It has now been almost a year since it happened. As the year mark creeps closer, the memories of that night and the following day flood my mind. I don’t even know what happened. Some would say it’s my own fault to have gotten myself in such a position. I’ve said the same thing to myself. Even now I still feel an overwhelming guilt. If I hadn’t have had that last drink, maybe I would remember the night. I made that decision, to put myself in that condition. But I know I was falling all over the dance floor. He had to have known I was too drunk. I don’t even remember at what point in the night I met him or how we ended up at his apartment. I don’t recall even being in a car. I have vague recollections of the act. Maybe he thought I was enjoying myself. Maybe I was asking for it. But I don’t even remember what he looked like. I woke up the next morning not knowing where I was. I was in a stranger’s bed, naked. He shook me awake and said he had somewhere to be. He probably doesn’t know he raped me. I went to the bathroom. There was blood on the tissue paper. My asshole was bleeding. I don’t know what happened. Was it his idea or mine? I don’t even know if I can blame him. Drunk me is such a slut. He probably thought I wanted it. Is it my fault? I remember taking a Lyft home at 9 in the morning. He had just kicked me out. I was somewhere in midtown, but I don’t know how I got there. I don’t know how to feel. For the past year, I’ve tried to bury the memories, pretend it didn’t happen. Only 4 other people know about it. I couldn’t even tell my therapist. But its almost the anniversary and I just can’t stop thinking about it. I feel so alone. I want everyone to know and nobody to know. How do I cope with this. I don’t even know his name.
— Lianna, age 21