Sex is such a part of our nature, something that is talked about, seen, heard and read. It's something we giggled about as young girls and something we thought about from that moment on. When it's something that is taken and not given it becomes entirely different.

It was February, I was a sophomore away at college and it was a Saturday night. Winters at my college were brutal, so cold and dark. It was better if it snowed. Somehow it seemed friendlier if tiny snow crystals were falling from the sky. On this particular night there were no snowflakes, no stars and only a sliver of the moon that periodically peaked through thin, wispy clouds.

I had gone out to a party the night before and drank heavily. I remember bits and pieces of loud, berserk laughter that could only have been my roommate, *Sarah, and I as we stumbled home from a party. I remember looking at her and thinking how glad I was to have her as a friend and roommate - I think we pledged our undying, drunken love to one another.

On Saturday night, after nursing a delicate body through the day, my roommate convinced me to go out again. After all, according to her, the only way to get over a hangover was to start drinking again. This seemed logical - after all, drinking is what put me in the position I was in, damned if it wouldn't get me out. We hiked our familiar hike across *Flanders Field - spots of it were so iced over that we could skate in our tennis shoes. I was in a long, navy blue toggle coat. The kind that Paddington Bear wears while waiting for someone to take him home. I thought I looked pretty good considering my insides were churning. My roommate, as usual, looked wonderful - nothing ever slowed her down. We chatted about the night before, or at least the parts we remembered. I had a crush on a guy that was going to be at the house we were headed too. I was looking forward to seeing him, so far he had shown a little interest in me but nothing concrete. I babbled along incessantly about him and didn't even care that my roommate was barely listening.

I was at the house party for 1/2 hour before I decided that drinking was not helping my situation. I had barely managed to take 2 sips of our standard party beer. A brand they don't even distribute any more it was so horrible. The guy I liked ended up not being at this party so I didn't see any reason to stick around. I ferreted out my roommate to let her know I was leaving and that I'd see her later.

She gave me the standard song and dance. Denial, anger, guilt and then finally acceptance. The 4 steps of keeping your friend at a party they don't want to be at. I focused on her dangling earrings, one was twisted so that it stuck outward instead of hanging low by her throat. I reached out and fixed it while she continued to work on me. She told me I couldn't walk home alone - I told her I'd be fine. I showed her how I would hold my dorm key between my knuckles to use as a weapon in a pinch. I told her I had mace, which was true. It was the 3 in 1 pepper spray that dyed the perpetrator's face blue. I just didn't have it on me. It was too bulky to add to my already bulging pockets. My roommate gave me one last try as I was wrapping my scarf around my neck and tugging on my mittens. I waved a paw in her face and slipped out.

Nobody stopped me as I stepped into the frigid wind. That momentary shock of cold felt so good to me that I untied my scarf. I knew my face would be chapped but it was my way of self punishment to chase away my melancholy mood. I began to lose myself in my thoughts. I replayed the evening as if the boy I liked had been there. We sat and talked in my mind and shared meaningful looks.

I walked past our campus store and watched the student workers count the money from the day. I didn't recognize anyone who worked there so I kept trudging along. Occasionally some students would stumble past me. I was in the heart of the party neighborhood and I doubted if there was a sober soul in the vicinity. How bizarre to have a clear head when every one else was 3 sheets to the wind. I laughed a little to myself and conjured up some amusing images to stay entertained on my solo walk back to the dorms.

Out of nowhere a guy who looked vaguely familiar came out from behind a house. I think I had met him at a bar the night before but I couldn't be sure. I smiled absently, wondering if he recognized me.

"Do you have a lighter?" he asked from the side of the house. I patted my pockets and told him I thought I did. I walked over and handed him my tiny, Bic lighter - bright pink. He lit his cigarette and offered me one. I shook my head and he asked me to keep him company while he smoked so I leaned against the side of the brick house. I could hear a faint base of music coming from inside indicating there was a party nearby. "Did I meet you last night?" I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal way. I felt like he had told me, or someone in passing the night before that he was visiting from a neighboring college. The weekends at my school tended to bring in a lot of friends from other places.

