship didn’t last long after that either. My boyfriend – now ex -- broke up with me. He couldn’t help me shoulder the weight of the new monster living inside me. I was on my own.

The next few months were undoubtedly the worst of my life. I was alone, I was scared, I was in pain. The monster started cutting me, dragging my fingernails across my skin until it broke. To stop this, I cut my nails short. This only led to the monster holding hot cooking instruments to my skin, so I stopped cooking for myself. School seemed pointless, and at random times, the monster would grab my limbs and shake them so violently I had to lie down.

It took me months to finally decide to face my monster. There was no revelation, no gigantic moment that made me realize I needed help in this fight. I was just so tired of letting the monster control my life. A full six months after I was assaulted, I started seeing a therapist. The relief I found with finally telling someone other than my ex about what happened to me. I learned that my monster has a name.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

PTSD. Until that moment, I thought this disease only belong to soldiers, to people who risked their lives for the sakes of others. I didn’t have this disease, there’s no way I could. But there it was, black and white, in front of my face.

Once I knew what I was fighting, it became easier to cope. I started seeing a therapist and she taught me how to cope with my anxiety. I now having coping mechanisms, weapons to use against my monster. I still have to fight every day to have control of my body, and it’s not easy. But it’s a fight I’m willing to put up because I have hope that one day I’ll kill my monster and have control over myself again.