When I was in college, I was raped. Unfortunately this is not an uncommon occurrence. There are many people with stories like mine. At the time, though, I couldn’t process what happened. Excerpts has become my way of dealing with it.

A couple of years after graduating, when I finally realized how angry I was, I wrote the letter to put that feeling into words.

When the recipient of that letter was too much of a coward to face me, I got angrier.

Excerpts was a release. A way for me to put my story out there, without actually putting it out there.

It was an accumulation of disappointments, displays of ignorance, and enough instances of being spoken over by belligerent men to finally push me to share the whole letter. And so much anger I needed to let go of.

This was something I thought I’d never do. It took a long time to get here.

Survivors sharing their stories helped me come to terms with what happened to me, and it’s important to know we’re not alone. I needed to hear that it wasn't my fault, and now I feel compelled to do my part. I am sharing this for them, and for me. It’s not my burden anymore.

But I’m also sharing it for those who can’t understand. The people who have never had to travel in packs to the bathroom, or walk home at night with their keys between their knuckles. People who wonder what I did to deserve it, how I lead him on, what I was wearing. People who would belittle and berate survivors rather than tarnish a man’s bright future by holding him accountable. People who make excuses for rapists.

You may need to hear this the most.

I’m writing this for me, because it’s something I think about too often and have lived with for long enough, but also because you need to hear it. This might come as a surprise to you because we left on friendly terms, but it shouldn’t. You took advantage of me. I had been turning down your advances since freshman year. You knew I had no interest in you, and at least while I was sober, you didn’t have a chance. What you did was premeditated, and while I’d rather forget it, I’m going to recount it so you can understand why I’m doing this, and because I’d like you to hear what happened from my perspective.

After a party had been canceled that night a small group of friends spontaneously ended up at my place. It was late, I was drunk and ready for bed by the time everyone left. You stayed behind so you could ‘help clean up.’ You moved two cups to the sink.
By the time you asked LiAnn to give us some space I was exhausted, and I was wasted. And you knew this. I was okay with cuddling because it seemed like the quickest route to you letting me sleep. I was okay with kissing because I hadn’t been with anyone since my breakup and figured, what the hell. Until you started kissing me. Looking back that’s where I should have stopped you, but I was having trouble keeping up.
You asked if you could go down on me. I said things were moving too fast. You did it anyway. I felt almost nothing (you did a bad job).
When you tried to fuck me I was afraid. Tired, turned off, wasted, I said I didn’t have a condom.
You said you did.
It wasn’t until this moment that I realized I didn’t owe you anything. I could just say no. So I told you plainly I was way too drunk for this, and that I really just needed to sleep.
I want to reiterate: I had alcohol in my system and desperately needed to go to bed. I was not thinking straight, but you were banking on this.
You said that I at least needed to help you finish. I fucking didn’t, but again, not thinking straight.
I told you the truth and you disregarded it. Feeling like I had no other option I started giving you the least enthusiastic handjob I’ve ever administered. I figured if I gave you what you wanted you would leave me alone.
I’ll take a moment to let you know how fucked up that is. That’s coercion. That’s manipulative, and fuck you for making me feel that way.
It gets worse though. Apparently the handjob wasn’t doing the trick, because without asking permission you shoved your prick in my mouth. I sat there motionless.
After you came on my roommate’s couch you told me you cleaned up the mess. In the morning I discovered a conveniently placed pillow over the stain (​classy)​ . I pretended to sleep while you left, glad I didn’t have to deal with you.
I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed. I’m embarrassed now just putting it into words. To this day I’ve never confided all of the details of that night to anyone.* For the longest time I blamed myself. I thought if I had more control of the situation it wouldn’t have happened. When really, what did I do? I had the audacity to get drunk in my own home and look good doing it.
You told me it was because of the dress I was wearing that night. You piece of shit.

I had always summed up your aggressive persistence to the fact that you were just a horny boy, but prepubescent as you may have seemed, you were too fucking old not to know what you did to me wasn’t okay. You raped me. It wasn’t a mistake. I’m calling you out now because you need to own what you did, I’ve carried it for too long.

This shouldn’t be my responsibility, but everytime I think about that night it makes me sick.

However I did learn from the experience that I have more power than I think, and that my comfort is more important than your feelings. I know now that I should have kicked you out. It sucks how painfully obvious that is in hindsight. But knowing this is what helped me the next time you tried it, and the time after that. The time you dragged me from that party, telling me my friends had already left. I was more than a little drunk that night (are you noticing a trend?). I repeatedly asked where LiAnn was. I didn’t want to leave with you, but you told me we were going to meet her and I believed you. I was trashed, not walking straight. At one point I fell back hard and smacked the back of my head against the pavement. Do you remember that? I fell so hard I saw stars, the spot on my head was swollen for a month.

It terrifies me to think about how much more serious that could have been. I could have knocked myself out, leaving you responsible for my unconscious body. I am so grateful I found the strength to get back up.
I was confused when you stopped at the student village. I thought you were walking me home, and I wasn’t in any condition to make the rest of the trip alone. When we got inside you encouraged me to lie down in your bed. I immediately went to the bathroom, threw up, and sat on the floor until LiAnn came. She had been looking for me back at the party.

You lying sack of shit.
You did the things you did because you knew there was no way I would consensually fuck you. You manipulated me and with absolutely no regard for what I wanted, you selfishly put me in danger. Your persistence wasn’t endearing, it was pathetic and tone deaf. Your behavior was predatory, and it’s really important to me that you know what you did was rape.

I’ll acknowledge that for you, this might seem out of the blue. If you’re wondering why I never said anything before (I did try, the next time I saw you when we all went to Ocean St. You tried to kiss me and I dodged it, remember? you changed the subject pretty fast), there’s not really one reason in particular - it was a mix of things. The guilt and embarrassment was a big part of it. I made excuses for you, maybe because I was trying to belittle what you did. Rape is a scary word, and I don’t think I had the strength yet to face what happened to me. It was easier to call it an embarrassing slip-up, to blame the dress. On top of that we had a lot of overlapping friendships, I saw you a lot and I didn’t want to cause any rifts in the group. I didn’t feel threatened by you, I was prepared to shut you down if you tried anything, and LiAnn being the angel that she is always had my back at parties. Mostly I just didn’t want anyone to know the whole story.
I did ask a friend, though (one of those overlapping ones), sparing him the details, to do me a favor and make sure you knew that preying on drunk women was not consensual. I thought maybe you’d listen to a man. I don’t think he was up for the conversation though, and knowing all this time that no one has ever confronted you about it has been bothering me.
So I’m doing it now - it’s not okay. You did a shitty thing. My hope for this letter is that you recognize that, and you never do something this shitty again.

And while it may seem harshly worded I want you to know you got off way too fucking easy for what you did.

*Edit: No longer true. You’re not the only one I’ve shared this letter with.