It's weird how you can remember some details and not others. I don't remember what I was wearing but I remember piece by piece what Sarah had on that night. I remembered her earrings and that she had one sock on inside out. I remember my assailant had on brown boots and a chain connected his wallet to his pocket but other than that I don't recall what the rest of his outfit looked like.

"I'm tired," I told him. Fishing for things to say to this strange guy while he puffed away on his cigarette. "I have a bed for you to sleep in," he answered and cocked an eyebrow at me. I laughed and crossed my eyes. "Nice try" I said.

I was leaning up against the house, he took one last inhale, tossed his cigarette butt and exhaled a combination of smoke and brisk air from his lungs. I could smell alcohol on him. I could tell he'd been drinking - but wasn't drunk. I remember him trying to kiss me and me trying to dodge and duck. There was groping and struggling, I still felt in control - I had outmaneuvered guys before.

He told me to take it easy and I told him to take it easy. He pulled my coat down over my shoulders which pinned my arms to my side and he wrestled me to the hard ground. My first jolt of fear trickled over me. My arms were trapped in my long toggle coat, a coat I had loved for it's warmth and style was now hindering me from doing much more than flail around. My head was pressed up against the house and I could feel my hair being grabbed by the brick and strands ripping out. I didn't know what I wanted first, for my arms to be free or my head to move away from the brick wall.

I don't know if I screamed or if I cried. I had random thoughts going through my head, like if the guy I was interested in would walk by and wonder what I was doing wrestling with another guy on the frozen ground.

I thought I wasn't doing enough to get myself out of the situation. My legs were free and I could use them to kick - I have strong legs. I brought my knee up and tried to connect with something but I ended up forcing my head back against the wall even more. It was painful, more painful than the rock in my side under my right rib.

I don't think he appreciated my kicking. He was murmuring the whole time. I think he was saying, "shhhh." I just thought if I could get my arms out I would be OK. My left arm was twisted so far behind my back I thought I was laying on it or maybe he was kneeling on me - I can't remember.

He pulled his pocketknife out. It looked like a big knife but I think it was only a Swiss army derivative. For one fleeting moment I thought he would cut me out of my coat and a wave of relief flooded over me. But instead he slashed across my breastbone. I felt it, but it didn't hurt. I went rock still. I wanted to cover my face, I wasn't vain but I didn't want him to cut my face. He slashed me a couple more times, zigzag across my chest. I didn't know if I was bleeding or not, was it too cold to bleed? He started to pull my pants down and he was struggling. God bless button fly. He had my legs squeezed together so tight between his that my knees were rubbing together painfully, bone on bone. I could feel that pain and I could feel the rock against my rib but I didn't know if I felt anything from the knife. He got my pants down, sort of - I was afraid of the knife. I couldn't see it but I wanted to, I wanted to know where it was. I wanted him to tell me when he was done, like when the gynecologist lets you know that it's almost over. I wanted to ask but I didn't. I cried while he raped me, not from emotions, not from fear but because he kept thrusting my head up against the brick wall. I wanted my arms to be free so that I could cradle my head. I watched the chain from his wallet sway back and forth and I cried.

When he was done he got up from pinning my coat to the ground, this coat that had been my straight jacket. He leaned over me and asked me if I was OK. He touched my chest and it burned from where he had cut me. He told me he didn't mean to hurt me and that it was my fault. I nodded and rolled over in a fetal position. He got up and walked off. I didn't watch.

There were so many damages for me to assess. I was still worried about my head. I scooted myself down so my jacket moved up my shoulders by friction alone. I tentatively touched the top of my scalp. It stung and I could feel wispy, knotted strands of hair. I looked at my chest and I could barely recognize my own body. I was bleeding - not gushing, but noticeably bleeding. My shirt was ripped in long jagged slashes, not just up by my chest but down around my stomach too. I don't remember that. Had I lost touch with reality when he was cutting my stomach too? I sat up and then did something I'll never understand. I pulled out a cigarette and smoked it as I sat there huddled in the dark on a cold ground, with a tattered shirt, an open button fly and my Paddington coat pulled up around one shoulder.

I don't remember walking home after that, well - I do and I don't. All wrapped up with my coat and my scarf you couldn't tell anything had happened to me. I looked messed up but so did half the campus. I kept my head down and watched my footing on the ice patches across the field. My scalp tingled.

My roommate and my ex-boyfriend showed up soon after I got home. It was the release I needed and I finally collapsed. I don't remember calling them but Sarah told me I did. If I did, I'm glad because I needed them there. My ex alternated between huddling over me and pacing angrily around the room. They drove me to the hospital. Was I OK, they kept asking. Was I? I didn't know. Sarah asked me if I was going for a new look, she smiled in a teasing manner and flicked my shredded shirt. I gave her a smile and looked at Jason, he kept staring at me. It was making me nervous.

The nurses took over while Jason and Sarah chattered about nothing in particular. Sarah put the stethoscope around her neck and pretended to listen to my heart. 'Hey lookie here!' she exclaimed, "I told you this girl was heartless." We laughed.

The police filed in. 2 of them, do they always come in twos? I tensed up, started shaking and my eyes darted around like a kid on speed. This was my first panic attack, one of many to follow during the next few years. I had started to feel somewhat normal with the easy banter of my friends. The next few hours were in some ways worse than the actual rape. I have heard other rape victims say this. During the time you want to curl up and force the world out you have to endure an interrogation that at times makes you defensive and wary. I know they were just doing their job but I hated them. I hated them worse than the guy who violated me. I was stubborn, I was unhelpful - I just wanted them to go away. By the time they were done for that night I think they felt the same way about me.

My friends came back in after the police left and the doctor was finished with the exams. The police had confiscated my coat, my bra, my panties and my shirt. I thought of my bra sitting in a plastic bag as evidence. That was what violation was all about. The guy who raped me left me broken and tattered. The police left me naked and on display.

I was 19. I told the police to leave my family out of everything. The school went against my wishes and called them. I was betrayed and angry with the college for trying to hide the fact it happened and then encourage my parents to take me home. I went to a private college and they had an impeccable record of safety. I now wonder how much of that record was tampered with over the years. Certainly I couldn't be the only girl that went through this. They treated me like a disease and whittled away at my self confidence. They never caught the guy who did this to me, I honestly don't know how hard they looked, or if they looked at all. For a couple weeks after the incident the police hounded me and dogged my every move. They pulled me out of classes to ask questions, sometimes the same ones asked 10 times before. I lost 10 pounds and lived in fear of the next panic attack.

It is now almost 10 years later. Have I fully recovered? No, and I doubt I ever will but part of me believes that I was strong enough to survive and strong enough to keep my mental health intact as much as I could. I still think about it occasionally. Sometimes a certain flash of a metal chain connected to a wallet or the feel of cold air against my cheeks will bring the memories back in a painful slap. I was standing next to a house the other day after dark waiting for my dog to do her chores and I felt the need to place my house key between my knuckles for safety. Two years ago I had some possessions stolen and when the police came to take my statement I started to shake. Sometimes I think I should have fought harder or been strong enough to take down more details so we could have caught him later. I wonder if he has done this to other women and if so were they physically hurt more than I. By not doing these things did I fail myself as well as others? It's so hard to imagine what you would do in this situation. It's easy to second guess yourself and place the blame internally. Who else do you have to blame?

I carry the scars on my chest and stomach, they have faded and will continue to fade over the years. I no longer look at them and feel shame. They are part of me just as much as every memory.

I remember when I was a little girl I was very fearful about kidnappings. After watching a movie where they mentioned "rape" I asked my mom what that meant. My mother told me it was like being kidnapped but then they let you go. I thought to myself, with my young mind, that being raped wouldn't be so bad. Who knew?

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